❝I think sometimes in life the biggest challenges end up being the best things that happen in your life.❞

-- Tom Brady, QB (Quarterback), New England Patriots (2000 - 2019) and Tampa Bay Buccaneers (2020 - present)

🏈 🏈 🏈 🏈 🏈 

I HATED the question: boobs or butt? Which did I prefer? Why did it matter? Why ask that question? That was a set up. Judgmental and degrading to the female body -- yes, I appreciated those features. Yes. I was attracted to women. It was just -- it made a guy an asshole if he picked: personality or answered too quickly to any of the two choices given above. Yes. I hated that question. 

I did find out the answer when I met him . . . I meant her. 

The day was shitty to begin with. Second practice. Second day of school. Honestly, the follow up days would be the worst, Mr. Peterson droning on about how we needed to learn how to learn, he was preparing us for college, when in fact he wasted our time and saved himself energy by not doing his job -- you know, teaching us History and Government. He never got up from his swivel chair. I broke my pencil twice. Another to hear besides his ramblings and then I slipped on my headphones, which he either ignored my dismal or yelled at me. Patrick Stump sang to me while I waited for time to elapse. Oh, do not get me started on the 'ooo's and 'ahh's on my brother, especially with his new romantic relationship with Olivia. My jaw clenched. As if I couldn't notice the scratches on his arm, the deep bruise closer to his collarbone when he'd walk in through the garage door coming up from hanging out with her, placing down his truck's keys on the kitchen island, and him -- acting like everything was fine. 

Stop lying, I thought.

I slammed my locker door shut. In doing so, a long brunette hair girl jumped who was leaning against another locker within the same bay area. She pulled her deep purple binder closer to her chest. Her and her friend stopped talking. To be honest, I didn't notice them. 

"Sorry," I said, moving my right headphone off of my ear. She didn't look at me. I couldn't unsee her eye roll. My chest and arms grew hotter. Not towards her, but to myself. Fingers clenched into fists.

Way to go. Loosing your nerve again. If this keeps up, I'm sure Mom will require more sessions with PhD. Downs. I didn't need additional counsel. I didn't. 

Hot air pushed through my lips, facing away from my onlookers but then again I was used to it. 

Hot Headed. 

Anger issues. 

Tom Brady junior. 

Yes, I was all of that. Whatever. I didn't give a shit what they thought. Sucked to think that I was a senior and didn't get picked to be our first stringer QB when my brother got it. I showed up to every practice early since my freshman year where my arms were the size of toothpicks. I worked hours above hours in the weight room. Twenty-five changed into thirty and then continued up to eighty pounds. Shea was a junior. One year difference. I guessed it was enough. 

"I don't make assumptions, Rhodes. We are two weeks away from our first game. And now, you want to complain? Whoever showed up at tryouts, scored the most, and depicted leadership will be in first string." 

I've been silent for two weeks. Yes. Shock. Utter disbelief on the decision. Hoping Coach Whaley with his six year old daughter's princess pen would double check his notes. Would double check to make sure he really wanted Shea to be the lead QB. I'd come home from last minute school shopping with my dad, well -- step dad, he'd try to make conversation. He'd ask the typical questions: "Are you ready to go back to school? Do you need a new backpack? What are you most looking forward to?" 

Playing football. 

And graduating. 

In those that order. 

But now . . . it wasn't guaranteed I'd even play. My stomach tightened. After realizing yesterday that it was happening. First day of practice and all. I had to tell him. A list formed in my mind. And yet, dumb shit came out of my mouth. I was a leader. I could prove that and I have -- why didn't Coach Whaley see? I knew he saw what I've done on and off the field. Hell. He knew my Dad. They graduated together at the Ohio State University. Lived in the same dorm that smelled like body odor and oak wood from the live oaks outside. Dad gave me my first ball when I was three. By four, I knew how to throw it, laces between my fingers, making sure my hips twisted and keeping my shoulders straight. 

