Divine Celebrity 44 (Patreon)

Carter was quick to change in the locker room, and he wasn’t the only one that was extremely quick. The locker room was filled with defensive players, each doing their best to rush as they changed into their training outfits. Full pads as well, which was a surprise, as most teams didn’t train in full pads until the last day as it was both exhausting and painful. 

Though, it was clearly for the defensive players only, as, on the other side of the room, the offensive players were acting much more lazily, ignoring the ticking clock for the training to start. 

And more interestingly, they weren’t putting on their pads. 

But since none of the players commented on that, I kept my mouth shut, focusing on my own preparations, until Thad arrived. “A night full of studying?” he asked. 

“Once a nerd, always a nerd,” I answered with a shrug, earning a chuckle from the people that surrounded me, though that didn’t prevent tense gazes from more than one linebacker that was feeling threatened by the surprise study session with the captain who was also the mike linebacker of the team and what it might imply against my chances of playing. 

And not all of those worried glances belonged to backup players. 

I acted like I was unaware of their complicated gaze, but took a note of it. Sunset college was not exactly the top of the food chain, with a lot of players going professional, but there were enough players that had been drafted even though usually sixth or seventh round — or managed to earn a position as an undrafted free agent — to make them dream about it. 

And even for the ones that didn’t want to go professional, playing as a starter was a point of pride. 

A pride that was suddenly threatened by a newcomer. 

Like I needed more reasons to be careful. 

Soon, we were in the field, doing our best to suppress our trembles. As the sun was yet to rise, the weather was positively freezing. One of the assistant coaches arrived, and ordered us to start running while taking notes. 

A nice morning warmup exercises to contrast the freezing wind. 

Not the most pleasant experience of my life, but unfortunately, it was an inevitable part of football life. Luckily, it wasn’t as challenging as the day before, when my overambitious conditioning coach Juana had pushed me to the limit. Yet, I noticed one interesting thing. Even as we started stretching, the offensive players were yet to arrive. “Where’s the other half of the team?” I asked Thad when he was next to me. 

“Coach Spencer believes early morning practices are best conducted in the gym,” he said with a chuckle, his disdain clear, yet not enough to suppress the hint of jealously. I understood his rationale perfectly, yet I couldn’t help but wonder. No wonder our offense sucked. If they were soft enough to neglect proper practice when it was too cold, they were certainly too soft to put a proper game. 

Yet, before Thad could answer, Coach Bill walked to the field, and all chatter disappeared immediately. A great sign of his authority for a frail man in his late seventies to walk into the field, and command that kind of fear and respect without saying a word. 

“You got five days to get ready,” he started without the slightest preamble. No good morning, no greeting, nothing. Direct to the subject. “This isn’t just another poser team that you’re going to face this time. They are your rivals, and when they come to the field, they are not going to search for an entertaining game. They will come here, in our stadium, to humiliate us.” 

No one said anything, but from the way they were perking up, I could see that the words were affecting them. A nice little proof that Coach Bill was not about just fear, but also respect. 

Coach Bill walked back and forth in front of us for a while before he continued. “In the field, they will try to defeat you, and it’s not going to be an honorable defeat. They will hit, they will trick, and they will try to humiliate you.” He paused for a moment. “And you know you can’t trust the help of anyone that’s not currently on the field,” he added, his tone softening for a moment. 

The chuckles that spread around the team reflected the mood, just another piece of evidence of just how bad was the divide between the two halves of the team. 

“It falls on you to prevent things from turning into a total humiliation. This week, you are going to be a bunch of head-hunters. They like to hit. You’re going to hit harder. They have sadistic tendencies. You’re going to be the devil. I want you to show them they are not the meanest bunch in the field just because they are going through a winning streak. I want you guys to be evil, I want you to be the devil. I want you to stomp them into the field.”

“Yes, coach!” the players exploded, and I joined them, amused by the delivery. I certainly didn’t expect that talk, it belonged to an earlier decade, maybe even an earlier century, when football was an even more violent sport before the rule adjustments interfered. Considering my aims, I couldn’t say that I was exactly unhappy with the reveal. 

“However, I don’t want a bunch of undisciplined rabble there. I want an army, solid, disciplined, every step calculated. I want you to work like a machine, every move calculated, every attack measured. I don’t you guys to waste this early morning practice by making stupid mistakes. Understood?” 

“Yes, coach!” the team exclaimed. 

“Not bad,” he said. “You have five days to get ready. Listen to everything I say, and maybe, just maybe, we can prevent the other half of our team from helping our rival to help us humiliate us!” 

“Yes, coach!” 

“Good,” he said, satisfied. “Let’s start with something simple to warm up. Give me a set of terrible twenties. Starters on the one side, and backups on the other side. As usual, the losers will have four sets of fifty burpees to complete.” 

The grunt of protest that rose from the team was understandable, even after that impressive speech, terrible twenties was not a fun exercise. Not even close. 

Essentially, it required two groups splitting into the two sides of the field, separated by a hundred yards. One side did twenty push-ups while the other side did sit-ups at the same number. Once finished, the sides sprinted to the other side of the field, only to repeat it by reducing the attempts by one, and repeating the attempt, repeating until the count hit zero. Essentially, it was a lot of sprinting, sprinkled with other actions. 

This is another grueling team exercise. Two groups are split up with 100 yards between them. One side does 20 push-ups while the other does 20 sit-ups. Once finished, they sprint across the field to the other side, alternating workouts each time. Once 20 is completed, you’ll drop to 19, 18, and so forth until zero. It’s not a fun countdown.

It was hardly the most optimal exercise for a morning exercise after the rest, yet the choice to start the week with an exercise that was famous for being painful and hellish was a choice. 

The coach was telling us that his words were not empty, and this week was going to be painful. 

Yet, I couldn’t help but smirk as I positioned myself at one end of the field with the rest of the backup players, waiting for the whistle to ring, though from the way people were positioned, I noticed the difference. People were positioned like they were about to sprint first, rather than doing push-ups. Yet, that didn’t matter much. 

Ultimately, whether it was sprint-first or push-up-first, hellish twenties was an exercise of endurance, recovery, and willpower. 

I couldn’t have scripted it better to highlight my best traits. 

I didn’t start strongly, as speed was hardly my best quality. I was fast enough to hang up with the backup players — if barely, I thought as I finished the first sprint a few steps behind the slowest backup linebacker. Even worse, when I barely reached ten in my push-ups, the starters had already completed it. It didn’t seem like a big difference, but ultimately, the difference between the four-five dash and the four-eight dash was unbreakable. 

At least for anyone without a magical system helping to overwrite my genetic potential. 

The coach only waited until the last player finished their rounds, giving us a couple of seconds to rest, before the whistle rang once more, and we dashed forward. 

By the third sprint, I wasn’t the last player among the backups anymore. By the fifth attempt, there were two players behind me, and by the attempt ten, I was leading the linebackers, much to the angry glares I was receiving from the rest of the cadre, who were doing their best to keep up, only to fail. By attempt fifteen, I was even performing better than some of the starters, enough to catch the gaze of more than one coach on the field. 

It wasn’t a simple achievement, even with the traits helping, the burning of my legs was real. I could imagine myself slowing down, even with the dreams of playing football. 

Luckily for me, a mysterious magical threat from ancient ages was the perfect motivating tool.