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[10:30]
The harsh California sun bore down mercilessly on Wasserman Field, making the artificial turf feel like molten lava underfoot. Coach Baker's boot camp had begun with an intensity none of the freshmen had anticipated. Players, both rookies and seasoned, sprinted between stations set up meticulously around the Bruins training ground with no one daring to walk. Because each station was supervised by assistant coaches barking orders like drill sergeants, they pushed themselves to their limit.
"Hustle! If you are breathing, you can move faster!" Coach Davis a tall white man with a black mop of hair and a bushy beard, bellowed at a group stumbling through agility ladders, their legs heavy from exhaustion.
"Move those feet, ladies! This isn't Pop Warner!" another coach echoed, pacing near a sledge push station where linemen strained, grunting as sweat dripped from their faces.
Jace felt every muscle in his body protesting as he approached the suicide drills. His heart hammered in his chest, lungs burning as he dashed back and forth, touching cones placed agonizingly far apart. The harsh whistle signalling the start and end of each sprint seemed to get louder with every repetition, each blast piercing his ears.
By now, every breath felt like inhaling fire, and every movement was sheer agony. The urge to vomit had appeared but he held back. Drinking last night hadn't been the wisest of Ideas, but Jace continued to push forward as he ignored the sweat that poured freely from his forehead. It trickled down his neck, stinging his eyes, and soaking his blue-and-gold Bruin's training shirt. He desperately sucked air into his burning lungs, noticing teammates hunched over or doubled up, gasping beside him.
"Drive those legs! You better move that damn sledge like your scholarship depends on it!" shouted Coach Lewis, an imposing man whose voice carried like thunder across Wasserman.
Despite the shout not being directed at him, Jace jumped forward, walking to his next station. Jace's next station was the padded-sided-to-side agility drills, set up near the eastern edge of the Wasserman complex, right next to the towering glass facade of the Wasserman Football Centre. He glanced briefly upward, noticing the looming silhouette of the building, its glass windows reflecting the glare of the relentless morning sun, shimmering like an ominous mirage.
"Eyes forward, 22," barked Coach Thompson, a wiry man with steel-blue eyes as he made eye contact with him, instantly snapping Jace's focus back to the drill ahead. "Give me a reason not to hate you son,"
"Yes, coach!" Jace replied sharply, adrenaline surging through his tired limbs.
He lunged into the side-to-side agility pads, rapidly shuffling laterally, hips rotating and knees driving high. The pads felt deceptively heavy, absorbing every ounce of energy he had left. Sweat cascaded down his temples, splashing onto the field like tiny explosions with every quick, lateral step. Each rep felt like dragging weights chained to his ankles. He stumbled slightly, prompting a shout from a nearby assistant coach.
"Balance, freshmen! Balance and speed! You can't play ball if you're stumbling around like a drunk!"
Jace tightened his jaw, fighting through the weariness as he completed the drill. Without complaint, he joined the back of the line and waited for his turn to be tortured. It was hard and they were being put through the wringer, but quitting wasn't an option. Everyone was in the same boat and were simply waiting for those of faint heart to eliminate themselves. Thus, he simply looked out all other thoughts and completed his designated reps until he was ushered to the next station.
Across from him at the next station, a group was heaving heavy medicine balls overhead, dropping them with explosive grunts onto the unforgiving turf. Jace joined the medicine ball line just as Coach Keller, a broad-shouldered man with a shaved head and a voice like gravel, barked out instructions. "Over your heads, explode upwards—full extension! Drop with force and repeat until I say stop. Let's go!"
Without hesitation, Jace snatched up the rough-textured ball, feeling the coarse grip scrape against his sweat-soaked palms. The weight surprised him; it was heavier than he'd anticipated, almost dragging him backwards before he steadied his stance. Drawing in a ragged breath, he heaved the ball overhead with an explosive burst, his arms trembling from exertion. As he slammed it down, the impact jolted painfully through his already aching shoulders and spine.
"Again!" Keller demanded mercilessly, pacing between players with a keen eye. "Push yourself, taking it easy, you are only cheating yourself,"
The relentless rhythm of the drill took over—lift, extend, slam repeat. Lift, extend, slam. His vision blurred with sweat and fatigue, yet Jace forced himself onward, the ball's weight increasing exponentially with each repetition. Around him, the groans and gasps of his teammates resonated, merging into a symphony of collective agony.
