His arms were perfectly chiseled. He had tattoos on his biceps and calves that made you wonder. He had a well groomed goatee and a criminal record. He debated politics and quoted famous people. He was a professional football player and head of our company team.
He wouldn’t scrimmage too close to the girls and always apologized when he hit hard. I went to every practice and worked until I felt broken. I never complained. When the season ended, I tried other workouts but nothing compared. When I complained to him about my muscles atrophying, he offered to scrimmage with me. I had a perfect yard for passes and tackles.
There was tension but, I wasn’t sure. Sometimes, he would roll me over. I think I felt something. He would adjust. It’s a guys sport. I shouldn’t read into it. Days kept passing. We were practicing every night. The new season would start soon. Our private lessons were coming to an end.
Our last practice was the same as the one before. Lots of sweating, a few misplaced hands, and me feeling exhausted.
I was thankful but still curious. Had I read something into this that wasn’t there?