by Cassie Cole
Lance had a fantastic game in spite of the hamstring, but there was something wrong with Feña for sure.
I was worried about the wrong thing.
26
Fernando
Kicking a misshapen ball through the air with any reasonable accuracy was a very difficult thing to do. Far more difficult than most people believed.
Several things needed to occur in perfect synchronicity. When I lined up behind a ball before a kick, I needed to maintain a consistent distance behind the ball. I did this by taking three full steps back, then two full strides to the side. This put me at a 45-degree angle from the ball relative to the target. Next I had to take two steps forward, pulling back my right leg during the second step to “load” up for the kick. My planted left foot had to point directly at the target. Finally I swung my right leg down like a pendulum, generating torque in my thigh, knee, and ankle all at the same time. As if this was not complex enough, I needed to strike the football at the sweet spot—roughly four inches from the ground on the bottom half of the ball. Finally, I needed to ensure that I followed-through with my kick until my toe was pointed at the sky.
All of these moving parts had to occur flawlessly, or the ball would not fly long and straight.
My legs felt fine before the game. My warm-ups were also good, although I was not hitting my practice field goals right down the middle. But then during the game…
That first missed extra point was an unusual sensation. It was like my leg was wound-up, and I was swinging too hard rather than a smooth, fluid kick. Yet these things happened in sports, and I shrugged it off as a fluke.
The next field goal, at 51 yards, was stretching the range of my kicks. The coach knew this, and understood that it was perhaps a 50-50 chance I made it. When I missed, the team still slapped my helmet and told me I’d get it next time.
But the third field goal, from 39 yards? That miss was inexcusable.
I do not know what happened. My legs did not feel normal. It was as if I was using someone else’s leg to kick rather than my own. As soon as my foot made contact I knew it was bad. I came to a stop on the field and watched it sail to the right.
None of my teammates gave me words of encouragement after that.
We still won the game 28-24, but the victory felt hollow and bland in my mouth.
“Way to grind out there today, team,” Coach Mueller told us in the locker room after the game. “To keep grinding away even when you don’t have your best stuff? That’s what champions are made of. Today was a good win.”
We were supposed to beat them by 30 points, I thought bitterly. Although my missed kicks were only responsible for seven total points, it changed the entire complexion of the game and kept St. Edwards it in the entire time.
“We have some things we need to work on this week at practice,” Coach went on, “but that’s for us to talk about on Monday. Good job everyone.”
Coach never looked in my direction. I was not sure if that was good or bad.
I spent 20 minutes icing my leg in the medical room, then took a long, hot shower until I felt absolved of my poor performance. By the time I toweled off and dressed in my street clothes, one of my teammates came walking over to my locker.
“Hey, Feña?” he said with a grimace. “Coach wants to see you in his office.”
Brett was waiting in coach’s office too. He leaned against a filing cabinet with his arms crossed, and he looked more embarrassed than angry.
Coach’s face was totally blank. That was a bad sign. I closed the door and sat in the chair.
Had they discovered that I started a new lifting routine with Roberta in the mornings? Going against what Brett wanted was certainly a way to get cut from the team.
“My kicks today…” I began.
“If you can even call them kicks,” Coach spat. “You looked more like a toddler kicking his father’s shins than you did a football player. What the hell happened, Martinez?”
“I had an off day,” I explained. “My leg would not cooperate. I don’t know why. I cannot explain it beyond that, Coach, but I will work extra hard this week to get back to form.”
Coach frowned at me, then swiveled his chair to look at Brett. “What conditioning have you had him on?”
“I, uh, nothing,” Brett stammered. When he was flustered he looked barely older than a teenager. “Nothing new, that is. Normal resistance band exercises.”
“Perhaps I need more conditioning,” I said. “Weight-lifting like the rest of the team.”
Both of them stared at me.
“Martinez, I don’t give a fuck about your strength. It doesn’t matter if you’re kicking 60-yard field goals if you can’t put them through the uprights. Worry about accuracy, not trying to get jacked.” He turned to Brett. “See that he’s not overextending himself during conditioning.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Martinez,” Coach said with ice in his eyes. “Whatever’s wrong, figure it out fast. Another shitty performance like today and I’m benching you for Van Durbin. Comprende?”
I swallowed my anger at his mocking Spanish. “Yes, Coach.”
“I’ll see you at practice tomorrow,” he said.
I gave a start. “Sunday?”
Coach’s eyes flared with rage. “Rest days are for players who can do their fucking job. I’ll see you at the field tomorrow after church.”
I nodded and left his office.
My hands trembled as I returned to my locker to retrieve my things. This was my fourth year on the team. I’d missed field goals before, but this was my first time having a bad game. Yet coach was ready to bench me after that, and put the freshman kicker in?
His lack of trust was more frustrating than my performance today.
I should not have begun a new lifting routine. That was clearly the problem. My legs were worn out. Squats and deadlifts took time to heal from. It was ridiculous for me to not expect it to affect my performance.
