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And honestly? I didn’t want to be that person any longer.
Turning my back on the building, I slip the buds into my ears and start with a slow jog. These days I try not to push myself too hard and give my leg time to heal on its own.
Slowly, I pick up my pace. Pushing back all the thoughts, I focus on the music instead and let my legs decide on the route I want to take.
The sweat slowly coats my skin, my heart thumping furiously in my chest as I try to keep my breathing steady, which is harder with every mile behind me.
Some twenty minutes later, I see the familiar fence in front of me. Slowing down, I come to a stop right in front of it. I expect to find the practice field empty, but I’m surprised when I see one lone figure running the drills, a football tucked in the crook of his arm.
His head is ducked low as he runs over the field. Each time he reaches a yard line, he goes back to the beginning before running one more—again and again.
I cross my arms over my chest, watching his body work. He’s twenty yards away when he finally looks up and sees me. Surprise flashes on his face, and he trips over his own feet and almost faceplants on the grass but catches himself at the last second.
“You need to keep your eyes on your opponent,” I yell, going to the door and slipping inside.
“How long have you been here?” Sullivan asks, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.
“Enough to see that your visibility will be shit if you crouch too low. You need to have your eyes on your opponent at all times. Look for the openings.”
“I got faster,” he says defensively.
“Which is great, but it’ll only take you so far. You need to learn how to read the defensive line. See where they’ll move even before they know it themselves. Ever played chess?”
“Chess?” Sullivan pulls his brows together. “Like a board game?”
“Know of any other chess?”
“Not really, no.”
“Maybe you should. It’ll help you learn how to read your opponents better.”
I grab the ball out of his hand, my fingers wrapping around the leather. It feels weird. I haven’t touched a ball in months, ever since we lost in the playoffs.
“Hey, give that back. I have more work to do.” Sullivan tries to reach for it, but I pull back.
“Of course you do.”
I rattle off a play, one I’ve heard Nixon call out countless times, only this time, I’m the one holding the ball. I’m nowhere near as good as Nixon, and it feels weird to be the one throwing the ball, but I force my body to make the right motions before letting it fly.
Sullivan is completely thrown off guard, so it takes him a moment to snap into action, but in the end, he manages to catch the ball.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping you?”
He frowns at me, the distrust evident on his face. “Why?”
“Because you need help?”
The guy just glares at me. “I don’t need your help.”
He turns around and starts to jog away. Cursing silently, I follow after him.
“Sullivan, wait.”
“I’m serious. I’ve had enough—”
“I’m sorry, okay?”
