AN: Thank you all super fucking much for supporting this series through 300 (THREE HUNDRED!!!) chapters! I hope you've enjoyed the ride so far, and I hope you're holding onto your butts, cause we're getting ever so closer to the climax of Year One. Enjoy the extra long chapter, and think of it as a celebration of GotG, and things to come.
~~~
When Ty returned home, having run the whole way back, Father's car wasn't anywhere near the yard. He smirked. Father would kill Devon for the stunt he pulled … Ty's smirk faded. How could he reveal Devon as the perpetrator without implicating himself?
The sun would rise soon, however, Ty still snuck back into his room and curled up in bed. Just a quick nap, then he could shower with dawn.
###
Of course, the day didn't start so simply. Ty had slept in. It had been already past noon by the time he rolled out of bed. Being that late, he hadn't felt the need to rush, though did arrive at school for the final classes.
Without having an excuse other than "I slept in" for why he had missed more than half the day, Ty was held back in detention, which in turn made him late for the day's practice. Something which actually irked him. He had been tempted to skip the detention and just go straight to practice … but Coach Long would learn of that, and would force him back to serve whatever extra days he'd earn with that idiocy.
So that was how he found himself arriving part way through the team's practice, explaining himself to Coach Hoang.
'You slept in until noon?' Coach Hoang asked, his words laden with suspicion.
Even after Ty's nod, Coach Hoang eyed him closely, especially the fresh bandages wrapping his forearms; add those to the scab down Ty's leg, and he looked like he'd picked up a new hobby of wrestling bears.
'How late did you leave the gym?'
Ty facepalmed, rubbing his temples; he'd forgotten the damn gym key. 'I left when the lights shut out … but I forgot the key you gave me at home.'
'God dammit, Samuels. I give you ONE thing. … Why the hell are your arms covered in bandages, anyway?'
'It was dark when I was riding home last night, and I fell.'
'Did you hit your damn head?'
'No. Just a few scrapes, Coach.'
'Hm.' Coach Hoang's eyes still held suspicion, but he nodded. 'Would've explained some things,' he muttered. 'Don't think you'll be let off easy. You've got a lot of catching up to do today, and you won't be finished here until you've done so. First, get running up those stairs. You've got some extra work because of that detention.'
So Ty's practice was disjointed from the rest of the team. Sprinting up and down the bleachers, then up and down the field in suicides, even whilst the rest of the team was going through their drills.
It was an intense day for everyone, though the DBs and WRs were focusing on strengthening their legs. They'd push and drag sleds, hop and hurdle through their drills, and hold squats whenever they were waiting in line.
Each pass they had to deflect or catch, respectively, were always thrown so high they'd have to leap to their max reach, and even then stretch out with one hand. Sometimes they fell short, not even getting a fingertip to the ball. A failure like that led to them running up and down the bleachers as well.
Once Ty's pre-practice punishment had been served, he had to start over from the top, left behind by the team, he ran through the drills dozens of times on his own. He wasn't even halfway through them by the time the rest of the team was heading off for film study. Which was truly hell because not only was he being left out, but it also meant Rabbit hung back to join his drills; being alone with that annoying little mouse was the worst punishment of the day.
Despite Rabbit having already participated in the team's full practice, he was hardly out of breath as he followed and "supported" Ty through the rest of his. But that didn't mean he could keep up.
By the time they were done, darkness was already descending over the field as Ty had to run more punishment sprints up and down the bleachers due to how many passes he failed to deflect—Ty's passes were definitely thrown much higher than anyone else's, but he couldn't complain; something told him those were Stringbean-height.
Rabbit stuck by Ty's side as they started off the field, heading towards the a/v Room. Sweat clung to them both. Thankfully, for Ty's sake, he was breathing lighter than Rabbit.
Just when Ty was about to snap at Rabbit for following him like some kind of shitty little lost puppy, Rabbit opened his mouth and said: 'I can't believe we're the same age.'
Ty stopped, staring at him. Rabbit was short and spindly, but outside of that he didn't look like he should've been in middle school. 'What?'
'Y-You're just so strong a-and skilled already. Z-Zayden, too,' Rabbit said, stumbling over his words in his hurry to get them out. 'I'm n-not saying you look o-old. It's just… you and everyone else, you're all so am-mazing. I really … I really c-can't keep up, e-even when I try my h-hardest.' Rabbit stood, looking back at the field they'd left behind, fists clenched tight.
Ty glared down at him. Obviously everyone else was better than Rabbit, that was the difference between varsity level and JV … but … Rabbit definitely had a varsity heart, maybe even greater than that. No other JV team member was still showing up to the practices, and he was keeping up, despite being the smallest, and least skilled member. Ty's expression softened, but not by much.
