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From there, he walked me through the rec center, constantly pointed out places he used to hang out. Places he used to work out. Places that weren’t there when he was in school.
“And here…” he said, leading me deep into the empty locker room. He stopped by a locker and smiled, tapping it twice with a thick knuckle. “This is where I first asked out your mom.”
I glanced around, confused. “What was Mom doing in the men’s locker room?”
Dad stuttered, uncharacteristically flustered. “Well, she was… looking for your grandfather,” he said, clearing his throat. “He was our coach, remember?”
It made sense at the time, but now I wonder what else there is to that story.
I’ll ask Grant some day.
Now, attempting to navigate these sprawling halls, I wonder how long it’ll take before I have it memorized the way my father did that day.
I reach the locker room with time to spare, following the familiar voices echoing throughout the space. It’s weird to use the word nostalgic at eighteen, but the sounds inspire the feeling in me. The slam of a locker. The shuffle of cleats lacing up. I’ve lived in many locker rooms throughout my life, but they all leave my heart pounding with possibility. Win or lose, it’s always about the game.
And your teammates.
I spot Alex and Ben and rush over, them already clad in their uniforms. Our scout jerseys are gold and blue — the colors inverted from the usual Bearhawk blue and gold to differentiate us on the field. Both of their jerseys say KIRBY on the back, so they strapped on colored armbands so others can tell them apart. Alex red. Ben blue.
Alex laughs as he notices me. “Cutting it close, eh?”
“It’s day one,” Ben teases.
I chuckle, my T-shirt already off and tossed in the locker. “I’ve got plenty of time.”
“You know Coach Thomas will not let tardiness fly.”
“I’m not tardy.”
“You’re gonna be,” Alex says as he closes his locker. “Ten minutes to whistle.”
“I’ll be there on time if you two stop yapping.”
We laugh.
“Morgan’s late?” A voice asks behind us. “Some things never change, eh,Heartbreaker?”
I freeze, turning toward the guy standing by the line of lockers next to ours, hoping I misheard the voice, but I’m not that lucky.
I glare into his icy blue eyes, eyes that trigger nothing but hatred in my chest.
Emerson Floyd.
Alex and Ben stiffen. I do, too.
“The fuck are you doing here?” Alex asks, stepping forward, coming in hot. I don’t blame him at all. “Thought you were going to UCLA.”
“Change of plans,” Emerson says, his jersey marked with the same inverted colors as ours.
“You don’t even play football,” Ben says, matching his brother’s tone perfectly.
“I do, actually. I just didn’t play for Chicago North High. I walked on here and tried out, earned my place on the scouts, same as you.”
Alex scoffs. “That’s bullshit.”
“No, that’s just life,” Emerson says, his gaze drifting toward me. He smiles at my angry scowl, his own fairytale prince-like jawline carved from marble. “What? You thought you’d just waltz onto this field and own it because of who your daddy is?” he says. “Well, my dad was a Bearhawk, too. My dad played pro, too.”
“Never won a ring, though,” Alex spits.
