Page 6 of The Way We Dance

Ty

Practice was a bitch. I dropped three passes and tripped over air. I jammed my finger on my teammate’s helmet and I may or may not have threatened to kill the number one quarterback in the league, Cam Nichols.

My quarterback. The one I was supposed to support and praise. The one I was supposed to catch the passes from. I could possibly look back later and say that his passes were gold and my hands were shit, but I wasn't there yet.

I was still blaming everyone else but me.

My brother included.

He still refused to leave my damn apartment and I was thinking I may have to get the cops involved. Or I could get up and move everything while he was off doing whatever he did while here in Atlanta.

Option B sounded more plausible since I hated cops.

"Black," I heard as I unwrapped my fists in the locker room after practice.

I looked up and saw our assistant coach standing in the doorway. "Coach wants to talk to you."

I nodded and groaned, knowing he was going to threaten to trade me or bench me for the preseason or whatever else he deemed reasonable for my failures. I finished getting the wrap from my hands and changed quickly into sweats and a t-shirt. I didn't bother with a shower, not yet at least. I knew after my chat with Coach, I'd be hitting the track for a run to blow off steam.

I knocked on the door frame as I walked into the coach's office. He was in his wind suit and his hair was a mess from throwing his hat around all day in frustration at practice. His head was down toward the desk and he was writing something down quickly as I entered.

"Sit," he huffed but never looked up at me.

I sat down and spread my legs, cool as a cucumber. I leaned back and acted as though I didn't have a care in the world. Maybe if I acted like I was fine, Coach would believe it.

"Here," he pushed a piece of paper to my hands and I read the foreign word written in his chicken scratch. There was also an address and a name.

"What's this?" I asked, trying to say the word silently.

"That is where I want you to start heading every Tuesday and Thursday until the end of preseason."

"Excuse me? What the hell is this?"

"That," he pointed, "Is your ticket to the starting roster.”

I squinted my eyes and snarled my lip. Coach didn't usually talk in riddles. He was more of a "I said what I said" type of guy.

"I’m going to need more context here."

He leaned back in his chair and threaded his fingers together, preparing himself for battle. "That is my neighbor. She runs a dance studio. You, Ty, are going to go two times a week and exercise with her."

My smile couldn't have gotten any bigger or disbelieving. "Coach, with all due respect, you already told me dancing will help my game and I spent a lot of time at The 678 Club dancing my ass off this summer. Didn't work."

"For fucks sake, Ty. I didn't mean grinding your dick in-between the ass cheeks of women in short skirts."

I took my arms and stretched them wide, "What did you mean then? Cause that’s all I know to do."

Coach was an ex-player himself, big and well built. He was only 40 years old and stayed in the gym as much as the players did. I had no doubt he could kick my ass if he set his mind to it.

He was stern and demanded respect. You had to when you coached at this level with guys getting paid millions of dollars and their heads as big as Jupiter.

So when his eyes turned into slits and he crossed his arms, I lowered my attitude and took a step back. "The card has the address, be there next Tuesday at 9pm. I have already arranged the exercises you’ll need to do."

I bit my lip and thought about his words for a minute. Not only was Coach a man that demanded respect, he was smart. Fucking smart.

He'd led us to plenty of super bowls and coached some of the best players in the world. Maybe his little game was legit. Maybe he was onto something—the key to getting me out of this slump.

"What about camp?" I asked. We were supposed to be in camp for two weeks before the first preseason game. That started Monday and once we were checked in, we didn't leave.

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