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To any nearby staff that was listening, I made an announcement.
Somebody fix this shit, or I will.
Several folks went scrambling, and about ten minutes later, the crowd had found their manners.
I didn’t feel any better.
A date?
A fucking date?
By the time we were about a third of the way through practice, I’d normally have burned off any negativity I’d brought in with me. With such a highly physical activity, it was hard not to.
However.
Once I was lined up, looking at the opposing rookie, sweat dripping in my eyes, I didn’t feel any less agitated.
In fact… it was getting worse.
“Set!”
At the signal from the coach, my body dropped into position, legs tensed, ready to spring.
Why was I so damn mad?
When Rori and I talked about where things stood between us, I’d been right in alignment with the idea that we were just going with the flow, not trying to pin anything down. We’d both insisted we were “vibing”, latching onto that cursed ass word like it was a lifeline.
Really… it was feeling like a goddamn lie.
As soon as the ball snapped, I was off. I saw the flash of fear in the rookie’s eyes, but that wasn’t stopping anything.
I angled myself so my shoulder hit his chest hard, knocking him flat on his back after a brief slide across the grass as the whistle blew.
“Wilder! What the fuck are you doing?!” Coach Pierce yelled, getting in my face as people rushed over to help the rookie up.
“Teaching!” I countered. “He needs to keep his feet planted, he was just standing there like a dummy waiting to get hit.”
It wasn’t a dirty hit. I could’ve gone for his legs, or higher on his chest, things that could’ve actually hurt him. Right now, the wind was just knocked out of him, and he’d maybe be a little achy.
But if he’d been doing what he should’ve, it would’ve had a much different impact.
Which I’d been saying to him for the last four plays.
“That’s one too many hits like that, Wilder. This shit isn’t like you,” Coach said, redirecting my attention from where others were helping the rookie up. “Go get some laps, run that aggression off.”
“What aggression?” I asked, and Coach Pierce didn’t even give me a response.
Good for him.
’Cause I knew.
So I just went and got my laps.
As I passed the stands with the public onlookers, one in particular raised a middle finger at me, undoubtedly the same one with the big face Monty.
The same face I’d been imagining on rookies as I took them down in practice.
Probably not the best idea.