And now I needed to spend my Sunday at practice getting yelled at by Coach, when I desperately needed to study. I was behind on all my classes. My English was very good, but it was still twice as difficult taking college classes when English was your second language.
Feeling sorry for myself, I left the athletic building to walk back home.
The last person I wanted to see was waiting for me.
27
Roberta
The only person I wanted to see came walking out of the athletic building. Finally. I’d been waiting over an hour in the heat.
“Feña!” I said as I ran up to him. “Feña, I’m so sorry you played poorly today…”
He ignored me and walked straight ahead.
“Feña?” I said. “I know you’re probably frustrated with how the game went.”
“It is fine,” he said blandly.
“I’m already working on a solution,” I said enthusiastically. “I have a variety of new leg stretches I want you to do after lifting weights. I think it will help you stay loose throughout the week when—”
“I do not want your stretches!” he snapped at me. “Quedo pá la cagá. I’m all fucked up right now. The last thing I need are more changes.”
“Don’t think of them as changes,” I said as I tried to keep up with his brisk pace. “They’re adjustments. That’s how new workouts go. Sometimes you have to tweak things along the way.”
He abruptly stopped and rounded on me. “Your tweaks are responsible. My legs did not feel normal today!”
I blinked. “That’s why we do them on Thursday. To give you a day in between to rest.”
“It is not enough!” he shouted loud enough to draw a few looks from passing students. “Coach is close to benching me. In the most important season of my career.”
I recoiled like I’d been punched. “Coach is close to doing what? Feña…”
He jabbed a finger at me. “I should never have let you talk me into a new weight lifting routine.”
And with that, he st
ormed off again. This time I didn’t try to follow.
I thought about what he’d said all the way back to my dorm. At first I thought he was just angry and taking his frustrations out on me. It was natural, even if I didn’t deserve it.
But the more I thought about it, the more his words began to sting. Maybe I shouldn’t have changed up his routine in the middle of the season. Even small changes could mess with a player’s head. I wasn’t thinking about the psychological aspect of it.
I locked myself in my room and went back over the kicking workouts I’d originally found when planning Feña’s routine. Most of them recommended continuing the workout through the year to maintain and increase strength as the season went on. I hadn’t done anything wrong.
Still not satisfied, I went to a sports medicine forum and posted an anonymous question about it. Within half an hour, I had two responses:
Footballer021: Oh yeah, I definitely would not recommend beginning the heavy weights in the middle of the season. Always best to get started long before then. But if you’re already on the routine, you might as well keep going now.
XxStridesxx: My players always experience an extra few days of DOMS during the first week. It makes them twitchier. Best to bench them for a game, or avoid having them make long kicks. Punts should still be fine, though.
I groaned. I hadn’t taken into account that Feña might have extra DOMS during the first week—Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness. Granted, I’d started Feña off on light weights rather than super heavy lifting, so he shouldn’t have had bad DOMS.
But of course, shouldn’t was never a given. Especially with how unpredictable the human body could be.
I flopped back on my bed and groaned. It was definitely my fault.
Once the seed of self-doubt was planted, it was impossible to ignore. I’d made a critical mistake that almost cost us a win today. What if I had made that mistake with the entire team, rather than just one player? Clearly I didn’t deserve the physical trainer position with the team.
Maybe I shouldn’t be getting a kinesiology degree at all.
I spent the afternoon feeling sorry for myself and wallowing in bed. It was around 6:00 p.m. when I got a text:
Lance: Sup sweet-cheeks. In case you couldn’t tell, that KT shit was awesome. I was like Popeye downing a can of spinach!
Me: You were pretty great out there
Lance: Understatement of the century. Did you see my celebration? I was a knight on horseback, like Lancelot!
Lance: See? Stupid nicknames don’t bother me ;-) Wanna go to a party tonight? You can help me keep all the sorority bimbos away.
Me: Thanks, but I’m going to stay in tonight. Not feeling good.
Lance: Aww, man. In that case I’ll need an actual sword like Lancelot to defend myself.
Lance: Thanks again for the KT tape, Coach Babs. You rock.
Lance’s encouraging words did little to dispel my self-doubt. If anything, it only heightened my sense of impostor syndrome. I thought I knew what I was doing, but really I was in over my head.
It was a wonder I hadn’t seriously fucked up Lance or Danny.
I went into the kitchen to make myself a drink, but there wasn’t any beer or wine in the fridge. The liquor cabinet was also empty.
“Hey,” I said as I poked my head into Aly’s room. “I’m running out to grab a bottle of wine. Want anything?”
“I’ll take a bottle or two of pino.” She paused to look at me. “You okay?”
“Just fine,” I said as I closed the door. I didn’t want pity right now.
I grabbed my purse. Some comfort food sounded really good about now too. A Whataburger patty melt with extra fries. Yeah, that would go a long way toward making me feel better.
I opened the door and ran right into Danny.
28
Roberta
Running into the big quarterback was like hitting a brick wall. I bounced off of him and saw stars for a few moments. Danny reached out and grabbed my arm to steady me.
