Breaking The Rules: Book 2

Chapter 15: Matching Bruises

𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝙹𝚞𝚗𝚎 𝟸𝟽𝚝𝚑
Griffin POV

"One, two, three, four, five, sprint! Go go go!" Dad yells and claps his hands together with an eerily similar tempo as my racing heart.

Pieces of field turf fly off of my cleats as I explode out of my stationary spot on the field. Sweat pours down my long sleeved shirt and my legs cover five yards with two sprinting strides. We've been practicing this drill on and off for the past five minutes, so I don't need his coaching this time.

The bruises on my legs and ribs feel like they're impaling my skin as I stamp my feet on the ground with a rapid succession. Keeping my core tight, I swing my arms in cadence with the footfalls. A spell of dizziness makes my vision swim. The back of my head throbs. I blink sweat out of my eyes as I keep my chin down and watch where my shoes land.

My left foot stays chopping in place inside of the white yard line, while my right foot taps back and forth over the line. Faster and faster.

"Quickly! Move your goddamn feet, Griffin! Two, three, eyes up! You can't see where the fucking ball is when you're watching the grass grow!" Dad shouts, his hands on his hips. His shadow slices across my line of vision as he paces, momentarily blocking out the blazing sun. "Four, five!"

Digging my left foot into the ground, I grunt with the effort and jet out of this spot, my lungs burning with the force. It's been a few months since I've felt so winded during this exercise. Although, the last time we practiced this, I didn't have injuries the same size as Miles' fists all over my body.

Last night when dad told me that I had to practice every day this week, I wanted to lift up the hem of my shirt to show off the red and purple skin and explain that there's no way I could perform the way that he wants me too. Common sense is what made me sit stagnant at the dinner table, bite my tongue, and nod along.

Dad wouldn't care that I got a little banged up the other night. Even when I dragged my ass out of my room yesterday with a bruised eye and scratches running down my cheek, all that he asked was, "What the hell happened to you?"

It was not a chore to brush the injury off, explaining that I got a little too drunk and ended up going down a staircase face first. He chuckled while Roselyn shook her head and said something about how she wished she could've made it to the party to see that. As I ate my cereal, I couldn't stop thinking of how quickly he dismissed my story. If Roselyn were the one walking into the kitchen looking like that, he would've absolutely flipped a switch.

I'm still trying to not think about how dismissive dad was. Realistically, I know that I should be grateful for not getting grilled with questions. If he saw the state that the rest of my body is in, and if I had to explain that Miles was the culprit, I'd be in deep shit.

Dad whoops as I cross the next five yard line. This time when he claps his hands, it's from excitement, not because he's trying to push me farther.

"Atta way to do it, boy! Your feet were a blur this time, but you're still not there yet. Tomorrow I'm bringing the resistance bands with. Your core kept slipping, especially with the send offs." Dad walks over to me as I slow down to a stop and bend over, resting my forearms on my knees. He slaps my heaving shoulder blades. I wince and squeeze my eyes shut as his palm connects with a fresh bruise. "If I can notice that, then the scouts in San Diego definitely will, too. Let's nip that problem at the bud before we leave next week."