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BLEACHER REPORT

MIAMI CYCLONES OTAs DAY ONE

It’s a huge week for NFA fans. OTAs and minicamps have started, giving the press and the world a first look at their favorite teams. What rookies are going to make the roster?

What veterans will shine this coming year?

For the Miami Cyclones, today is the first chance to find out.

Veterans will hone their skills during specialty drills, rookies will take the lay of the land, and new schemes will be tested for the first time.

Pathways to success in the new season begin here, today.

It’s an exciting time for any team, but especially the Cyclones.

Lots of eyes will be on kicker Kurt Dettweiler, whose burgeoning status as an evangelical figurehead was widely blamed for a team-wide meltdown before the playoffs last year.

Coach Beausoleil has publicly stated that he won’t tolerate players’ off-field notoriety interfering with group chemistry, but will he stick by that?

And, if he does, will the entire Cyclones organization become a punching bag for the far-right?

On the defensive side, the coaching staff will undoubtedly be observing Dontae Grier, the free safety drafted from Ole Miss.

The Cyclones’ defense is already elite, but they are missing that extra something in their blitz package.

Despite falling to the second round, there are rumors that Grier could be the real deal.

And, of course, what conversation about the Cyclones would be complete without a mention of the Train?

Kaius Reinhart is officially a free agent.

The grapevine has been SILENT on what’s going on.

Will the Cyclones lock him down? Or will another team pay huge money to scoop him up and make him the star player of their defense?

Will Sterling Grayson and his seemingly-omnipresent gaggle of screaming fangirls make an appearance at OTAs?

Hopefully, a lot of these questions get answers today. We’ll be covering it all, so keep your eyes peeled.

***

The first day of OTAs is all position drills, so you only see your fellow defensive players.

Sandy and the offense are in another part of the facility.

There’s no contact until camp starts in several weeks, so there are no pads.

Even wearing your cutoff Cyclones tee and gym shorts, it feels good to be back on the field doing what you love.

The practice field is thick with reporters.

It seems like they’re everywhere, casual in their polos and tennis dresses, baseball caps protecting their faces from the torrid late-May sun .

You personally are sweating your ass off, but it’s a rush. As much as you love the downtime of the off-season, you live for the goals you make and achieve at this time of year—getting your weight back up, training like a beast, and making your mark.

At the end of the day’s activities, the players have one hour to get showered and changed before the press is allowed in the locker room for interviews.

Offense must have gotten released a few minutes before defense, because the place is already packed when you show up.

Your teammates mill around in various stages of undress and cleanliness, laughing and catching up.

In many ways, the first OTAs of the year are like going back to school.

How was your vacation? Did you go to Disney World?

Taking a shower feels blissful, rinsing off all the sweat and dirt.

You soap up and wash your hair, keeping your eyes closed the whole time.

Not only do you want to avoid shampoo in your face, but you have a persistent anxiety about your straight teammates ever thinking that you are staring at their junk when they’re naked.

After, you turn off the hot water and make your way over to your locker.

You’ve just pulled on your boxer briefs and are rustling your buzzed hair with a towel, thinking about needing a fade, when you hear a voice that makes your blood run cold .

“...Big tits. Huge. I’m talkin’ triple-D’s at least. Makin’ Sydney Sweeney look like a pancake. Red hair. Natural. Don’t care what they say, bruh. There’s something about a fuckin’ ginger…”

“Truth,” Jameson answers sagely. “The fuck game is always first-class. Where’d you meet up?”

You can’t see, but you can picture them both: the couture loungewear, the gold chains.

GoGo’s laughter is revolting. It’s more of a snigger than anything; dirty and confidential.

“I had her come by mine. Gave her the gate code,” he says. “Why the fuck not; I didn’t have nothin’ better going on. I told her right in the text, though, she’d better be down to party. I’d rather jerk off by myself than have to entertain a bitch who just wants to waste my time talking.”

“The worst,” Jameson groans in sympathy. “And she looked like the picture?”

“ Hotter ,” GoGo brags. “Li’l shawty must have had some CCs transferred to her ass since she got her photos done for Raya. I mean, look at this one, with the bikini…”

A pause. “God damn !” Jameson yelps.

“I know. I know. Now, lookit this one from after I fucked her. ”

There comes the sound of a low whistle. “She let you snap the puss?”

