Page 7 of The Brotherly Shove
Now
Training Camp, Day One
Redwoods Practice Facility
I fucking hate summer. Seriously, Satan or the Heat Miser or whoever the hell is in charge of the thermostat going beyond 75 degrees at any given time can go drag their balls over broken glass. I can't help it, I'm a big dude. My personal body heat already has me on the edge of sweating 24/7. Add in the summer sun and humidity and the whole damn season can go fuck itself. I can already feel the pit stains forming on my bright red Redwoods t shirt.
At least training camp starts today. I don't mind being hot and sweaty if I get to play football. Even the outdoor workouts, sprints and lines and footwork drills are worth it in the heat if my reward is snapping the football over and over again. I'm not a book smart man, I tend to come off as obnoxious in social situations, and my body is built like if Dwayne The Rock Johnson grew a beer gut over night, but dammit if I'm not a damn good football player.
I remind myself of this as I switch off the ignition to my metallic red Ford Raptor and immediately choke on the thick air at the loss of my AC blast. This beast of a truck is the one super luxury I allowed myself to really indulge in with the signing bonus I was given when drafted to Knoxville last spring. I had my eye on this beautiful cabin like house in the woods in a town just outside of the city called Fox Hole, but my accountant advised against going straight for real estate. A good suggestion, in hindsight, because after only one season playing for the Knoxville Crushers, I was traded to the San Francisco Redwoods.
Such is the life of a rookie, I suppose. Hey, at least my truck matches my new team's colors.
I feel a clap on my back as I lean through the back door to grab my gym bag.
"Griffith," the guy yells out, and though I've only met most of my new teammates once a few weeks back, I'd know the voice of Matt Buckner anywhere. He's a defensive tackle who played for my college team's rivals, the NY State Lightning. We may have been enemies when we were matched up on the field, but outside of the game, we became good buddies. Any time our teams played during the regular season or playoffs, I could always count on Buckner to be down for a brewski or twelve with Breaker and I.
"Buckner!" I call out, turning and holding out my fist for a bump. Buckner, of course, picks me up into a tight bear hug. I go along with it, even though the whole embrace isn't really my thing.
"You smell that?" he asks when I set him down, sniffing the air like a wild dog. "That's the smell of excellence, my man. Me and you, on the same team. You rocking the O-Line and me knocking sons of bitches down on the D, baby. We're gonna be unstoppable, dude!"
"Hell yeah, motherfucker. Watch out, NFL. The Woodies got this shit in the bag this year. All the way to the fucking Big Game, my dude!" We bump fists as we make our way into the training facility. Typically we'd go straight to the locker rooms and suit up, but with it being the first day of training camp for most of us—the team vets won't be here for another week or so—our coach, Dan Elliot, wants what his email called a 'preliminary pow wow' down on the turf. He probably just wants to give us a hype talk, remind us what we're here to do, give some inspiration to this season's drafted newbs. I'm here for it. I want all the positive energy. I'm stoked to be in San Francisco. Technically, our facilities and stadium are in the South Bay, but we're close enough to the city that it counts. I'm stoked to be on the same team as Buckner. And I'm stoked as hell to be back on the gridiron with my best buddy. Speaking of, where the hell is…
"BREAKER!" I scream when I spot the best guy I've ever known talking to the rookie tight end that was just drafted from Michigan across the turf. I jog towards him and when I reach him, I lift him right up and over my shoulder before spinning us around. God, I've missed this guy. We were inseparable during our college playing days. We were like butter on the field with the way we moved together and we always got to room together during away games. It's been weird this last year, not seeing him. The physical distance between us was inevitable. I was drafted and shipped off to Tennessee while Breaker finished up his senior year at Penwood. We were bound to drift a bit, we always knew that, but we've barely spoken in months.
I know I could've reached out more, but in my defense, Breaker could have answered more frequently when I did.
Whatever. We're here now. Bless all the football gods for putting us back on the same team this year.
I must've gotten lost in thought, because Breaker starts pounding his first on my back.
"Lennon, let me down! Jesus Christ man, I'm gonna vom." We're both laughing as I carefully lower him back to the turf. He slaps my hand and tries to give me one of those half-hearted, half handed bro hugs, but I'm having none of that. I squeeze him tight around his middle, pulling him as close as humanly possible to me. He smells just the same, like grapefruit and wood and salt and sweat, and he feels just like I remember him feeling.
He feels…right.
I love it and I hate it.
"B, this is incredible. I mean, can you believe it? Batman and Robin, back together again!" I say as I finally let him out of my hold. He smooths his hand over the front of his tattered old Pennbrook Football tee and shakes his brown curls from where they're blocking his green and gold flecked eyes. I can't help but notice that even though it's only been about a year since I've seen him, he looks different. Older, for sure. More mature. But bigger as well, particularly in the area of his thighs that are peeking out from the bottom of his black, loose fitting basketball shorts. I could pretend that I never made it a habit to notice his legs, but I'd be lying. I've noticed his legs over and over, for a long fucking time. If I had to guess, I'd say he's added a few weights on the rack for his squat routine.
"Batman and Robin?" he asks, his face finally breaking into one of his signature half smiles. It's rare that he lets out the full, bright grin that makes the dimples on both of his cheeks pop. I'll admit to admiring his smile on occasion, because fuck, it just lights him up. It's the kind of happy, flirty smile that can make a person weak in the knees.
“Yeah, or Joey and Chandler, if you prefer. Bert and Ernie, Spongebob and Patrick, Shrek and Donkey?—”
"Are you calling me an ass?" He laughs, and I flex my biceps.
"Well, only one of us here is actually ogre sized," I say, and I swear I see his eyes dip to the spot where my t-shirt has lifted,showing off the patch of hair that leads down from my belly button.
Hmm, interesting. I don't think he's ever done that before. I'm not an expert in how men look at other men, but that felt very much like a stolen glance. I can't say that I mind it.
"Well," he says, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. "I think this season is going to be more like Batman and the guy who watches Batman fight crimes from his studio apartment in Gotham City. I really can't imagine getting much field time as a third string with Cannon on the team."
He's referring to our starting quarterback, Luke Cannon—yes, that's actually his real last name, and yes, he fires the ball down the field like a cannon as well. It's his fourth year as a Redwood, and though the team hasn't won a Big Game under his lead yet, he came in during a rebuilding year and has gotten to at least the Wild Card game each season. Speaking of Cannon, I don't see him around. He doesn't technically need to be here for rookie week, but from what I've heard around the league, he's one of the QB's that likes to be involved with all the players on both sides of the field so I expected him to at least make an appearance.
Come to think of it, I don't see Coach Elliot out here yet either. Weird, considering practice slash preliminary pow wow is set to start any minute and fans who made reservation to watch us train have already started to file into the bleachers.
"Lawson," our offensive coordinator Jake McRyan yells from the sidelines, gesturing for Breaker to meet him over there. I give B a puzzled look and he shrugs before jogging away.
You know that phrase, "hate to see you go, love to watch you leave"? I never understood it before, but the sight of Breaker Lawson's muscled calves flexing, corded arms swinging as he runs, and the scent of his cologne sticking to my shirt from where our chests were pressed together confirm what I alreadyknew. The realization that had me so nervous, so confused, that I spent the last year trying to figure out what it all meant.