Backstage; Wonah/Rester

7: Me, myself and I

Minor TW: Mentions of guns

Reed

I put as much strength as I can behind my arms as I push myself up again, before hearing the sound of a training bell and transitioning to sit ups. The trainer on my phone continues to hassle me all the way through the next minute. I don't need to have his voice in my ear, I know how to do all of the stations. But I like having it anyway. To keep me motivated.

I need to work on my arms more. And build stamina in my legs if I want to be in the opening five for next season. But for now I keep building on my core, you'd be surprised how many basketballs to the gut you can get in one game.

I wipe the sweat on my face with my sweatshirt when my father walks in.

"Working hard I see." He stands near the door.

"Yes, sir." I reply, not stopping to chat and moving onto my mountain climbers.

"Good. You know you have to work hard to beat that Kippen kid for shooting guard."

"Kippen is coach's favorite, he's too busy kissing everyone's ass than actually doing the work. But a golden boy is a golden boy." I sigh, knowing what is about to come next.

"Maybe if you actually tried in some of your classes you wouldn't be in his bad books." He says.

"We can't all be perfect." I stand up, finishing the session, and reach for my water bottle, but my father takes it away.

"You know you're never going to make them proud if you keep up that attitude." He points at my chest. "You've caused to much trouble at this school. If I get another phone call saying that you got into a fight or stole school property, you know exactly what happens."

I swallow. "Of course."

"Of course what?"

"Of course, sir." I push the anger in my throat down along with the dry taste in my mouth.

You're never proud of me.

"Your coach probably pities Kippen anyway. I don't even know how he lets F*g's like him play with the rest of you." He grabs my phone, turning the video off and tosses it on the bed.

I grab my jacket and push past him, not wanting to stay in this room any longer. He's filled it with his own words, pushing against me, pressuring me to be perfect. Work harder. Always more. Never enough.

I shove my way past him. "I'm going out." I mutter.

"Going out where? I never said you could." He turns his head as I pass, trying to grab my arm.

"I don't need your permission." I call out, putting as much strength as I can, slamming the house door behind me.

🎶

I just keep walking through the town, only stopping to pull a cancer stick out of my pocket and a lighter. I come across the park, it's as busy as expecting on a Saturday afternoon. Little kids run around on the hot plastic material they call a playground, while others bike past me, shouting.

There's a court here. But I didn't bring a ball, and there's no way in hell I'm asking to play a game with the sweaty college graduates on the floor now.

I let the smoke fill my lungs as I lean against a tree, watching the basketball game play out. A few people stop to give me looks as if to say "there are children here, how dare you fill the air with your cancerous filth", well you and your kids can go screw yourselves.