MINI-CAMP
Lucas Carrington
YOUR LOCKER BECAME your little sanctuary in the NFL.
Today though the mood in this space was somber, and the air was filled with more than sweat and heavy breathing.
There was a strange mixture of sadness, tension, and apprehension. Guys stood in front of wooden lockers contemplating the end of this three-day excursion and what it meant.
The truth was, we were all waiting to see who was the next to be cut, and hoping it wasn’t us.
Mini-camp was supposed to be geared solely toward acclimating rookies to the playing schemes of the team.
However after three days, stored on hooks and shoved in corners were more than sweaty shorts and worn helmets . . . there was also a piece of each of us.
As each day passed it seemed like orientation was a well-oiled machine meant to work out the kinks. Cut the sludge. Get rid of the waste. It felt more like an initial evaluation, and for some it had become the end of the road.
Even though I had a contract, I immediately started to feel on edge when I saw someone I knew had a contract, shoving the contents of his locker into a black trash bag. Shit, he was out before he had even begun.
More than likely he wasn’t the first or the last.
No mistakes, one mistake, two, three or four, it didn’t matter. You were out when Coach said you were out, and that was all there was to it.
“I can’t fucking believe what’s going on,” I barked, to no one in particular, as I watched the black trash bag dangle over the player’s, no ex-player’s, shoulder.
“Yeah, me either,” the guy next to me responded under his breath.
I flung my locker open. “I am so close to packing my shit and leaving on my own.”
“Why don’t you?” the barrel-chested giant standing across from me remarked. “It will open a spot up for someone who actually wants to be here.”
“I want to be here,” I bit out, offended.
Brown hair curled from beneath a gray skullcap. “Yeah, right,” he muttered, yanking his pants down.
“You don’t know shit.” I stared at him, ready to put this argument to an end, and not with any more words.
Showing me his bare ass, he raised both hands high in the air and gave me two middle fingers as he strode toward the shower.
Just as I was about to jump the bench and go after him, good old Johnny Dwight, my quarterback coach, hollered into the room, “Carrington, Coach Whitney’s office, now!”
In that one moment the earth cracked beneath my feet. Feeling like I was about to be forced to take a step on unsteady ground, the blood rushed to my head and I broke out into a cold sweat.
Was I about to get cut?
I couldn’t be.
I had a contract. Then again Coach had just cut a player with a contract. What were the legalities? Was his contract different from mine? Did it even matter?
With my mind spinning, I closed my locker and looked up to catch the dude who I was just going at it with, turn around. The smirk on his face was one I instantly wanted to punch off.
Kotch or Catch or something that sounded a lot like crotch, crossed his huge arms over his bare chest and stared at me in disdain.
Fearless, I stared right back. When the corner of his lip twitched up, I’d had it with that tattooed motherfucker.
The two of us were oil and water. We hadn’t gotten along since day one. No reason really. Sometimes it happened.
Just as I lunged for him, Thor, the guy who called himself my locker mate, pulled me back by the shirt collar. “Dude, don’t. It’s not worth it.”
I glared at him and considered going after him instead.
His hair hung to his chin, and through the strands I could see a genuine look of concern in his eyes. That was when my gaze softened.
It was a look I couldn’t deny to be the truth.
He was right of course. Getting into it right now with this prick of a tight end would only make what was going to happen that much worse.
Being late when Coach called would only serve to irritate him, but showing up banged up would surely piss him off.
Shaking off my ire, I spat on the ground and then turned and walked away. Stalking out of the locker room, I passed the Bears gear as I did, and for the first time I wondered if I would actually be wearing one of those jerseys in the fall. Had I screwed it up already with my I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude?
Fuck!
Self-destruction had always been one of my biggest issues—you’d think I would have learned by now.
As I pushed through a set of double doors etched with the Bears logo on it, all I could do was hope when I returned it wouldn’t be with a black trash bag in my hand.
Sunlight poured onto my face, and in the bright glow my pupils dilated. Soldier Field was gorgeous. Not a blade out of place. The yard lines and hash marks were even whiter than Thor’s teeth. And the sideline looked like it was just waiting for champions to fill it.
A glimmering navy blue helmet dangled from my hand as I made my way around the field to Coach’s office. I hadn’t changed yet from practice, and my cleats clacked on the tile as I entered the building.