'I just … I-I really wanna make the t-team next year. V-Varsity, not just JV.' Rabbit frowned at the ground, scowling at it almost as harshly as Ty had been scowling at him. 'But … I-I want to make varsity next season b-because I earned it, n-not just because e-everyone else is g-go-gone.' He almost choked on the last word, like it had hurt him to spit it out.
True. Most of the varsity team was made up of seniors. Even a lot of their backups or fringe players, like Cameron, Amon, and the like were seniors. The Dons would be a practically whole new team next season. But they were in the middle of Nationals, they couldn't worry about that right now.
'Why the hell are you worrying about the future we've got…'
But Rabbit DIDN'T have to worry about anything else during Nationals. The future WAS his Nationals. Damn him, making Ty look like a fool.
'…Why the hell are you telling me this shit?' Ty stalked off, leaving Rabbit behind.
The rest of the team was already streaming back out of the a/v Room, their study done. Thankfully, they put some bodies between Ty and Rabbit. But Rabbit's voice carried over the crowd.
'Because I-I-I won't let you down, Ty! E-Even when all the seniors l-leave, I-I won't let the Dons take a b-back step! We'll still be c-champions next year. I-I … I PROMISE!'
Ty froze. Laughter erupted from the other Dons around them, but it those sounds quickly turned encouraging as others ruffled Rabbit's hair and thumped his shoulders. They were proud of his fire, and wished him luck in his goal; with him following them, they knew they were leaving the team in good hands.
It was interesting, and hard to believe Ty and Rabbit were the same age after all. So close to each other, their paths were running parallel, yet they were so different. Full of different hurdles, different pitfalls, countless different choices … were they heading for the same destination? The same glory?
'Samuels, get in here!' Coach Hoang shouted, head poking out from the a/v Room.
Ty shook his head. He had no time for daydreaming. Leaving Rabbit to his path, Ty stepped into the room. Along with Coach Hoang, Coach Long, and even Bella, were waiting for him.
Ty raised a brow, looking around the room; Coach Long already had a chair pulled out for him, front and centre. Though his face showed more concern than sternness. 'Everything alright, Tyrese?'
'Just a few scrapes. I'm okay, sorry for oversleeping.'
Bella huffed, drawing his attention. She turned away, though her eyes kept darting back. Despite trying her best, she had her father's honest eyes, and her concern showed clear on her face as well.
'Is all this really necessary?' Ty asked.
'Just sit down and learn, Samuels. There's a lot to go over. Especially seeing as I don't think plan A is very hopeful.'
Ty took his seat, attention turning to Coach Hoang. 'Plan A?'
'You can't compete with Byrd for height,' Coach Hoang said.
Bella barely stifled a laugh. Her father looked at her, brows furrowed in admonishment. 'Do we need to call Mom to come pick you up, Bella?'
She gawked at him, but quickly snapped her mouth shut, shaking her head. In their silence, the grinding of Ty's teeth filled the room. He was staring at Coach Hoang, eyes burning. His jaw worked incessantly, but he withheld from snapping only because of Coach Long's presence.
'That doesn't matter once we're in the air,' Ty said after finally composing himself enough. The words were sharp.
'Of course. You jump higher in comparison, your arms won't be longer than his, however, so those springs of yours don't mean shit.'
The foul language drew a disappointed side-eye from Coach Long, but it drove the point home in Ty's skull. Not like Ty needed anyone to tell him he couldn't reach Byrd's aerial peak—yet—the evidence was planted on the gym wall.
'Which is bad for us,' Coach Hoang continued, 'because plan A was the simplest. For now, we'll have to figure out B through Z on the go. So that's why it's important you pay attention to this.'
They turned back to the projector screen. Ty laid his eyes upon it. The first thing that jumped out at him, even from the awkward, elevated angle of the broadcast, was how much taller the Shamrocks were.
It wasn't just Jeremiah Byrd, though he drew the eye the most as he dwarfed everyone else on the field, but all across the board the Shamrocks had the height advantage. Had Stringbean brought the rest of his basketball rejects onto the team?
Coach Long let Coach Hoang take charge of the solo film session, though he was still present on the sideline to pitch in with more advice, and give another set of eyes and perspective on the tape and the tale it told.
With their height, the Shamrocks focused more on the air for their offence, though their RB was no slouch, and often got involved in their passing plays as well.
If the RB was working as another Receiver, the Dons' edge-rushers could hopefully keep the QB in check and make sure they didn't have time for long passes. Coach Long pointed it out as a key to their victory, and plan B, which was to keep the Shamrocks' giants grounded.
There were greater questions the Shamrocks' offence posed for the Dons, however, though most of them didn't relate to Ty, even if him having to cover a TE exasperated their problem covering the other Receivers.
