Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 31661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 158(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 158(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
The kid couldn’t miss. He had a rocket for an arm, and his instincts were almost supernatural. He’d made himself a true asset to the team in a very short time. I couldn’t help but admire his tenacity and drive. However, he made me nervous too. And if today’s practice was any indication of how things might go in Tokyo, I might want to order that engraved cushion for the bench. Pronto.
My two skip shots hit the bar, my lob landed on top of the net, and my angle had been off on my cross-cage shots, so I’d basically played catch with the goalie. Yeah, everyone had those days, but this was a really bad time to fuck up.
“How’s that shoulder treatin’ you, Gabe?” Coach asked after practice.
See? Bad day to fuck up.
I rolled the joint in its socket and somehow managed not to wince at the immediate twinge of pain. It was definitely on the mend, but it wasn’t quite there yet. I decided to stick to the positives.
“Much better. Not that you could tell. It was an off day.” I gave an apologetic grimace as I shook water from my ear.
Coach nodded absently, then glanced toward Crowley, drying his hair with a towel a few feet away from me on the pool deck. “True. That’s why we bring a backup plan. If your shoulder keeps acting up, we’re gonna need to lean on the kid.”
“I’m fine,” I replied tersely.
“You’re great. But I need two great wings. We’re going to Tokyo to win. That’s the goal. Period. End of story. And we’ll make whatever adjustments needed to do it.” Coach patted my shoulder in what I guessed was supposed to be a reassuring gesture. “See ya tomorrow.”
The only way to give a passable smile was to grind my teeth like hell. I bit the inside of my cheek and released a long sigh. Fuck me.
“Hey, Gabe. Do you have time to work on extra drills? My screw shot needs some work.” Crowley ambled over, fastening his towel around his slim waist.
“I can’t today. Sorry. I’m meeting Derek for dinner. Tomorrow.” That phony smile hurt my face now. I nudged his elbow bro-style, then headed for the locker room.
Dane called my name, fixing me with a worried frown when I turned. “Are you mad at me? Did I do something wrong?”
“No, no, no. Not at all.” I raked my fingers through my damp hair in frustration. “You’re doing a phenomenal job out there. Seriously. I could learn a few things from you after days like today.”
He snorted. “Yeah, right. Dude, I had no idea you could shoot left-handed too. You’re unreal. Can you teach me how to do that?”
My smile finally relaxed into something genuine. “Sure thing. But it’s not rocket science. It just takes—”
“Practice,” he finished. “I know. Coach will kill me if I try any new moves in practice, but if you have time before or after one day, I’d appreciate it.”
“You got it.” I gave him a high five and smacked his bicep playfully. “And just so we’re clear…I’m proud of you. Keep it up.”
His answering megawatt grin reminded me why I loved my coaching gigs. Teenagers and college freshmen could be a pain in the ass, but being part of the learning process and knowing I made a difference was a bonus I hadn’t counted on. Crowley was barely out of his teens. He had the grit, drive, and talent galore, but being the youngest player on a team with seasoned veterans had to be a little intimidating.
He fit in so well that I forgot everyone dealt with imposter’s syndrome and feelings of inadequacy to some degree.
My doubts were mainly physical. I didn’t need to be pumped up or reassured that I’d be okay. But if Crowley did, I’d do my best to be a supportive teammate and friend. I’d learned the hard way that mental BS could be far more destructive to an athlete than an inconvenient bout of tendonitis. Fuck, I was still dealing with daddy issues.
Okay, so maybe I was more of a mess than I thought.
To say my father was pleased that I’d made the Olympic team was a gross understatement. He was over the fucking moon. Which was great. But it was also a little suffocating, and that part was hard to explain…unless you knew my dad.
When I called to tell him my news, he congratulated me profusely and asked to FaceTime. All good, but it quickly became our version of the usual where he basically talked at me for twenty minutes, reminding me of how much he contributed to my success. I grinned and nodded through the expected, “Great job, kid. You owe it all to me” spiel the way I always did. I’d learned early on that it was better to turn my anger into fuel in the pool. But it messed with my head.