"Conor never give away where your prize is," Dad used to say. "Defense will know. You have to know exactly where your Running Back will be. You have to trust them." 

Why did this occur? Especially when that big guy witnessed my crash and burn. He stood there. No emotion on his face. I wished that I could match his style. His annoyingly flat lips. He stared. Brown hazel eyes followed my move as if he was deciding who I was. He was new. Clearly. I couldn't recall seeing him or knowing his name. 

It wasn't until practice that I heard he was new. No wonder I couldn't picture what year we could've been in the same class and had the same teacher. Nope -- not second or third grade. That made sense. 

Why did he have a shot? Because we needed a Center? Because we were desperate? 

The fact that he -- Marion Combs -- got put on second stringer when he had no prior experience. Where did he come from? How did he have a nice built with little to no exercise? Like what the hell? To say that I've been furious would have been obvious. This was different. I hadn't felt my hands shake this bad since . . . since -

Dad. 

I headed to the men's locker room. The school day had ended. Thank God. I needed to get all my homework, assignments, binders, and textbooks off my shoulder. Dumping it off so I no longer had to think about it. Now it was plays. It was time to focus on the team and runs. 

My bright orange headphones drowned out the noise, reminding me of earlier, including that stupid question that arose at our lunch table right after I confronted Olivia. She pretended too. 

"You never mind your own business," Olivia stated. She had her brunette hair with silver glittery hair strings clipped at some of her roots. "Shea and I are all good. Man, you're taking this brotherly responsibility too seriously." 

Too serious. Too intense. Come on, Olivia, say something I hadn't heard before. 

And you know what I replied, "I'll stop when you stop pretending." 

I lied. I'll not stop. I'd never stop. Yes, I was pissed Shea got the QB position. Yes, it should've been me. But I'd never, never blame him. He was good. He was . . . 

. . . not me. 

I needed to cool off. Anything to keep my composure. None of the guys took a shower before practice. I did. The odor from the school day overwhelmed me. Also any coping mechanism that kept my heart rate down was a win-win for me. White towels were outside the shower stall area. I grabbed one and started to dry my hair, a simple shake, and then wrapped the towel around my waist. Getting ready, I knew the process. 

Putting my headphones around my neck, I focused on my music instead of the shouts. Shoulder-pads. Jock strap. Jersey. Knee pads. Helmet. Gloves, but I didn't need them unless Coach put me in. Knee high socks. I was too focus on getting ready I didn't see when Combs arrived. He seemed intimidated by his locker. He kept staring around him like he hadn't experienced this mayhem before. I smirked. 

He acts like a freshy. 

I walked over to my duffle bag which was on the other side of his locker near mine. I thought it was vacant. It was. Not anymore. Extra pair of socks fell out of my bag, I threw them into my locker from where I stood. Whoosh. The cotton makeshift ball wizzed passed Combs's back. 

"Hey!" His voice called out. It was kind of high. Shifting into a different pitch.

He turned and glared at me. Those brown-hazel eyes. Some would say they were similar to a dark brown, but I'd seen darker. This was the kind where it matched a football. There was heat behind them. 

Guess he can react. Although he seems to only respond in few words. 

"It didn't touch you, Combs." I walked passed him without throwing my duffle bag. I didn't want to cause another exclamation.

"Still," he paused, "scared the shit out of me." It was soft. I almost didn't hear him over my Imagine Dragons playlist. I placed everything I needed in my locker. 

He kept staring up at the ceiling. His fingers intertwined together. Weird. He was still in his casual school outfit: oversized sweater, jeans, and his back bag stayed on his right shoulder. 

"Then where's your shit?" I asked. This dude. What was his deal? He stayed in his spot. If he wanted to play then he needed to get on the field pronto. His responsibility was to protect the QB. In this case, it was me. I had to pull at his strings. Tug him a bit. Something so he could engage.

Again.