'Maybe Donte or one of the Linemen could chip the Tight End at the snap?' Bella suggested.
The coaches ruminated over her suggestion, though Coach Hoang wasn't sure it'd affect the real issue Byrd posed.
Ty knew he could handle Stringbean's release, even if he was deceptively fast. The film didn't showcase any real solution to stopping Stringbean. Instead, it showcased a surprising amount of talent.
Whilst Jeremiah Byrd's height set him apart, he wasn't a one-trick pony by any stretch of imagination. He was agile, not just for someone that tall and lanky. His quick-footedness often caught opposing Linemen off-guard, and made those shoots at him in an attempt to disrupt his rhythm off the line, go wide and look foolish, taking out a potential pass-rusher without slowing Byrd down at all. It made it hell for LBs who tried to keep up with him.
And while his height was domineering, he knew how to USE such a stature, and such long arms, too. Once his quickness surprised you, and gave an opening, he secured it and didn't let go. His long arms meant he could fend off a smaller DB with ease, and keep his body clear so there was nothing to hamper his leap, if he even needed to leap at all.
With those long legs and long arms, his catching radius was off the charts even before he left the ground. Paired with how well he could manipulate his defender, and position his body, and most opponents had no chance before the ball was even thrown.
But of course, the height was the killer. Even if you didn't lose a step, even if you got inside and got a body on him, even if you gave yourself as close to a fair shot with an even playing field as you could … there was no such thing as "fair" or "even" with a giant like that.
Could Ty overcome such a large obstacle? Could he climb that beanstalk? Even if he could, could he face down the giant at the top? This was just Byrd in his natural motion, crushing all opposition on way to an undefeated season, and a number one ranking for himself as the best TE in the nation.
One thing Ty's tumultuous path, filled with challenges every step of the way, had taught him—those who were special, only showed such when they were pushed to the absolute brink. After that, they went to a whole new level. Almost like becoming an entirely new challenge.
What would Stringbean look like after that breaking point? How high would Ty have to climb for the second beanstalk?
###
The rhythmic thumping of a bouncing ball, the squeaks of sneakers sliding across clean hardwood, and a cacophony of voices calling out switches, screens, and crying for the ball, filled the gymnasium.
March Madness was just around the corner, and with it was the hunt for the National Championship for the Indiana Hoosiers. Their official practice was over for the day, but most of the team lingered, still going hard with a scrimmage of starters versus bench, with the bench players being skins to the starters' shirts.
The only score they kept was done so internally, but it was a close contest. The Hoosiers thought they could go pretty far if every player pulled their weight. Plus, they had a point to prove; Indiana was losing its way as a basketball state, and slowly turning to a football state.
Depending on which side you asked, that wasn't a terrible thing. One of the few spectators for this extra-curricular scrimmage—Trevor Alford, a high-school-aged boy wearing a baggy Isiah Thomas Hoosiers jersey—didn't think it was bad the state was becoming more known for their football prowess. It was just natural. They simply had better football players currently.
In the near future though … well, Trevor thought one player in particular would decide if the state was known for football or basketball.
As the scrimmage continued, Trevor had the bench unit ahead on the scorecard. Maybe the starters weren't trying as hard? Maybe they were trying different, unfamiliar plays? In actuality, the bench unit had a … not exactly "secret" weapon.
A starter blew by his man at the top of the key. The rest of the defence was slow to converge; his path to the basket was clear. He went up for the layup—a bad choice.
The shot was smothered at the rim, ball pounding the backboard, trapped there by an elongated hand.
Jeremiah Byrd was the youngest player on the court—by a good margin, being only a sophomore in high school—yet he was also the only one on the better side of seven feet tall.
Passing ahead, Jeremiah started a fast break for the bench unit, hustling after them. The fast break was contained, most of the starters scrambled back well, but Jeremiah was still trailing the play, and nobody picked him up in time. The ball was lobbed towards the basket, and Jeremiah flew in, catching it with both hands before dunking like he was trying to rip the rim off the backboard.
Yep, that was the one who'd decide Indiana's fate when it was time for him to commit to either football or basketball.
Trevor watched, amazed, transfixed as the game continued. Jeremiah was special. You could tell with just a look. It wasn't only his height. Plenty of kids had been tall, but it was the way Jeremiah carried himself at that height, the way his body was proportioned. He was long and lanky, yes, but he wasn't uncoordinated; he wasn't so thin you worried about his legs snapping with every step, nor was he so bulky you worried about how his lower body would be holding up in just five years' time. He was perfect.
He didn't need to fill into his body, it was like he was already fully grown, yet he was only getting bigger.
