Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
It’s not like I wake up every morning designing new ways to piss him off because the dude is formidable. I don’t mean to goad Coach, but he makes it so easy. Especially since it’s an open secret that he doesn’t like me very much, if at all.
Our relationship has been contentious from jump. He didn’t take it well when I beat out his two top prospects for first string driver my freshman year. And since then, he’s had a hard-on to get me kicked off this team.
“You’re getting dangerously close to getting benched, son.” With a last glare directed at me, he blows the whistle and announces practice done.
Rea shoots me a WTF look and I shrug. Reynolds is my BFF, the two-meter specialist on the Sharks, and the co-captain of this team. He’s also the de facto captain of the no-fun police. The dude is strung tight lately, and I feel for him. He’s got a heavy burden of expectations resting on his shoulders, but he needs to learn how to say no.
So here’s my TED talk on water polo for you newbies. I’m the driver. My position is the backbone of the offense. Which means I need to get possession of the ball and make a fast break for the opposing team’s goal and either set up a scoring shot for one of my boys, usually Rea––he isn’t ranked one of the top two-meter specialists in the NCAA for nothing––or score.
“Are you trying to get benched?” my BFF mutters.
Strangely, I’ve got no answer for that.
When I don’t argue he scowls at me. “Dude, we’re playing Stanford next weekend––we need you.”
We’re aiming to win another title and there are plenty of guys happy and willing to take my place. Unfortunately for them, I’m by far the best driver on the team and it’s a gift that comes naturally. Maybe that’s what pisses Becker off––that he can’t easily replace me, and that I don’t need to work that hard at being the best. That I never work hard at anything. Even water polo.
Unlike my boys, I got into it by accident. Brenda shipped me off to my first water polo summer camp at eight because she wanted to travel with her new boyfriend. I refused to once again stay with the nanny and made my feelings clear by setting her closet on fire. By then, the sperm donor also know as my father was busy with his new family and didn’t want me around any more than she did.
The endless hours of training never bothered me because it meant I was out of an empty house. It also helped burn off a lot of the anger and energy I constantly carried around, so in a way polo saved my ass. Plus, I was good at it and who doesn’t love winning. But unlike my boys who play for passion, it was never so much about the love of the sport for me. The best part has been the brotherhood, the camaraderie.
When I graduate this year, my water polo days will be behind me for good and I’m gonna miss the shit out of it because that summer, the one I spent at camp, was the first time in my life I felt like I belonged somewhere. That I was wanted. That I was part of something worthwhile.
Dragging my tired ass out of the water, I grab a towel off the bleachers by the pool and dry off.
“Where are you?” Brock says, walking over to the bleachers. The big guy isn’t just my captain, he’s also the self-anointed unofficial team “parent.” I love him like a brother, but the preaching is a drag.
“What do you mean?” I say feigning stupidity and shoot him a blank stare. “I’m right here, Mother.”
Scowling, Brock drops his towel and shoves his legs into his track pants.
“Your head’s not here. You’ve been swimming like shit lately. You’ve been practicing mediocre at best…” He pulls his Malibu Sharks Get Wet t-shirt over his head and plants his cinderblock-sized hands on his hips. “So I ask again––where you at?”
He doesn’t know about Beth. Nobody does and I’d like to keep it that way. There are some things a guy holds close to his chest and she’s one of them.
“Nah, really, don’t spare my feelings.”
“All I’m saying is––talk to me. Maybe I can help.”
“Dude, chill. I’m fine. Just tired from partying too much. Rea’s the one with female trouble. Why don’t you lend your consulting services to your co-captain. He needs it more than I do.”
Inside my backpack, I can hear my phone buzzing and pull it out. Brenda’s text appears over the screensaver of pro-surfer Sebastian Steudtner surfing a 115 ft. wave at Nazaré. Dude’s my hero.
Mommy Dearest: Hi Darling! I got the name of a reaaallly great therapist for you. I told her all about you already.