He stayed. But he huffed. It was . . . interesting. A short and heavy huff that wanted to say some smart ass remark back to my reply.

I can do this all day, bud.

Then he did it. He walked away. 

Good. I went back into the zone. Sliding my jersey on and then my headphones, I went out to the field. Without coaching and coaxing, I began my reps. Fast movement in my feet. My watch gave me stats with how fast my heart rate was, how long it took me to run back and forth between the ten yard markers, you needed to be quick -- fast and efficient. After getting my blood bumping, I headed over to the sideline to praise my throws. A wired basket held over twenty footballs ready to be thrown. Its own purpose. To be thrown and caught. 

The prize. 

What was my purpose? 

I glared ahead at the net. Footballs piled on top of one another down below the net. The oblong shape wasn't compatible with keeping them together.

"Gather around!" Coach shrieked. His loud voice broke the rhythm I had. Jogging over to the cluster of a huddle we created. Assistant Coach dragged out the white board with the possibilities of plays ranging from positions, options for the first, second, third, and fourth down; when to use them, when they applied and why they worked when we execute them. "Center, you need to focus on your opponent -- and if you could defend when the left guard loose his guy -" 

Combs had his eyes down the field where the cheerleaders were.

Come on.  

I glared at the back of his head. 

You had all day to make googgly eyes at them at lunch. 

"Combs."

"Yes, sir." He replied quick. His eyes refocused on Coach. Everyone laughed except me.

My right hand gripped my left bicep. I kept my arms crossed each other, trying to breath in and out. This was what was going to happen. First stringer defense versus second stringer offense and same for vice versa. I knew Cory was good. He was now the left guard. But this guy -- I eyed him up and down. His jersey wasn't on all the way. The yellow jersey over top didn't fit around his shoulders. His shoulder pads kept popping out of the material. 

At least this time he watched Coach draw the line of scrimmage, x's, and o's to display who was going after who. What our goal was. 

"Alright, let's play some football," Coach declared. He blew his whistle and the awkward beginnings to memorizing the plays began. 

Shea grinned underneath his helmet. An ease. He knew Stuart would protect him. He'd invited him over this past summer. They'd swim in our pool along with the other guys. Drank off-brand pop and left the cans on the stone ground, forgetting about them. I cleaned them up before Mom and . . . dad got home. 

I watched as the hikes went. Shea never got touched by the defense tackles. Slam. Hit. Throw back to his Running Back. 

To my right, on the off side, Combs watched. He blinked. A small movement on his lips -- was that a frown? 

"Don't mess up, Combs." I needed him to take the hits. All the power. I couldn't get injured . . . well -- that was a jerky move. I meant we both couldn't get hurt. 

Something moved around his near. His jaw tightened. I'd seen that look. I've worn it. No response. 

The silent type.

"Do your job," I wanted to hone in on what was important. 

Instead, Boyd came over to his other side. He mentioned something about Good Sports. Socializing like he always did. To say I wasn't surprise by the fact, Boyd had taken Combs under his wing and introduce him to the guys and everyone had school. I would've been more surprised if I found cat shit on my pillow, being the fact my family didn't own a cat. Boyd could make friends with a rock. Combs seemed . . . to be a little less quiet around him. 

At least he had a friend.

"Time to switch," Coach yelled out. Here it was. My hands got sweaty. Pulling my gloves from my pockets, I slide them on. The stretchy fabric covered half of my fingers. I needed my palms to stay dry. Able to grip the ball and hold onto it before I threw. 

All my teammates huddled. "On my count, we're going to do the blue ridge move," I explained. Everyone faced me, but one person. Combs was eyeing our defense players. Boyd was toying with him. 

"Ready. Break." We all clapped. 

I lined up behind him. He was wider and bigger than me, including height wise. Only a couple of inches, I could still glare at him to get his attention. "Get ready," I stated. 

He hovered over the football. Just like from practice yesterday, he seemed to check off a mental list. Feet placed firmly down. Right hand gripped the football. He crouched. 