You could've made a case that not only was he ready for college basketball already, but that he'd already dominate. In an earlier time, he would've been one of those kids who jumped straight to the NBA out of high school.
Trevor had played beside Jeremiah on the court and field, and while Jeremiah was better at basketball, that was only because it was the sport he'd been playing all his life. Never before had he touched a football field, except last year.
In Jeremiah's freshman year, he'd shattered all sorts of school records when it came to basketball. Most points, most rebounds, most blocks, most triple-doubles, in games and single seasons, hell, it'd taken him only a single year to have the most blocks in school HISTORY. The state championship was a formality. Every game was a blow-out.
Yet, Jeremiah was bored. It was as evident as his talent. So, of course, he switched to sports. Football was something new and exciting.
Everyone tried to talk him out of it. Being tall was good for football, but not THAT tall. Think of the damage it could do to a growing body, especially those knees and hips. When it was obvious they wouldn't talk him out of it, they tried to get him to play a "safe" position, like CB or Safety, trying to entice him with the prospect of hitting people. That had appealed to Jeremiah, but no, what he thought suited him best, what he thought would give him the best opportunity to experience those same thrills from basketball—swatting shots aside, posterising someone, flattening an unsuspecting guard with a heavy screen—would be TE.
Of course, Trevor had to come along and join the team as well. Jeremiah needed his Point Guard, who else could be better at passing him the ball? The chemistry they shared helped Trevor get the starting QB job, but honestly a blind monkey could've taken his spot; he basically just had to throw shit up, Jeremiah would come down with it either way.
Jeremiah had taken to football as if he'd been playing it all his life. He was almost as unstoppable as he was on the basketball court, and with another year or two of experience under his belt, maybe he would be even better at football than he was at basketball.
As if there was much room for improvement anyway. They were undefeated, just like they had been in basketball—Trevor had to wonder if Jeremiah had ever lost in any sport—the state championship had been just as easy, and now they were on the verge of a national championship to go with it.
There were only two more hurdles in their way … yet Trevor knew the toughest one was the one right before them. And here Jeremiah was fucking around with the college basketball team.
Eventually, the starters got sick of being locked in a stalemate with a high school sophomore, and the scrimmage was called off. A grin split Jeremiah's face in two as he strolled off the court with a lazy, long gait.
Despite the smile, his breathing came hard, and he was drenched in sweat. He stopped in front of Trevor, taking a water bottle, looking around for a towel he didn't bring.
'Of course those pussies quit just when it was getting fun,' Jeremiah said.
'They'd been practising for hours already,' Trevor said, handing over a stripy tee.
'We both know they just don't like losing.' Jeremiah looked at the tee-shirt, then ignored it. 'You wanna run some one-on-one?'
'Yeah 'cause that's a fair contest.'
Jeremiah just laughed more, even as the worried frown settled onto Trevor's face. Perhaps the only problem Jeremiah had, was his bad habits regarding "practice". Namely the fact that he hated practice unless it was in the form of scrimmages, and even then his favourite kind of scrimmages were those where it was completely one-sided—in his favour, of course.
'If you've still got energy, we should practice something important,' Trevor said. 'You know, like something that'll help us in the FOOTBALL game we've got this weekend.'
'Pfft, that shit? It's gonna be the easiest game we've ever had. You seen the size of their DB's?'
'I have, and I've also seen they're the best part of the number one ranked defence.'
Jeremiah scoffed. 'Oh, of course they are, but that ranking only matters in a fair game. Is anything EVER fair when I'm involved?'
'That's not … I still think we should be taking them se—'
Jeremiah leaned down, one long hand clamped around Trevor's shoulder. Even with a relaxed stance, his grip was almost crushing. 'Don't. There's nothing to worry about. I know who you're worried about. That shrimp can't even touch me.'
Jeremiah let go and stepped back, and Trevor let out a shaky breath that'd been trapped inside him. He didn't usually feel bad about his height—he was already six foot, and still growing—but whenever Jeremiah loomed over him like that, it was as if he was back to being a little kid, being chastised by an adult for worrying about monsters in his closet or under the bed. At times like that, he wasn't sure whether the peach fuzz clinging to his chin and upper-lip was childish or a sign of his budding manliness.
'Come on, Trev, I'm hungry,' Jeremiah said, finally taking his shirt and pulling it on, the fabric barely stretching over his long torso. 'After we eat, there'll be a pickup game somewhere.'
Trevor followed Jeremiah out and to the tall boy's lifted truck—a gift for winning state. Usually Jeremiah's casualness was infectious, and it had every right to be even if it was annoying at times. Jeremiah was the whole reason why Trevor was even playing football, so why did Jeremiah get to take it so easy and Trevor was stuck playing the hardest, most complicated position in the sport?