“Shoot, sorry about that Roberta. I was just about to knock.” He winced, but it turned into a pitying smile. “You okay?”
“I wish everyone would stop asking me if I’m okay,” I grumbled. “I’m just fine.”
A wary look spread on his handsome face. “You don’t seem fine. Is this about Feña?”
“How did you know? Did he talk to you? What did he say?”
He held out his hands against my barrage of questions. “He won’t tell us anything. He stormed into his room and slammed the door, and we’ve left him totally alone since then.”
He has every right to be furious, I thought. He’d trusted me and I’d screwed things up. “Wait. If you’re not here about Feña, then what’s up?”
Danny straightened and cleared his throat. “I wanted to see if you’d get dinner with me.”
“I thought you wanted to keep this professional.”
“Hey. Professionals get dinner together. I eat with the team all the time, and there’s nothing weird about that.”
“Shouldn’t you be out partying after today’s win?”
He smiled ruefully. “I’m not in the mood. I could use a more relaxing night. And Lance can be a little cocky after a good game, so I’ll let him party it up by himself.”
“Truer words were never spoken,” I said. “Alright, sure. Let’s get dinner. Under one condition. We get some beers, too. Because I really need a beer.”
Danny grinned at me. “I thought that went without saying.”
I followed him downstairs. He was wearing a pair of jeans which hugged his tight little butt nicely as he descended the stairs, and a tight-fitting T-shirt that showed off the thick muscles in his shoulders and arms. Even his neck looked attractive from this angle.
“So where are we going?” I asked.
“I’m taking you to a little restaurant on the south edge of Appleton. They have great cheeseburgers.”
I’m taking you. That made it sound like a date. But all I said was, “I could go for a cheeseburger.”
Danny stopped at one of the first parking spots outside the dorm, which was occupied by a sleek Honda motorcycle. He grabbed one of the two helmets and tossed it to me.
I caught it in the chest. “You ride a bike?”
He cocked his head. “You didn’t know?”
“Sorry, but I don’t worship you like the other girls on campus. I don’t stalk what you drive.”
“Yep, this is my ride. It’s not the most comfortable thing when driving back home, but the speed makes it worth it.”
He straddled the bike, and I climbed on behind him. We put our helmets on, and then I leaned forward to wrap my arms around his waist. It was like holding onto a marble statue.
“Ready?”
“Yep,” I said.
The engine rumbled beneath us, causing our bodies to vibrate together. Danny backed the bike out, and then the engine rose to a higher pitch as we picked up speed and pulled out of the parking lot.
I let out an excited noise as we got on the main road and he hit the accelerator. My stomach lurched, and my hair fluttered behind me underneath the helmet. Within a few moments I got acclimated to the speed, and was able to enjoy it.
Danny’s body was warm and stable as I held on. I’d never ridden on a bike before, but there was something uniquely sensual about it. The way I had to spread my legs behind him, pressing my chest against his back. That and the way the bike buzzed wonderfully between my legs. I could see why women loved dating bikers. It was like riding around on a big vibrator.
I breathed deeply as I clung to Danny, inhaling his delicious scent.
The ride was exhilarating even though we never got above 45 mph, and I felt my pulse racing as we pulled into the restaurant. It was a little diner in a strip mall, with black and maroon striped paint on the outside and a checkered sign above the door that said “BREAKFAST & LUNCH - SCRATCH COOKING.”
As I climbed off the bike, I couldn’t stop myself from grinning
like an idiot. Fortunately, Danny didn’t seem to notice as we went inside. The sign inside the door said, “Please wait to be seated by a hostess,” but Danny walked past it and led me to a booth by the kitchen window. Only five other tables had customers.
“Kind of deserted,” I said.
Danny nodded. “I like to get away from the crowds.”
“So the famous Danny Armstrong, captain of the Appleton Stingers, can eat a meal in peace without his adoring fans requesting autographs and selfies?”
“You joke, but yes. Every student with a cell phone wants to take their photo with me on campus. This?” He waved his hand. “This is peaceful and quiet. I can finally be alone.”
“Alone, except for me,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, but you’re different.”
“Am I?”
A middle-aged waitress came up to the table and put her hands on her hips. “Right on schedule, Danny. You want the usual?”
“Yes ma’am. Two beers too.”
She turned to me. “I’d ask the same of you, sweetie, but I’ve never seen you before.”
I looked sideways at Danny and said, “What do the other girls Danny brings here usually order?”
The waitress snorted. “Danny doesn’t bring girls here. This is his quiet time.”
“Told ya,” he said.
“Then I’ll have whatever Danny’s usual is,” I said.
She nodded and walked away, then returned with two bottles of Shiner Bock. I held up mine and said, “To today’s win.”
He clinked his bottle to mine. “As close as it was, a win is a win.”
The beer was ice cold as it went down my throat, and quenched the frustrated thirst I’d had all afternoon. “So. I’m different?”
