Page 10 of King of Pain
Butters, as always, is in rare form.
“PacMan, you gotta pick up the pace!” he shouts, jogging backward to make sure I hear him.
“You gonna talk all day, or are you gonna play?” I shoot back.
The guys laugh, and Butters grins, unfazed.
Practice flies by in a blur of sweat, shouting, and the smack of cleats on turf. By the time we leave the field to hit the showers, my muscles ache in the best way possible.
The locker room is its usual mix of chaos and banter. Butters is holding court in the corner, gesturing animatedly as he tells some story about his weekend.
“…so, then she says, ‘You better not let your roommate find your dildo,’ and I’m like, ‘Honey, he’s got the same one.’”
The guys burst out laughing, and even I can’t help but chuckle as I peel off my gear.
Butters notices and points at me. “See? Even PacMan thinks it’s funny. That means it’s areallyfunny story.”
“Or it means you talk too much,” I reply, tossing my cleats into my locker.
“Guilty as charged. But prostates… amiright?” he says with a wink, earning another round of laughter.
While I shower and get dressed, I think about the camaraderie with my team. It’s one of the few things in my life that feels genuinely good.
I’m not particularly close with any of them. Butters being the closest, and even that has its limits. Limits that are of my own doing. But they’re a good group of guys—and these moments with them remind me that I’m not entirely alone. I’m going to miss it when my final season ends. It also reminds me that I could have stronger relationships if I let people in.
The walk back to my dorm from practice feels longer than usual. My legs ache, my mind is whirring, and the weight of the bag slung over one shoulder feels heavier with each step.
I push through the dorm building’s glass doors and, ignoring the burn in my legs, take the stairs two at a time to my floor. My phone vibrates in my pocket as I unlock my door.
Kicking the door shut behind me, I toss my bag onto the floor, and collapse onto the bed without even bothering to turn on the light. The phone buzzes again, vibrating against my hip, insistent and annoying.
I pull it out, swiping the screen open, and immediately regret it.
Mom:Why won’t you respond to me? I just want to talk, Anthony. Call me. Please.
My thumb hovers over the screen. It’s not anger I feel—not entirely. It’s something colder, sharper, like a jagged edge that never smooths out.
What could I possibly say to her?
How do you talk to the person who let it all happen, who looked the other way when you needed her most? The person who made excuse after excuse for the men who made your life a living hell?
I don’t have words for her. Not now. Not ever.
With a flick of my thumb, I delete the message.
My phone buzzes again and I let out a sigh. But when I see it’s Jen texting, my mood lightens.
Jen:How was practice, champ? Still carrying the team on your big, broad, jock shoulders?
I roll my eyes, but I’m grateful for her timing.
Me:It’s a team effort, Jen. You wouldn’t understand.
Jen:That’s not true. I like groups.
Me:Sigh. Do you ever say anything that’s not dirty or sarcastic?
Jen:Would you even like me if I did?
