The Way We Dance by Katie Rae

1

Ty

“Atlanta’s star tight end, once again, let a perfect pass from Nichols go straight through his hands.”

“He has butterfingers, Tom. He also has a case of two left feet. You can’t help but wonder if the two problems are connected.”

“He doesn’t appear to be as graceful as he was at the end of last season. If he wants to continue starting for the Jets, he is going to have to figure out what is causing his problems.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” I mumbled as I shut the TV off from the highlights of our first preseason workout. It was open to the media and my errors were the first thing they honed in on. Their analysis of why and how I may be messing up was a joke. Even the ex-pros that got on those shows and talked must have fucking forgot what it was like to play.

There are highs and there are lows. Sometimes there was not any explanation. Especially from someone sitting behind a desk with a fucking bow tie on.

“Why didn’t he catch that?”

“Well it wasn’t because I wasn’t fucking trying,” I said out loud to no one as I slammed the remote down on my coffee table.

I stood up and started pacing my apartment, anger coursing through me. I had never been known as someone that could keep my emotions in check. I flew off at the handle and used my fists when I felt the need to do so and it seemed to be getting worse as this season slowly got underway.

We were reporting to camp in two weeks. These practices were just knocking off the rust, yet for some reason, the media liked to take their little insights and run with them. Unlike previous years, I was taking their words to heart. Letting them invade my veins and course through my arms and legs.

Probably because they were right.

I shook my arms out and continued my pace, trying not to put another hole in my walls. So far, I had been lucky and hit drywall every time, but sooner or later, I was going to hit a stud and break my fucking hand.

I was the league-leading tight end because I was big, tall, and fearless. That shit was still all true, and I thought that alone would be enough to keep me on top for my whole career.

Unfortunately, the past decided to show back up in my life and it made me angry that I wasn't strong enough to kick it out, to turn a blind eye. I welcomed it back in like a lost little boy and now that it was time to play ball again, I needed it to go the fuck away. There was no other way to balance my past and my present.

And I was never returning to being a kid on the streets.

Never.

Football was my ticket off the streets and pretty much the only thing I knew how to do. I grew up with a slut of a mom and a drugged-out dad that went missing on us when I was nine. My brother and I raised ourselves and we both had determined we would be dealing on the streets of our neighborhood for the rest of our lives.

We were ok with that and we were fucking good at it by the time we were in high school.

During my Sophomore year of high school, I got into a huge fight with a guy from another neighborhood. We didn't walk around in gangs but that was about as close as it got, and when he found out my brother was dealing on his street, he wanted to take it out on me.

My brother, who was four years older than me, had already graduated the year before and was bigger and better than that motherfucker could ever be. So he took the weak way out and tried jumping me when he knew my brother wouldn't be around.

Using me to set an example.

Fucking coward.

And a fucking fool, because I beat his ass so bad the cops had to be called. I was arrested and only able to be released under the circumstances that I returned to school and joined the football team. They thought it would be a good way to focus my anger and keep me occupied.

Out of trouble.

It fucking worked, too. Coach was a badass that didn't take my shit. By the time I had graduated, he had become the dad I didn't have but so desperately needed. He kept me in line, fed me when I needed it, and made sure I showed up on time to practice.

When college scouts started creeping around, I pushed them away. I wasn't going to leave my brother and I sure as fuck wasn't going to become a boy scout just to stay on a team. Plus, I hated school. Four more years of it sounded like torture.

Coach didn't let me cop-out though. He pushed and pleaded until I agreed to visit a few colleges on his dime. What I found when I got there was not what I expected.

Gorgeous women were everywhere.

The educational side all but guaranteed athletes a pass.

I was courted and cared for better than I had ever been in my entire life.

The appeal hooked me and despite my brother getting pissy about it, I signed with the number one college in the nation on a full-ride scholarship as a defensive end.

My college days were where I learned I could actually catch a ball. It wasn't long before my 6'5, 260-pound body found himself lining up on the offensive line as a jumbo tight end.

The other team thought it was a fluke, that I was just there to block, but when the quarterback threw me the ball, I caught it with the tips of my fingers and my fate was sealed. I was the starting tight end for the rest of my college career and got drafted in the first round of the NFL draft a year before I was set to graduate.

Tight ends didn't get drafted in the first round—not usually—but Atlanta took that chance and I haven't let them down in my six years in the league. I can thank my high school coach for that because while I was off in college, he had made calls to a friend of his in the Atlanta organization and made sure they knew who I was.

Atlanta’s coach eventually reached out to me and became another figure in my life I looked up to. He gave me insight, kept me connected, and when I decided to declare for the draft, he told me I would be their top pick if I followed all the rules.

One of the main things he wanted was for me to keep my nose clean and away from my hometown. Away from my parents and brother.

And I did.

For the past six years, I have stayed in my lane, made Coach proud, and made sure there was a big red line between the old me and the new me.

How was I supposed to know my brother and our old friends would show up to spend the summer in my world? How was I to know when they asked to stay at my place for a few nights that they wouldn't leave? How was I supposed to know that I would be so spun up with anger and tension that I would drop every fucking ball thrown my way?

I needed to kick them out before Coach found out. Before he assumed I was into old shit. So far, I had avoided falling to their pressure to get me to do something that would be a detriment to my career. Most of the time, we went to The 678 Club and I kept myself busy dancing with the ladies.

Coach told me dancing was a good way to keep myself loose and my feet light. Somehow, after dancing all summer at the club, I was heavy-footed and tight.

I blamed my company. I needed to kick them the fuck out.

Speak of the devil.

"Yo," my brother yelled as he and his two friends, Marcus and Devon, walked in from God knows where.

"Hey," I mumbled, stopping my pace to see them making themselves at home. And why wouldn't they? They practically moved in.

"What ya been up to?" Mike asked.

"About to head to the training facility. Where have you three been?"

They all looked at each other, clearly debating if they wanted to tell me. Until I was in it with them, they wouldn’t tell me anything.

"Don't worry about it, forget I asked. Just do me a favor," I broached the subject while I was angry enough not to care what happened. "You three need to get out. I start camp soon and then the season. I need to focus."

"The fuck?" Mike yelled. "You gonna kick out your blood?"

"Yeah, I am. The summer was fun but time to get real."

"Real?" he scoffed and looked at his friends. "We are as real as it gets. Or did you forget where you came from?"

I wasn't giving him the satisfaction of an answer. I would never forget where I came from. How could I when it was standing in my living room? I turned toward my room to grab my bag and let my silence speak for me.

When I walked back through the living room, the three of them had built a wall with their bodies and was blocking my exit.

"You know I love you, little bro. I have always had your back. I always will. But you’re scooting us out like I mean nothing to you."

"For fucks sake, Mike," I rolled my eyes. "Stop with the drama shit and move. You know I love you and I have loved having you here. But my game is shit and I feel myself slipping. I need to get my shit together."

Mike was nodding, but his chin was hard and his jaw tight. He was still pissed. He didn't get it. I knew when I got back from my workout that he would still be here but I didn't have time to worry about that now.

I had a meeting with Coach and then practice; and the media was going to be there again. I was exhausted just thinking about it.

"Move," I shoved Marcus who was closest to the door.

He didn't move.

So instead of taking my frustration out on my wall, I reared back and took it out of Marcus's face, punching him so hard he fell to the ground.

Admittedly, it was a cheap shot that no one saw coming. Marcus wasn't a pussy but blindsided was blindsided and as he fell, I stepped around him, closing the door as my brother yelled, "What the fuck?"