Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
So many ways with the same outcome: defeat.
Over the years, I contemplated which type of loss is worse—aside from annihilation, of course, because that’s always going to be the king of all loss. Regardless, I’ve never been able to swallow defeat easily.
Today’s loss should be a mild sort of pain. We did well, it was by inches, and my personal performance was on point. But in a strange way, it cuts deeper. Because we should have won.
The game was ours. Until Jelly began to fall apart. Not in a subtle way but an all-out fucking mess. It hurt to see, and it was frustrating as hell as a teammate.
The truth of this shows in the dark, irritable looks the guys send him as we shower and get dressed in veritable silence. Grumbles abound.
One of the TVs set high on the wall of the dressing area plays back our not-so-greatest hits while a talking head implies that Jelly’s performance might be due to his personal relationship.
Jelly’s neck tightens but he doesn’t look up from buttoning up his shirt.
The man appears so broken, I flinch.
“Turn that off, will you?” I say to one of the staff aids near the TV controls.
Rhodes huffs under his breath. “Truth hurts, huh?”
I raise a mild brow. “Everyone in this room could fill a reel of fuckups. Or did I imagine last year’s playoff game you starred in?”
Rhodes’s head jerks up, his nostrils flaring. We stare each other down.
“I can get on this bench and do a chicken dance right now,” I threaten.
His lips press together, then he snorts. “Man . . . You’re right.” He grabs a bottle of his cologne and begins spritzing. “Then again, that was off the field.”
“Bro, let it go,” Carter says, shutting his locker. “That shit helps no one.”
Rhodes shrugs, still sullen.
“And chill with the perfume. It’s like a scent bomb up in here. Gives me a fucking headache.”
A chorus of “amens” ring out.
Irate, Rhodes glares around. “It’s cologne, not perfume. And ya’ll salty because you have no class.”
“The difference between cologne and perfume,” I tell him, “is simply the amount of fragrance oil included in the mix. Cologne has about two to four percent, whereas perfume can go anywhere from ten to forty-five percent in concentration.” I glance at the bottle he’s set on his locker shelf. “That, my friend, is perfume. But call it cologne if it makes you feel more manly.”
They all stare at me.
I shrug. “Twin sisters and a mom. All of them love perfume. And I pay attention, fuckos.”
Carter gives me a bland look. “They gave you shit for calling it cologne too, didn’t they?”
“Fuck yes, they did.” I grin at the memory. “Then hid my body spray after the first use, on account of it being a ‘biohazard.’”
Rhodes starts laughing.
“I don’t care what it’s called,” Carter grumps. “Too much is too much. Reminds me of my freshman roommate. Bitch sprayed that shit all over himself like it’d grant wishes. Made me high half the time.”
“My roommate too,” says Jenkins, a defensive end. “Stink lasted forever. Control, brother. Control.”
“It’s a fucking epidemic,” Mario Christiane, a tackle, adds. “Bombing dorm rooms around the country.”
Williams runs a brush over his hair. “They say ‘cologne’ is the new vape.”
“Truth.”
“The cheap stuff is the worst. Sticks around like my mama’s memory.”
“I know y’all ain’t calling my perfume cheap.”
“We are,” shouts everyone.
Rhodes retaliates by spraying some more on himself—to much groaning. “Clowns. Women always ask me what I’m wearing because it smells so good.”
“They probably asking what you’re wearing so they know what to avoid,” Mario says.
Williams nods. “Too polite to up and say, ‘What is that dead flower funk?’”
Still razzing each other, the team begins to trickle out of the locker room. I linger behind because Jelly hasn’t moved. And, frankly, I’m not looking forward to the presser. I have no problem saying my cliché lines when we lose. But I don’t want to talk ill of Jelly, and I know they’ll try their best to get me to point the finger at him. Why this makes for good copy, I don’t know. I never find those interviews, whether it’s for a loss or a win, informative.
“You didn’t have to speak up for me,” he says, breaking the silence. He’s still staring off, head slightly down and away. “I can take it.”
“I know you can. But you’re my teammate. We have each other’s backs.”
“I didn’t have y’all’s backs today. Or the last few games.”
“Well, no.” I rub my stiff neck. “Got yourself into a bit of bad mojo is all.”
A heaving sigh breaks free, and he sits hard on the bench, resting his head in his hands. “I’m sorry.”
I take a seat next to him. “Not long ago, you told me all we can do is try our hardest.”
“That’s just it.” Despair colors his voice. “I don’t know if I can.”