But that casual confidence, as annoying as it could be, had been earned. Why wouldn't they win? They'd won everything else together; they had the formula down pat. So why was Trevor still worried? Why couldn't his fears be assuaged?
He'd watched a lot more of the Dons' film than Jeremiah had. Sure, he'd had to look at ALL parts of their defence—they had a relentless pass rush, a suffocating run defence (even if the Shamrocks rarely ran it was still annoying to know they might not be able to fall back to that when they needed just one or two yards), and all their DBs worked cohesively downfield—but Tyrese Samuels, even in the number one ranked defence, had stood out as a major thorn.
Maybe he was freaking out over nothing. Wasn't Jeremiah right? Tyrese, as good as he was, was constantly the shortest man on the field. How could he overcome a foot-and-a-half height difference? There could be no level playing field against Jeremiah, it was always unbalanced in his favour.
Wasn't it the opposite for Tyrese? How could he ever be on equal footing with someone? Yet he'd beaten them all, and earned his rank as number one.
There was something in all that footage that scared Trevor. Tyrese was great, but there was something transcendent about him when it came down to those final moments, when his back was against the wall. Clutch factor. Was that it?
He took a deep, steadying breath, glancing over at Jeremiah. Okay. Fine. Tyrese and the Dons had a clutch factor. Most champions did. So what? What would it matter if the Shamrocks and Jeremiah blew them out of the water and made sure the game was never close after the opening drive?
Jackson followed Tommy into Planet Fitness, looking around at the garish purple colouring. 'Did we have to come here of all places?' Jackson asked.
Tommy laughed. 'A gym's a gym, little bro. This'll be as good a place as any.'
With Jackson's recent achievements—namely finally asking out jasmine—Tommy had decided he'd done enough to prove his mental fortitude, even if there was still some lighthearted banter about how embarrassed Jackson got around Jasmine. Tommy also decided Jackson had good enough balance between football and life to move on to the next part of his training.
'What are we doing here, anyway?' Jackson asked—he was still in the dark about the next step in that regimen.
Tommy grinned. 'Our next stop, is Core City, baby.'
Jackson stared at him. '…Don't say that again.'
Tommy laughed boisterously, drawing some unappreciative looks from nearby gym-goers. 'Okay, but seriously, we're working on your core strength next, because that's the next most important step.'
Jackson nodded, looking around. The prospect sounded … like a lot of work, and painful work at that. But that was okay. No pain, no gain. Everyone else would've been pushing themselves until it hurt, and if they weren't? That's the edge Jackson needed to have if he was going to catch up.
'It's like balance, in a way,' Tommy continued. 'And this'll also help a ton with your physical balance, but they're similar because the core is where ALL strength comes from.'
'Really?' Jackson asked.
###
'Maybe not LITERALLY, but pretty much. Without a strong core, you won't ever be able to utilise your full potential, just like how if you aren't balanced, you won't have a proper foundation to use your strength either. So it doesn't matter how strong your arms or legs are, you'll only ever be as strong as your core.'
It made sense to Jackson, and Tommy's guidance was always golden.
They started with stretches, as any good workout did, and Tommy continued to explain. Too many people had their idea of their "core" wrong. It wasn't just the abs, but obliques, and even your lats. Nor was core strength even about pure muscle. You needed to be flexible enough so you could ALWAYS access your full strength no matter the situation you found yourself in. And it seemed like Tommy was trying to put Jackson in every potential situation he needed to be ready for right there in the gym.
It was … not a fun session at the gym, something Jackson learned immediately upon them starting their exercises with planks. Dreaded planks. The damn things were black magic the way they forced time to slow to a crawl. And there were variations of them?!?
When Jackson hit a minute "too easily" Tommy added the heaviest plate he could find to his brother's back. When that was too easy, they moved onto side planks, then past those it was one-legged planks, and raised side planks.
Of course, there were crunches as well, lots and lots of crunches, with twists and stretches at the end of each one. Every time he was done with a minute of planks, Tommy demanded twenty crunches.
The crunch machine, added extra weight and resistance, though the seated position was a little more awkward. Once Jackson got the hang of it, the weight piled on as Tommy quickly pushed him to his limit.
It didn't take long for Jackson's core to be burning. Yet even as that burn spread along his sides, he grinned. The session was already his most physical and intense with Tommy. As much as he appreciated the more … innovative … training sessions regarding his mental fortitude and balance, it felt good to get back to the basics—doubly so once he was past the plank section of it.
He knew the prior lessons had been important, and wouldn't forget them. He respected them and what his brother and dad had done for him, but there was just something about the intense, repetitive labour of a standard workout that really scratched an itch for him.
