Page 31 of Scoring the Player
“Fuck off.” I step back and pull away from the crowd. “Do what you want with it.”
“Ay.” I nod to Shane. “Not this one.”
He lowers his camera.
I snatch the weight gloves from my station and then head to the weight room.
I’ve always been fascinatedby the origin of things. How one ripple alters the sea of change. Take the Fender Stratocaster sitting an arm’s length away. A kid back in the sixties decided to break the rules by cranking up the volume of amps and manipulating the feedback from his guitar’s proximity to create sounds and textures that unlocked new possibilities for guitarists all over the world.
Fearless experimentation, trusting in your own flavor, and starting from where you are. I thought about that a lot in the weeks leading up to my coming out. What ripples I’d create by honoring what I needed, even if it broke the rules. Maybe it explains why I’ve been sitting here for the last forty-two minutes, staring at the two large slices of cake haloed by a golden cake board.
He said I inspired it.
How?
I rub my lips between my thumb and index finger as I breathe in the spiced honey, rose, and vanilla scents.
Blowing out a breath, I slide my phone out of my pocket.
No energy to pretend, I’m headed to find him in my browser when an alert for unread texts pops up.
Sid sent the picture of me in front of the cake. A reddish color dusts my neck and cheeks.
Deleted.
I click on Nick’s video.
Sid, scooping up a bite of the cake, laughs as someone lets out a loud moan off camera. The camera pans to Wes, who, hand over his heart, stares at the cake wide-eyed with a spoon hanging out of his mouth.
“I need two slices to go, Coach,” Sid calls out.
I shake my head. Ty is probably smothered in cake, getting thunderfucked right now.
“Great job today,” Coach addresses the room. “I’d attempt a post-game speech, but you’re all high on cake.” He wipes icing off his mouth with the back of his hand. “If Jones is taking orders, I want in.”
“For your eighth wedding?” Ussef calls out, making the guys laugh.
“Smart ass.” Coach tries not to grin. “Cheers. Get your asses back here bright and early for practice. Wes and Johan, address the media tonight.”
Nick’s face fills the frame, cream in the corner of his lips. “So, what’s the verdict? Does my boy The Silencer get a date?”
Ussef starts chanting, “Date him! Date him! Date him!” kicking off a chorus with the other guys.
I exit the video.
Doofuses, all of ’em.
Pillowy layers filled with folds of cream were waiting at my station when I returned from the weight room. One slice has polished panels, the other striated, and both have flowers and branches that are even more vibrant under this light.
I curl and straighten my fingers, relishing the slight tremor coursing up my inner forearm from deadlifting 400 and benching 230 pounds until failure.
Ignoring the spasm in my stomach, I resume my nightly ritual, head dropping to the cushion as I hit play.
Quads coiled, Salem drops low, sweat-glistened forearms bracketing the shooter, whose face is a blur next to Salem’s curled top lip and narrowed eyes. His thick calves and hamstrings pull tight as he stalks the player’s movement. With just the broad plane of his chest, he angles in just a clip, throwing the shooter off balance.
I rub my sweaty palms against my thighs.
Denied an escape, the shooter stiffens, eyes darting left and right, feet shifting like the floor’s on fire, before thrashing his elbow into Salem’s chest.