"Don't slow down!" Keller barked, locking onto a sophomore beside Jace who had faltered, dropping his ball weakly onto the turf. "That ball better crack the damn turf! Pick it up! Move!"
Hearing that, Jace willed himself to throw the ball harder. His muscles burned fiercely, a fire igniting in his shoulders and thighs as exhaustion fought to consume him. At some point, he was moving on autopilot, completely drowning out the coach's words as his movements continued. "Ten seconds! Finish strong!" Keller's voice roared above their panting breaths.
~~~
[12:00]
By noon, Jace felt like he'd been hit by a freight train. His legs trembled slightly as he exited Wasserman Field alongside the sluggish herd of battered players, all making their way to the dining halls or the nearest cafe to replenish their drained bodies. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm, wincing as even that small movement sent fresh jolts of pain through his aching muscles.
"You good, bro?" a familiar voice asked from behind. Jace turned slowly to find Jason Street—J. Street, jogging up, breathing just as heavily, but somehow managing his usual confident grin. Jace hadn't seen him clearly during the morning drills, only now noticing the stark white nose guard strapped tightly over his friend's nose bridge.
"Better than your face," Jace joked weakly, pointing to Street's protective gear. "The hell happened?"
Street chuckled, shaking his head dismissively. "Let's just say summer got a lil' heated, dawg. Nothin' serious."
Jace raised an eyebrow but chose not to press further. "Glad to see you out here, though. Didn't know you were joining UC though you said something about Louisiana."
"Didn't work out, got a partial off from here and chose to use it," Street admitted, his grin faltering momentarily before rebounding with renewed determination. "Only means I gotta hustle twice as hard to stay. You already know how it goes."
"Yeah," Jace nodded, looking over his friend who gave him a different feel after not seeing him for more than a month. "Coach Baker ain't messing around though, man was mean mugging us throughout the drills."
"Facts," Street agreed, rubbing the back of his neck as he winced from the lingering soreness. "Swear he was tryin' to kill us today."
They exchanged a weary laugh as they passed the gleaming exterior of the Wasserman Football Centre, where towering glass windows reflected the scorching midday sun. The heat shimmered off the pavement, distorting the scene like a desert mirage. Jace felt his stomach twist again—this time, thankfully, out of hunger rather than nausea.
"You hitting Central?" Street asked, referring to the popular campus cafe a short walk away. "I'm dying for anything cold."
"Yeah," Jace replied instantly. "I need food before I pass out, shouldn't have skipped breakfast."
They reached Central ten minutes later, stepping into the air-conditioned sanctuary. The sudden rush of cool air sent a shiver down Jace's sweat-drenched back. The cafe was quiet compared to what the atmosphere usually is; the semester hadn't officially started yet, and the few occupied tables were filled mostly with athletes and weary coaching staff sharing hushed conversations about preseason.
Grabbing protein shakes, sandwiches, and ice water, Jace and Street found a small table by a window overlooking Bruin Walk, where a few stragglers shuffled past in lethargic silence. As they began eating, the door chimed softly, and Isaiah entered, looking like he'd barely survived a warzone. He noticed them immediately, collapsing into an empty chair without a word.
"You look like hell," Jace greeted dryly. Isaiah groaned dramatically. "Feel even worse. Thought I was fit till Baker showed up."
Street laughed softly, pointing to his nose guard. "Same here, man. Dude had me questioning my whole existence."
Isaiah squinted at him, finally noticing Street's injury. "Damn, what happened to your face?"
"Everyone askin' me that today," Street sighed, clearly exhausted by the repeated question. "It ain't important."
"Probably ran into a door or something, anyways, Isaiah, this is my boy Jason from Crenshaw," Jace interjected introducing the two.
"Yo what's good, you think the afternoon season is gonna be like that?" Street said as he fist-bumped Isaiah.
"Worse," Isaiah mumbled, taking a long sip from his iced water before continuing. "Heard some seniors say something about the coaches being on a warpath."
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To Be Continued...