An hour or so later, I received my reply.
Molly Ward: No problem, it's fine.
A reply like that from a person such as her was telling, and it still didn't click in my head that something was wrong.
Day four was no better, and that day had been free of pranks, free of tempers, free of anything that could have upset her. Even the fact that I was still pondering what I might have done to inspire this type of reaction in her should have been a warning sign.
I lifted weights, had a meeting with the coaching staff, and watched some film. Between those things, I talked with Rick, giving them something they could use later for voiceover work. And Molly stayed placidly behind the camera, face either pointed at her phone or at the back of the camera screen.
In fact, she was doing such a good job of not looking at me that I was now an expert in the top of Molly's head.
Rick cleared his throat, and I looked back at him. There was a knowing glint in his eye that made me want to punch him.
"Does glitter make you feel like part of the team?"
"Yeah, it's really magical that way."
He smiled. "You weren't too happy, though?"
The tip of Molly's pencil slowed as she was writing, and something warm flashed bright inside me. She was still aware; she just didn't want me to realize it.
"Would you like to be held down by seven football players and have them dump glitter all over your sweat-soaked body?'
"No."
I rubbed my jaw. "No, I wasn't happy." I paused and started thinking about what Molly would have asked me if she wasn't doing a such a good job of ignoring me. She'd want me to flip up the lid on why I felt that way, why my anger at that moment was so hot and so high, instead of being able to laugh it off like a lot of my teammates would. "It's probably a control thing," I admitted slowly. "Why I got so mad."
Her pencil stopped moving over the surface of the paper. Her whole frame froze, to the point where I wasn't even sure she was breathing.
"Everything about switching teams reminds you how little is in your control in this league." I propped my hands on my hips. Trying to unearth the right words for what this reminded me of when I was little and used to dig in the dirt around this bush in our yard. I'd find something that felt small, that I could pull up easily, but inevitably, it was part of a larger, more stubborn root. I'd tug and tug, and only a little bit would give way before I needed to stop. "I can't control my teammates, no matter where I am. My coaches. My opponents. None of it."
"What can you control?"
For a second, I stared at the top of Molly's head, her shiny hair, and willed her to look up at me. But she didn't, and the pencil in her hand shook for a second before she started writing again.
"I can control how prepared I am," I said. My eyes moved back to Rick. "I can control how in shape I am. What I eat. How I sleep. What I allow as a distraction.”
“That seems like a pretty good list,” he commented.
I laughed humorlessly. Normally, I’d avoid dwelling on this at all because even that felt like wasted energy. Energy I could harness elsewhere.
It was a trait I inherited from my dad. If it didn’t serve my goal, it was a waste of energy. Keeping the door closed to things I couldn’t control was the best way to protect myself.
Slowly, day by day since I’d gotten here, this ragtag group of people had turned the knob, but I was the one who had to do the rest of the work. Conversations like this were because I was opening that door.
“If I had a normal job, that list would go further. In this league, doing what we do,” I said, “it’s a fraction of the whole picture. There are a million things that are out of my hands.”
“Like your teammates pouring glitter down your shorts.”
“Like that,” I agreed dryly. “Even if it’s meant as a joke, it’s hard to be reminded of the fact that, at the end of the day, the only thing I can control is me.”
"A flawlessly working machine," he said quietly.
I nodded. "Yeah."
"Makes sense."
"That's why I almost never stop working on those things," I told him. "Why going out is less important to me than watching film. Why eating right is more important to me than drinking." I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Perfecting my craft is the best way for me to spend my time."
"You're good at it, so you're doing something right."
The only way I could explain why I shifted the subject, with a camera aimed at my face, was that part of my personality that refused to back down from a challenge. I allowed one side of my mouth to hook up in a quick smile. "Someone smart told me recently that I could be better, though."