Richardson University, Richardson, Ranoria
-Practice Field
"I really wanted that one, Ice." Jackson III groaned, leaning back from his sitting position on the field, the rubber pellets of the turf be damned. They would stick to his back later, but he was exhausted. The workouts after a loss were brutal, and that hadn't changed after the NSCF season. It was a testament to the improved level of competition that they could end up icing their wounds at 11-2, where the Governors had not been able to find a worthy opponent until the playoffs in their domestic season. The loss to Loyola-Istria had been a hard fought one, and really, a lot of players had gone through a tough game.
"Shit, we all did." 'Ice' Chineze wiped his face, which really only served to spread the slop of sweat around, his hands were not much cleaner in that department, and wiping them on his soaked shorts? Yeah, right. He had not had the game he had imagined against the Banijans, and as much as he tried to block out the media, it hurt to see reporters referencing that, when he had been needed to pass the ball and come back in a game, he had come up short. After all, Deondre Rhine had thrown for over four thousand yards while he was obviously the primary focus of the offense. Meanwhile, either of Richardson's two lead backs could have taken a great deal of pressure off of any quarterback's shoulders, and they did. He had smiled at one article on draft prospects referencing the Ranorian National Championship, where he'd helped lead his team to victory in a dramatic fourth quarter comeback. But the loss to Istria, and being the first Richardson quarterback to lose to them at home, well, the first man to try out a guillotine couldn't have enjoyed it, either.
Jackson pulled his knees to his chest, rolled them over his head, and then leapt to his feet. "Whelp, ready to put in the extra work?"
Ifeatu didn't even move, "Of course, why break routine now?"
"Right, leave the freshman out of it, then?" Baraka Hali was marching back to the practice field, pulling his gloves tight to his fingertips...using his teeth, no less. "My mama just watched me for the first time this season. I had three damn catches. And. I. Lost. She just made a trip all the way out from Banija, to watch that game. Now look, if you're down to put in extra work, I'm your guy. Call Calvin and the others, but I need to get better. I saw what Atkinson did in his few years, put the damn offense on his back. I'm not losing to Istria, Northern, or any Banijan team ever again, so let's get started."
The kid's eyes were narrow, body tense. He was obviously fuming from his inability to take over the game and win it for his team, to show his family he had made the right decision.
"Yo," Vice Jackson pointed across the field, where massive bookend tackles Howitzer Peters and Thrane Valentine were working one on ones with defensive line standout Spencer Crutchfield, "The longer ya'll keep jabbering, the harder it's going to be for 'extra' to turn into 'normal.'" As they spoke, defensive end Malik Sherman marched. Out of all of them, the sophomore looked the most physically imposing. Clocking in at a conservative 6'56 and 275 pounds, he was shredded, and had been 'randomly' administered drug tests a good four times in the last six months. Veins bulging from his arms, an emerging eight pack, or an obvious six, take your pick. Or maybe it was those massive hands, carrying a pair of forty five pound plates in each to throw onto the sled that was already loaded with...well, Chineze wasn't sure.
He had headphones in, but looked over to the quarterback and his backfield partner, speaking up as he dropped more plates on, "Oi, you two gonna be here for awhile?" Normally, a defensive end who had finished the season with 12.5 sacks, and 15 tackles for a loss, would probably be resting on his laurels, but Chineze could tell that this was not the case, and gave him a thumbs up. "Good, got f***ing burnt on the read option. I'm done losing. Next year, I swear to god," he put his headphones back in, almost talking to himself now, "I'm not losing another game."
And he wasn't the only one. Bookend tackles Thrane Valentine and Howitzer Peters were working one on one's, rotating against defensive tackle standout Spencer Crutchfield, who, with the exertion of switching between two guys, was breathing very heavily.
Chineze rolled his eyes. This was turning into a full team practice at this point, but he wouldn't complain. This team was not used to losing ballgames, and two in one regular season? Well, that was just unacceptable. They were overreacting, perhaps, but it was impossible for competitors, workers, players of their caliber to accept defeat.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Cold Hill University, Cold Hill, Ranoria
Athletic Dorms
A seventh empty bottle hit his nightstand. This one, however, with Rhine’s slightly thrown off balance, fell off the edge and rolled for a few feet. Rhine couldn’t go to any larger gatherings without drawing the ire of his head coach, but he had gone to high school with most of these guys, four people in the room, and they were celebrating the 12-1 finish that he had helped to write, with 36 passing touchdowns, an average, one of his friends had pointed out, of almost three per game, and nearly 4,200 yards.
“Hey bro, I brought you something,” one of his friends pulled something of a bag, something that made everyone go quiet, immediately. A needle. “This is that stuff you took before your senior year. But these guys are only going to test once, before the first playoff game. And you know that that means?”
Rhine knew exactly what it meant. He’d have nearly two weeks for the drugs to take effect. A mix of tren, androgen, testosterone, and winstrol. With all of them, he knew he’d be noticeably stronger even in that time frame. “Bill, what the hell?” But he took it.
Deondre Rhine looked at the needle, twirling it dangerously in his hands, it was already loaded. He knew what it could do. Sure, one week might not have been a huge increase in his output...but two? After all, he'd just earned the number one seed in the NCSF playoffs, he'd have a bye more than likely. And he'd used before, but he'd been stupid. He'd gotten caught, and it would not happen again. He had already won one title, and a second seemed to be just within his fingertips.
No.
Rhine just slid the needle into his backpack, “No, this shits going down the garbage chute. But not from my dorm. I don’t want anyone sitting suspicious.”
He was good enough to win this without it. After all, 12-1 was the best record in this league, regardless, so they were statistically the best team in the world, the universe, really. And he'd thrown 36 touchdowns to lead them to that success. He wasn't about to throw all of that away on a gamble.
Right?
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