“Fuck, no.” There’s that laugh again. “It’s a screenshot from my security camera.”

You stand up suddenly, your phone and towel tumbling off your lap to the floor.

Around the edges, your vision is white and spotty.

Blood rushes to your head, stopping in your face.

It’s hot. Hot enough to make you want to claw at your skin.

You’re running on instinct; your feet carrying you of their own volition.

Clad in only your underwear, you ignore the stares of your teammates as you round the bank of lockers.

GoGo flashes you his white teeth when he sees you. There’s a diamond crown on one of his front molars; it must be new. His hair is cut into an ugly mullet. It’s probably supposed to be ironic, but he just looks like the white trash that he is.

“Train, my brotha!” he says cheerfully. “Long time no see! How was your sp--”

He doesn’t get to finish that statement, because you grab him by the shoulders and shove him as hard as you can into his locker. The backs of his knees hit the seat, and he buckles, ass falling onto it.

“The fuck?” he cries. “What’s your fucking problem? ”

“Are you actually serious?” you ask. It comes out loud, even to your ears.

The rest of the room goes dead silent. But you are too far gone to care, having escalated from zero to one million in the breadth of the conversation you overheard.

“Are you really publicly discussing fucking some woman? After what happened?”

GoGo looks up at you from the chair. It’s a long way to look up; you tower over him like this.

You don’t think of yourself as a scary man, but you can’t help seeing yourself at the moment as your teammates must see you: six feet and four inches, 250 pounds of muscle.

Breathing hard. Fists clenched. GoGo’s light eyes are insolent.

“What you got against fucking women?” he asks laconically. “Just because you’re fucking a dude, we all need to stop talkin’ about pussy?”

“You know what I mean,” you say, struggling to keep your volume in check. There’s a tremble in your voice. In your arms, too, where they hang by your sides. “You fucking know. After Gabi…”

He rolls his eyes. “That what’s got your panties in a twist? That whiny cunt, Gabrielle? You have no idea what happened there, Kaius. Respectfully, you need to mind your fuckin’ business. Back the fuck up.”

He goes to stand up. None-too-gently, you push him back down .

“Back the fuck up!” GoGo repeats, louder this time. “I like you, man. Don’t make me do somethin’ I’m gonna regret.”

Suddenly, the angry buzzing in your head stops. Clarity shrouds you like a cocoon of protection. You step back. Let GoGo stand up, looking indignant.

“That’s what I thought,” he spits irritably. “That lying bitch don’t need no white knight, asshole.”

The words have no sooner left his mouth than you’ve swung your fist and clubbed him across the jaw.

You experience it all in slow-motion. GoGo reels and falls, blood spraying from the side of his mouth.

An inhuman roar unseats itself from deep in your lungs, and you lunge to the floor after him, throwing yourself atop his body.

“Kai!” Jameson yelps. “Get the fuck off him, man!” He pulls ineffectually at your shoulder.

You jerk your arm straight back. Jameson lands on his ass, skidding on the floor.

A deafening chorus of shocked noises goes up from the crowded locker room.

You hear it all, but, at the same time, you absorb none of it.

You are straddling GoGo’s stomach, feeling his rippling abs contracting in agony beneath you.

You’re taking in the sight of his bloody face, of the terror in his eyes .

“Fuck you, Reinhart!” he cries. “Fu--”

You hit him again. Immediately, GoGo’s hands fly up to shield his face.

He’s babbling nonsense. It could be vitriol, it could be apologies, but you don’t decipher any of it.

It’s all humming to you, the buzz of mosquitoes in a zapper light.

You try to pry his defenses away so you can strike him a third time, but the man’s got thick arms corded in veiny muscle, and the adrenaline-fueled strength of a scared animal.

Aggravated, you grab his entire head in your hands and smack it against the floor. It makes a sickening sound.

“Stop it!” you dimly hear. “Jesus Christ, someone stop him !”

“He fucking snapped! GoGo was mouthing off, and…”

GoGo’s got his head wrapped up tight in his arms, protecting it and his face. You rear back and get a shot in his side. He curls to the side you punched, pitiful, but doesn’t uncover his face.

“Fight me, you motherfucker!” you scream. “Fucking fight me!”