I like the quiet that comes with running. As the sweat runs off, so does everything else, and I feel lighter when I’m through. I’ve always been this way. If I’m working—whether it’s out in the fields back home or on green stadium grass or here in the weight room—that’s the only time when my head goes silent.
That, and when I’ve got Dallas sprawled across my lap.
I run an extra ten minutes for that thought because clearly my head didn’t go quiet enough. If my schedule allowed, I’d run several times a day just to hold on to this feeling for a little longer.
When I’m done, I take a seat on a bench, using a towel to wipe at my face and arms.
“Need a spot?”
I look up. The guy standing next to me is one of the team managers, I think. He’s got blond, curly hair, and is tall, but a little too thin to be a player. I vaguely recall seeing someone with a similar build setting up before practice a few days ago. I look behind me and realize I’ve taken a seat at the bench press rather than just a normal bench.
After a moment, I shrug and say, “Sure.”
I did lower body this morning, so I can get away with some time spent on my arms.
“I’m Ryan Blake, one of the student managers,” he says, confirming my suspicions.
I lift my chin in lieu of hello and reply, “Carson McClain.”
“I know. You’re here almost as much as I am.” He slides around behind the bar, and I hold back a smile at his statement. At least one person has noticed; hopefully the right people will notice next.
I help him load weights on the sides of the bar, and then lie back against the bench. “You like being manager?” I ask, pulling the bar off the rack and steadying my grip.
He answers as I start in on my reps, keeping his hands poised to catch the bar should I falter.
I won’t.
“Sure. It’s my first year, so I haven’t gotten to travel with the team yet or anything. I imagine that will make up for all the dirty work.”
I wrinkle my nose, blowing out a calm breath as I push the bar up. I can only imagine the kind of dirty work he does. And with the way our locker room smells sometimes, I definitely don’t envy the dude.
“I’m hoping to do this for a year or two and then jump to student trainer. I’m a kinesiology major.”
I’ve still got the rest of the year to declare my major, but kinesiology is definitely one I’m considering. I’m pretty sure I can’t hack the math and science classes it requires, though.
I lift with Ryan for the next half hour, moving through a few other stations. He sticks with me even when I don’t need a spot. He’s good about knowing when to talk, when my arms are tired and the distraction helps me think past the weight. But he also knows when to shut up, when I need all my focus to finish out that very last rep. And as crazy as it sounds, in the space of thirty minutes, he becomes my closest friend at Rusk.
Besides Dallas.
Sitting at the weight machine, working my lats, I pull down a little too hard on the bar, and then let it go too fast, and a loud bang follows.
Ryan raises an eyebrow at me. “Now, what did that machine ever do to you?”
I grip the narrow bar and pull it down more smoothly this time.
“Wrong place, wrong thought, wrong time.” I need to leave all thoughts of Dallas at the door. I’m doing a shit job of that, though.
He nods but doesn’t ask questions, and I’m glad for it. I increase the weight so that it takes more of my concentration. I’ve hit my stride by the time a gruff voice barks, “Blake!” from the direction of the coaches’ office.
We both turn to see Coach Cole leaning out of the doorway. I focus on staying steady, but the head coach is only looking at Ryan, not me.
“Yes, sir?”
Coach Cole’s looks are as intimidating as his background. He’s tall, about the same height as me, but he’s as thick around as one of the hundred-year-old oak trees in the campus commons. In twenty-two years of coaching, he holds seven state championships and nearly double that many regional championships. And he has a history of taking failing programs and turning them into powerhouses in astonishingly short time frames. Hence his appointment as the head coach here, where despite having a program with decent financial backing and solid recruiting, the team has had six losing seasons in a row.
“We good to go?” Coach asks Ryan.
“Yes, sir. All set up.”
Coach’s eyes stray to mine then, and though they stay there for several long seconds, I see nothing in them.
He leaves, and I take that as my cue to wrap up my additional workout. I use my towel to wipe off the machine first, followed by my face.
“Thanks for the spot, man,” I tell Ryan. I don’t thank him for the company too, even though I am grateful.
“Sure thing.”
He disappears to do whatever it is managers spend their time doing, and I head for the locker room. It’s half-full when I enter, with more players streaming in by the second. I stand at my cubby, rubbing at my face with my towel. My muscles are fatigued, and I think maybe I should have taken it a little easier today. My shirt is already soaked with sweat as I pull on my shoulder pads.
I’ve been tuning out the conversation in the room, but raucous laughter draws my attention.
“Dude, she shot you down so hard I felt it out in the hallway.”
There’s a group of guys gathered around Levi Abrams as he razzes his friend Silas about something. One of them pipes up to add, “Yeah, Moore. I was downstairs, and I felt you crash and burn.” Silas slugs the guy in the shoulder, but doesn’t seem too bothered by it.