It helped Tommy was there with him, grinding just as hard. Anytime Tommy wanted to show him something, he demonstrated the exercise personally, pushing himself to his limit for Jackson's benefit. How couldn't Jackson do the same after seeing how much his brother cared?
They moved over to a decline bench, which had a pair of leg rests, one that nestled behind Jackson's knees, the other fitting over his feet. Lying down on the bench, body slanting down, he then had to sit-up, arms crossed over his chest, until he was practically standing with just those leg supports and his core holding him upright.
After that, it was back to flexibility with cable twists. Like a half-turn of a hammer throw, it wasn't about speed, nor even how much weight you were pulling off the stack, really, but more about how engaged and steady you could keep your core as you followed through the full range of motion, doing a near one-eighty turn.
For when he needed to catch and turn instantly, Tommy said. It'd help his spin moves, and for when someone tried to sling him down in a tackle, he could better keep his balance and strength.
Everything they did that day had a purpose. It wasn't just about getting stronger, but preparing him for anything on the field. If someone was trying to push him out of bounds, did he have the strength to right himself and stay in, even if he was only standing on one foot? What if they'd thrown him down, and he was near horizontal with the ground? Could he twist back up without being downed? Could he power through, and carry the team on his back?
To end the session, Tommy showed Jackson something even worse than planks. At least it actually looked impressive and difficult. Dragon Flag, he called it. Jackson didn't know what dragons had to do with it, but he could see how it was basically like turning yourself into a flag.
You started flat on your back, and had to be as rigid as a pole, lifting your legs off the ground, higher and higher, whilst keeping as straight as possible, which pulled your hips off the floor, and eventually most of your torso so you were only balancing on your shoulders and head, then carefully lowering back down SLOWLY all the way until your legs touched the ground once more. It was important to keep your muscles engaged throughout the entire process.
Tommy made it look easy, but when inspecting him as closely as Jackson was, you could see the strain on his face, the set of his jaw belying the gritting of his teeth in concentration. His whole body was tensed, each muscle flexed as he posed himself, toes pointing at the ceiling as his feet were as vertical as they could go.
Then he eased back down.
Of course, Jackson didn't have to replicate the impressive feat right away. He started off small with sets of leg lifts. Ten at a time just to get a benchmark of how comfortable he was with it all, then they could increase the difficulty, making the angles he turned his body into increasingly acute.
He didn't even get halfway to the full flag that day, and by the end of it, he knew he was in for a long, arduous climb to that point. A question lingered on his mind about how long Tommy had been doing those horrible things to accomplish the full motion, and at such mastery, too.
Tommy answered the question with a laugh when they were heading for the showers—both boys drenched in sweat, they needed a quick rinse before hopping back in his car. It'd taken him a full year to get to what Jackson had just seen from him, though Tommy complained he was always terrible with the balance part and had been shaking like a leaf.
They emerged from the gym hours after they'd entered, and whilst Jackson wanted desperately to fall into his bed and not get up for at least a day … he had one more place he needed to visit first.
'Can we go to the hill?' he asked as they pulled out of the carpark.
Tommy glanced over, silent for a time. He answered with a nod; there was no need to specify which hill Jackson was talking about.
It was a quiet drive to their destination, one with a backing track of Iron Maiden, starting with what Tommy thought was their aptly named track Run To The Hills; based on the look he received from Jackson, his little brother didn't see the humour in it.
They parked near where Jackson had crashed. Ignoring whatever negativity still lingered in the area, they began to walk up the hill. Jackson wasted little time. He didn't stop and stare up at the crest, didn't need to take a breath to steady himself, he just got out of the car and marched right up the winding path until he was at the top, overlooking their peaceful home.
Tommy stood beside him. Now Jackson took his time to reflect, and Tommy looked around, admiring the view. They'd picked a hell of a time to climb the hill—the sky had an orange hue as the sun was setting, its edge just then lowering behind the horizon. The few clouds in the sky looked as if they were aflame and dancing. But Jackson didn't see them.
Tommy wasn't sure what Jackson was looking at, though he knew it wasn't whatever was in front of him. His eyes weren't focused on anything they could actually see, but something BEYOND sight, something only Jackson could envision.
A gentle breeze stirred his hair, the last gasps of winter had a ferocious bite to them up on that hill, but Jackson didn't shiver, he just kept staring.
His birthday was coming up. Not the weekend they were about to enter, but the one after. He'd seen the tournament's schedule, and the national championship game would fall on the exact date.
It'd been a strange year. One that had been so full of hope and optimism as he finished out the last of his middle school days. There was so much hope and excitement around starting high school, and with it varsity football.