The place was practically empty since it was a Saturday. I walked at a slow pace, looking at the grandeur of what could be mine—could have been mine.
Who the fuck knew anymore.
Just outside Jack Whitney’s office stood an eight-foot photo of himself from at least twenty-five years ago. The life-sized image was taken when he was the star quarterback for the Bears.
It was meant to remind everyone who saw it to strive for greatness, but all it did was intimidate the shit out of me.
His door was open, and he took no time at all to beckon me in. “Come in, Lucas,” he called.
Slowly, reluctantly, I stepped over the threshold.
Jack Whitney was at the other end, standing near the large window looking out at Soldier Field. He wore a standard coach’s outfit: navy Bears shorts and an orange Bears t-shirt, white cross-trainers, and yet he looked lethal.
When he whirled around, he said sternly, “Sit down.”
I sat immediately and put my helmet on my lap. Unsure why I’d brought it with me, now I was glad. It suddenly felt like a security blanket.
I glanced around.
The office was plush. A large wooden desk with tall, towering bookshelves behind it took up most of the space. There were pictures. Tons of them. But I couldn’t focus on a single one through the white haze of my vision. There was also his chair. It was huge. Then again, so was he. Chiseled and in shape, I bet even though he was more than twice my age, he could give me a run for my money.
In his late fifties, Coach wore his blond hair short, was always cleanly shaven, and had the most chiseled jaw I’d ever seen. “Great job at practice today,” he started.
I nodded, staying quiet. Suddenly feeling like my time here might be coming to a finish and instead of being happy about it, I felt like this could be the end of my world. Talk about a turnaround. “Thanks, sir, I appreciate that.”
Coiled like a snake, Coach circled his desk and flopped in his chair. “I’m not a sir, don’t call me that again.”
I nodded, swallowed, felt like I was going to vomit. “Yes, Coach.”
His gaze drifted over me. “Better. I’m sure you won’t mind if I get right to the point.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
There was no hesitation when he spoke. “You have a bad attitude, Lucas, and I want it gone before you head to training camp in July.”
Again, I nodded.
Until very recently, I had mistakenly thought I had nothing to worry about. That my contract with a team I didn’t want to be on, in a city I had grown to despise over the years, was ironclad. So yeah, that was true, I might have had a bit of a bad attitude.
He pushed back in his chair to steeple his hands. “You understand your contract isn’t final, right? It’s unsigned, and won’t be signed until training camp is over.”
I’d signed.
They hadn’t.
A fucking incomplete contract. And no further ink would be put to that piece of paper until after training camp.
This meant only the signing bonus was guaranteed.
That stare of his was deadly. “This is a tough-assed game,” he told me. “Do the things that matter, and even those that don’t, the right way, and you might just make it, Lucas. Stay on the destructive path you’re on, and there’s no way you will go anywhere but out the door. Do. You. Understand. Me?”
Cold sweat covered my entire body. Talk about being scared straight. “I understand,” I answered, swallowing the prickly lump in my throat.
His voice was smooth and deep when he spoke again. “Good. Now, I’m going to give you some departing advice.”
I waited, and didn’t say a word.
He stood up and leaned over his desk. Reiterating what he had just told me, he didn’t beat around the bush. “Know this Lucas, no position in the NFL is guaranteed. If you don’t prove your worth at training camp, you’re out of here, no matter how important you think you are. It’s that cut and dry. Got it?”
The only thing I could do was blow out my breath in a deep exhale. I wouldn’t be getting cut, not right now, anyway. “Yeah, I got it.”
“Great, then get the fuck out of here.”
I couldn’t move fast enough.
Back on the field, I stood alone and looked at the quiet stadium. This was the NFL. The fucking NFL. And I was on a team that I’d just come so close to being cut loose from.
As my gaze circled the empty stands, I began to understand the look I saw in my brother’s eyes the day I was drafted.
This could be mine.
And I wanted it.
Fuck, I wanted it.
Still, I had a lot of work ahead of me. It didn’t matter that I’d once proven myself. I had to do it all again.
Back in college I had notoriety. I was the it guy. Now I was trouble, and what I had to do was prove I was football.
I would bleed football, eat, drink, and sleep football.
I would be fucking football.
At training camp, not a shit would be given that I was a rookie drafted in the first round. I was just another player who either performed or risked being cut. That wasn’t a problem for me though, I knew what I had to do. I planned to dominate the field.
To show I was hot stuff.