"Blue thirty-three," I paused to see his reaction. Nothing. Good. "Blue, thirty three. Hike!" 

He did what he was supposed to do. 

Protect. 

But he overdid by holding. Automatic penalty. 

He doesn't know, I reminded myself. 

"Let's do something else," I tried to encourage them. 

Instead it was penalty after penalty, mistake after mistake. Over and over we went. A rock tumbled over each other where the surface had smoothing, but instead we kept getting rougher. The mistakes didn't smooth to a eureka. It lead to a different mistake. 

"Count, count, the beats!" I exclaimed. No one was listening. It wasn't all on the new guy. It was my own teammates that I've played little league with. Throughout the years and they were somehow picking up the same mistakes. It got passed around like a hot potato. 

My back hit the ground too many times. Nerves tingled and ran all the way up my arm to my elbow. Fingers let go of the ball. 

This is wrong. This is all wrong. 

My whole body got hot. Too hot. Everything ached. Everything seemed . . . impossible. I wanted to scream. I wanted to let go of this that was hot in my gut. Hot in lungs. Whatever the hell this was, it needed to be released. I took off my helmet. 

We needed to get this play down -- we had to get this red hawk play -- scouts will be showing up in four weeks time, maybe a little later -- we SHOULD KNOW HOW TO GET THIS DONE WHY ARE WE SITTING ON OUR --

"Rhodes stop." 

Somehow. My helmet had come off. When did -- I gripped the wire part, it was in my hand, I had taken it off. But --

Shea leaned over in my ear. He had this look, the kind where he knew what I was feeling, he knew what was raging inside of me. But he didn't. He might experience it too. The difference was he pushed it aside. He had the will power. I didn't -- no, wait, I did! I had the determination like him. I did. 

"Let's sit down. We both need a breather." 

His gentle voice brought the storm back. The 'we' in the situation. There was no 'we.' It was him. And there was me. He made that clear with his choice. He shown me that he was fine on his own. When in fact, he needed me. He needed a brother that will always look out for him. I was him . . . and at the same time I wasn't. 

I cursed him. "Don't look at me like that. Don't look down at me!!"

Movement was happening around me. I didn't know what they were doing. It just made me want to release more. And more I wanted to show them, I wasn't loosing, I wasn't out of control --

Then arms wrapped around me. 

They were steady. Warm. Something I didn't want to touch me. I didn't need anymore heat.

"Get your," my words flowed from my lips. Nothing was filtered. All out in the air. Whoever it was. They stayed. They were secure. I moved my arms against their muscle, I could barely move. My elbows pushed against the muscle. Soft and a little moveable unlike any muscle I'd felt. Stomping my right foot on theirs, my foot appeared tiny compared to theirs. 

"Relax." 

I heard their voice. Not too high. And not too low. The breath hit my neck. Goosebumps revealed my reaction. I couldn't hide. Then I stopped moving. The thoughts slowed down. Glancing at my watch, my heartbeat accompanied it too. Soft. Clean lemon and . . . lavender engulfed my senses almost like a mild perfume. Just slightly. And that muscle. 

Backing up against Combs, he towered over me. There. Against my elbow. I tapped on his forearm. The second time being shocked in two days. 

"Rhodes, you're on the bench," Coach declared. I obeyed. 

I knew what I felt. 

I couldn't imagine it. Even with the earlier conversation. 

Marion had boobs. 

Comb's a girl. 

My face got warm. Not like from earlier . . this wasn't anger. This was different. I stared into her eyes.

I guess I had my answer. 

I choose boobs.

A little gift for you, dear reader.

As I continue to write chapter twenty-five, I wanted to give you this. Maybe . . . in the future, we'll get to see and know more of Rhodes' POV. 

Thank you! Now I'll go back to writing! 🤗 I hope you enjoyed this gem. 💕 

P.S. I'm a Wattpad Creator now. 🥰