Of course, things didn't go exactly to plan. It'd probably been the worst summer of his life. A poor start, but one he'd overcome. The year had some disastrous downs, that summer the lowest of them all, but he remembered the pain of the Titans' eliminations—the JV side in Regionals, the varsity team in their state championship game—each one had been like a knife slipping between his ribs, though the JV team's loss reached deeper; they had needed him. He could've helped them. He'd failed, but he'd needed those failures.
No-one was perfect forever. Failure came for everyone. Some more than others, yes, but no-one escaped its touch entirely. He had got his taste much sooner than most. It was good. Now he knew what to expect, knew he could overcome any setback; the year had been good. Overall.
The highs were good, and there had been plenty of them. All the new friends he'd made, the relationships he'd strengthened … Jasmine. A smile spread across his lips. It had been a very good year indeed.
Those failures had strengthened him. He was unbreakable. Because of that, he knew the year ahead would be even better. It would be his. Jackson's high school football career had been delayed, but he would take that world by storm next season. If the current season had been the season of Tyrese Samuels, the next would be Jackson Woods'.
###
Kentavious Rice Junior stared at his reflection in the fifteen-foot plasma screen spanning the wall before him. The theatre room wasn't as large as people might've thought when they heard the name. It was supposed to be private; a mixture of grandiose and cosy.
As he lay, face down, balanced on his neck and chest with his legs curled up in the air behind him—a human scorpion—he locked eyes with his reflection. Sweat dripped down his face; the heating had been cranked above one-hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Even then he was wearing a black, Versace sweatshirt with matching pants. It was one of his least favourite outfits, too gaudy, but Senior (SENIOR, not Father) insisted.
An image burst onto the TV, a football field, with the focus on a one-on-one contest between a Wide Receiver and a Cornerback. The Cornerback—Adonis Varly, Junior's upcoming opponent, AND the number two ranked CB in all of high school—held his greater focus.
The two opposing figures on screen moved in lock-step, Adonis a perfect mirror to his senior opponent, Ezekiel Carver. There wasn't an official ranking from the prior season, but most scouting reports a year ago had Carver as the best WR prospect. How quickly things changed.
Carver wasn't at fault. He hadn't fallen off; he'd done his job and improved. His drop in the eyes of scouts was due to the unprecedented explosion of talent in his position in the last twelve months.
Carver was still a five-star recruit, with the choice of any D1 program he wanted. He had all the tools to be great. His footwork was fast and fluid; his agility and top speed were elite; his routes were deceptively deceptive; and his hands were as secure as any.
Yet Adonis matched him all the way, read him like a picture book.
If there had been an explosion of WR talent in the last year, an equal and opposite explosion of CB talent had occurred all the same. Or so most scouts believed; twelve months ago, the name Adonis Varly wasn't on any scouts lists.
Carver had superior size—a few inches, and a dozen or more pounds—but that's where his advantages over Adonis stopped. Adonis, a junior, was more explosive, more tenacious, more quick, more observant, and more calculated. All game he'd been setting Carver up; beating him, holding him back, but only barely, only by the skin of his teeth, giving the older boy false hope. Now was the time to capitalise.
'Zig Post,' Junior muttered, voice strained from his awkward yoga position. 'Interception.'
He called the route a second before Carver feinted outside, then burst in on a Post, right as a teammate undercut him on an Out. Adonis avoided the confusion perfectly, and slotted in under Carver's route; despite being shorter, he had the greater jumping power. When the ball ended up in his hands, it looked as if the pass had been thrown to him, like it was destined to be his.
The tiniest downward tug of the edges of Junior's mouth was his only reaction to the play that sealed the game, and the win for Adonis Varly's Red Elephants. The Georgian representatives out of Gainesville were to be Junior's and the Longhorns' next obstacle. Another uninteresting speed-bump.
Junior sighed.
'Is the film not to your satisfaction?' Kentavious Rice Senior said. When the screen faded back to black, Junior saw him at the reflection's edge, standing just within the curtained doorway.
He towered in that doorway, his fitted, pinstripe white suit much too formal for a day spent at home, yet Junior could hardly remember him wearing anything but his suits. There wasn't a drop of sweat on the man, not even a hair out of place. He was the perfect display of perfection.
Junior straightened his legs, and braced his hands against the floor. Carefully, shakily, he leaned back, and shifted his weight to his arms, moving his chest over them. Keeping himself as vertical and rigid as possible, he pushed up into a handstand, then lowered his legs back down.
Back on his feet, he turned to face his father, rolling his neck and shoulders. 'My issues are not with the film but their subject,' he said.
'You are still taking him seriously, I hope, even if you believe him to be beneath someone of your high stature.'
Senior's sarcasm was biting. Junior's lips twitched again, but he clenched his mouth shut. He would not give the man the satisfaction.
