Speaking of tears…

The white terrycloth towel absorbs the salt dripping from my tear ducts, and I squeeze my eyes harder, willing the little bastards to stop.

Shit.

“Hey man, you all right?”

When I lift my head, Rodrigo is standing there, head cocked, dark skin bright red from overexertion, muscles bulging.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him to piss off, but he actually looks concerned, and if I’m being honest, I haven’t let myself become friends with these guys. Always keeping a safe distance for whatever reason—who the fuck knows.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

“Do any of us?”

Yes, actually. I think Rodrigo plays ball because he’s talented, but he loves it, too. It’s in the way he runs on the field, how he digs his heels into the turf before dashing during sprints, the look on his face when someone scores.

Do I love this as much as he does, or am I so programmed I sleepwalk through it? A member of the Jackson Jennings Senior cult—the one and only acolyte.

Rodrigo—first name, Carlos—stands hovering above me, and if I don’t say something soon, he’s going to put his hand on my shoulder to console me, I just fucking know it. Dude is sensitive, having been raised with three meddling sisters and a mama who occasionally brings enchiladas to the house on game day. Stocks the fridge with water bottles and snacks, hands down discipline better than any coach in the locker room.

Typical mother.

Actually, that’s not true; my mama hasn’t come to visit once, not even to move me in freshman year. Pops told her to stay home, but she could have insisted. Looking back at all the mothers on move-in day, mine was noticeably absent and has been every year since.

I’m not bitter about it.

“Yeah, Carlos, I do think most of you know what you’re fucking doing here.”

He doesn’t know what to say, so he continues lingering near me like an unwanted fly; the truth is, I don’t mind it.

“Dude, were you crying?”

My shoulders shrug. “I don’t know.”

“So that’s a yes.”

I shrug again.

“Hey, I cried last weekend when my parents and sister left.”

Twist the knife in my back, why don’t you? “Oh.”

“Seriously, man—what’s wrong? You look sick.”

I am sick—sick of the bullshit around me and needing a change.

A weak smile crosses my lips. “I’ve just been overthinking everything, that’s all.”

Rodrigo doesn’t believe me, and he does what I didn’t want him to do: touches me. Places a mammoth paw on the ball of my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “Get it out, man.”

“Are you tryin’ to therapy me, man?”

“Probably.” He shifts on his heels. “This is why it sucks having three sisters—turns you into a pansy ass.” Pauses. “I was the same way when I had a girlfriend. Fucking sap.”

I lift my chin. “Girlfriend? When was this?”

“Last year. She dumped me for someone else. Holy fuck, I was in bad shape for a while after that.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“That’s because I didn’t say anything to anyone. I went home when it happened and mi mamá baked for me all weekend, fed me, and listened to me lloriquear como un bebé.”

“Huh?”

“I whined like a baby.” He laughs.

“But you didn’t play ball like shit.” Our coaches always warn us about the pitfalls of a relationship, one of them being a breakup. Falling off the wagon as a player and having a shitty season because you lose focus. No one wants to be the dickhead crying in the corner because his girlfriend dumped him or he’s hung up on some girl who strings him along. No one wants to be the guy who gets mixed up with a gold-digging user.

Rodrigo looks nonplussed. “No. I was too pissed off about it. I channeled it into positive energy, bro.”

“How?”

“I don’t know—meditation?”

Meditation? Huh, who knew. “I didn’t realize you had a girlfriend. Sorry I wasn’t there for you, man.” What a shitty friend.

“Yeah, her name was Sunny. We met at a party.”

“Was she a jock chaser?”

“No. The guy she broke up with me for is in the drama department. She was…” He trails off. Swallows. I feel shitty that we’re talking about someone he obviously hasn’t thought of in quite some time; it’s clear in the quiet way he’s measuring every sentence. Sunny was special.

And she didn’t fuck up his game.

How is that possible? Isn’t that what girlfriends do? Fuck your shit up?

Superstitions among athletes run deep, and a girlfriend can jinx the locker room, jinx the playing field, and jinx the house football players live in—especially during a losing streak. One loss in a season can be blamed on someone’s new girlfriend, old girlfriend, side piece, or fiancée.

“Did you ever feel pressure when you were with her?”

Carlos looks confused. “What do you mean by pressure?”

“Pressure, you know—to break up with her.”

He scrunches up his face. “Why would I have broken up with her? I loved her.”

Now I feel like an idiot for asking, but I go on to explain, “Because bein’ in a relationship can fuck up your game on the field.”

My teammate watches me, staring down before taking a seat on the weight bench across from me. Rests his elbows on his knees. Clasps his hands and leans forward. “Triple J. Dude—life isn’t all about the game. Other shit is important, too, like family and friends.”

“Right.” It’s the only thing I can think of to say.

“Jackson, mi hermano, listen to me.” He leans closer still, and I’m shocked to hear my name on his lips—I honestly wasn’t sure anyone knew my real name. Other than Charlie, who has no problem overusing it. “At the end of the day, the field isn’t the one who is there for you. It’s this.” He points a finger at me, then at himself, running it back and forth between our two bodies. “Family. La familia.”

Brother, listen to me…

He reclines back on the bench and scrutinizes me. “Your parents really fucked you up, didn’t they?” His voice is almost a damn whisper, and it makes me twitchy, because yeah—they really did a number on me. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

“So were you? Crying?”

“Yes.” A laugh escapes my throat, thank God, breaking the somber mood. I already look like a pussy; I don’t need him feeling sorry for me.

“Why?”

My gaze darts around the workout room, judging the distance between us and the nearest athlete. A few girls—volleyball or basketball players judging solely by their height—are loitering by the fridge with the waters, and a few beefy dudes are at the free weights, all of them grunting out reps.

The sounds of metal barbells clinking, air conditioning units pumping out cold air, and trainers giving directions drown out any conversation I’m having with Rodrigo.