'If there's any reason why I think so highly of myself, you would be the cause, Father.' A truth and a falsehood in one. Outside this little four-walled world Senior had built for them, the man heaped more praise upon Junior than anyone could swallow. He stuffed it down the throats of any who would listen all the same.
Yet inside …
Senior strode across the room, one hand cocked. Junior tensed for the coming blow, but all that came was a sturdy hand on the back of his neck. Senior pushed him, almost dragging him from the room, through polished, pristine, wooden halls, across layered and intricately patterned rugs, past dozens of paintings and sculptures, even newspaper cutouts and pictures detailing accounts, and displaying important events and meetings Senior was front and foremost at. Junior was shoved into another elaborate room, one smaller than the theatre, and much more intimate.
The trophy room was not heated, and felt like stepping into an ice cube after the theatre. Yet this room always froze Junior's blood.
The wall with the door was empty, showing only dark wood, just like the barren floor. The wall opposite, held a tall display case, and various placards. Belonging to Mother, it had the least trophies to flaunt. Those trophies told of a modest yet promising collegiate volleyball career given up for a more "traditional" lifestyle after graduation.
To the right, across the room, was Junior's accolades. Every accomplishment of his short life was on display. In total, Mother would've had more than he, yet his side had more shelves, more cabinets, bare and waiting for future trophies and championships.
His state championship was the centrepiece but all around it were trophies from elementary and middle school, ranging from baseball, soccer, basketball, and even track and field to go along with his football spoils.
Senior shoved him over to that wall, nearly pushing his face against the gleaming cup of the state championship. Junior was so close all he could see was his own distorted image in the polished, gold-painted alloy.
'Look at the only thing of value you've accomplished,' Senior reminded him. Junior only needed to hear his voice to know the sneer on his face. 'I should make you tear down these meaningless trinkets, they're practically participation trophies … but that'd be too damaging for your vanity. You ARE nothing, and unless you prove yourself, you will continue to BE nothing. Worse than nothing actually. A disappointment. A failure. "How could someone with a father as skilled and wonderful as his be so inept and lacking?" That's what they'll say about you; that you were so pathetic its disrespectful to my legacy.'
Tightening his grip, Senior yanked Junior around, and shoved him to the opposite side of the room, the wall nearest the door—Senior's wall.
From end to end it was covered in ribbons, championships, team photos, and other paraphernalia. The shelves and cases were stacked with hardware. Trophies, medals, cups, from middle school to high school to college, and even the pros … not the NFL. No; Father hadn't made it. Had gone undrafted, made a practice squad, but never a real game. It was a conspiracy against him, he said. The teams never gave him a fair chance. He'd embarrassed the commissioner's nephew, he said. After that he was blacklisted. So he went overseas, dominated the Canadian Football League, the Brazilian Superliga, arena leagues, too. He even came out of retirement to participate in the opening season of the European Football League a year ago. But never the NFL.
'THAT is what you measure against, Junior,' Senior said, hand shaking as he pointed at the wall. 'That is what you must SURPASS. And until you do so, you're nothing.'
Junior couldn't stop his face from moulding into an expression of disgust, rage, and hate as he stared at Senior's reflection on the gleaming glass of his display case. Senior only smirked in answer.
Composing himself enough to keep his voice level, Junior asked: 'May I watch Tyrese Samuels's film?'
'You forget yourself. You should focus on the Elephant. No son of mine will trip over a pebble because he thought himself too high to watch his feet.'
'I know everything there is to know about Adonis Varly. He pushes off on his back foot too much. It makes him a half-second too slow. In addition, his left foot is stronger than his right, meaning he struggles protecting the outside, and if you can get him to turn that way, his inside is wide open, or vice versa if lined up on the opposite side of the field.'
'Hm.' Senior stared down at his son, regarding him for a long, silent while. Finally, he waved a dismissive hand. 'I'll have one of the help switch the film for you. But you obsess over this Don more than what's good for your development. He's good, but don't forget he's just a prop. An adversary being overinflated, overhyped. Something for you to crush so your own legend grows even greater.'
"Now who was dismissing the pebble that could make them trip?" And Tyrese was no pebble. No; there was something different about him. Something unpredictable. Something the film couldn't account for, no matter how many times Junior viewed it.
Richaun Howard was supposed to have been Junior's rival if Tyrese proved to be all hype. That was the backup narrative Senior had planned with the media. Yet Tyrese wasn't JUST hype. It was further proof there was something that made him stuck out, even way back when Father decided who should be pushed as the number one CB. Tyrese had since EARNED that title.
Maybe … maybe it wasn't just wishful thinking to imagine he could be the one. Junior sighed once again when Senior left him. Or maybe he was just growing desperate.
It was so lonely at the top of the mountain.