Of course, that gentle hopes ultimately disintegrated under the weight of reality, forcing me to switch back to chess from football.

The reason. I realized that no matter how many attackers I had tackled, no matter how many passes I had intercepted and quarterbacks I sacked, I barely got any attention from the college scouts, while my worse playing teammates received much more attention.

A disparity that grew even more as their growth spurt overshadowed mine. Not a big gap, but that that level, running forty yards in four-six rather than four-eight, or benching two-twenty instead of one-ninety was a huge gap.

So much that, my tactics and mental abilities were simply ignored.

I didn't accept that at first, of course.

I had assumed that I could overcome that. I was the star new player in my first year, and while I started to lose that status at the beginning of the second year, where my peers started to eclipse me physically, I hoped that I could overcome it.

But teammates who could never play as well started to get longer and longer meetings with the scouts while I went ignored, I learned a painful lesson. I realized that no scout would risk his reputation for a physically inferior player.

It was unfair, of course. But unfairness wasn't something I needed any reminder about. So, rather than risking my last years hoping to find an open-minded scout that would take a chance on me, I decided to switch back to chess early enough to get a partial scholarship.

A strategy that worked, allowing me to attend college due to an unholy combination of student depths, scholarship, and part-time work.

Still, as I watched the defense team slowly leave the locker room and take the field, it was hard to claim I wasn't feeling bitter.

After all, sports was the one persistent hope for every inner-city kid, hoping sports would balance out their unlucky hand in the beginning. Learning that, no matter how much I worked my physical capabilities wouldn't allow me to take the next step was a bitter realization.

Bitter enough that, if I wasn't trying to trick my mysterious guide, I doubted that I would have taken a step into the field.

I was bitter, but not bitter enough to prefer angering a thousands-of-years-old mysterious magical being over trying to join the practice squad. The extra scholarship was a nice bonus.

Luckily, the defense team left the locker room and took the field, pulling me out of the depressive place my thoughts had sunk into. I prepared myself to mock the loose discipline of the defense team…

Only to be surprised completely.

Unlike the offense, who looked like a bunch of bandits despite their explosive physical traits, they looked like a well-oiled army, moving between drills with mechanical precision. And whenever they failed, it earned a number of burning curses from an old man standing in the middle of them.

The defensive coach, no doubt. Exactly my kind of an old goat as well, if the way the defense team had been working was any indicator.

Meanwhile, a younger coach — in coaching standards, probably in his earlier thirties — was walking among the offense team, joking and laughing among them. Probably the assistant coach for the offense or something, I decided. Whomever he was, however, he was clearly a failure.

Then, another man walked toward us, with a tag on his chest marking him as the physical trainer, the guy responsible for the general strength and speed improvements of the team.

A good idea to give the first test for the practice team candidates, to make sure we wouldn't keel over after a little three-mile run before passing us to the real coaches.

And just like that, an hour passed, the people around me cursing and crying as we run for another torturous dash training, making it even harder for themselves.

I smiled despite the pain. I always liked pushing myself physically, and despite my unwillingness to relive the pain of rejection, the physical part of the training was an old friend.

Normally, this part of the training would have barely taken half an hour, but we already completed an hour. Clearly, they were extending to peel out the weaker links.

Survival of the fittest at its best.

And it was a smart decision. More than one candidate left the field with grumbles, cursing that it was unfair to work that hard just for a ten percent extra scholarship for their school fees. In the end, there were little more than thirty people left for the next stage.

"Enough, take five," called the physical trainer when we almost reached one and half hours, and left us on the field.

"Man, what a hardass," murmured the guy next to me, but I just ignored him, waiting for the practice coach team to arrive.

We didn't wait five minutes but fifteen, and at first, I assumed that it was another test, before I realized who the coach was walking toward us.

It was the same coach that had been walking among the offense players, chatting with them like they were friends rather than trying to discipline them, and I realized that maybe it wasn't another test.

Maybe it meant we were about to deal with a bad coach.

I examined the coach as he walked forward. A man in his early thirties, wearing clothes clearly too expensive to be bought by the salary of an assistant coach. Considering his earlier display with the offense team, despite their lax discipline, it didn't help my first impression.

I kept my mouth shut, of course. Not even he started speaking. No need to annoy myself for the sake of a clearly incompetent assistant coach.

"I'm Coach Spencer, the Head Coach of Sunset Pirates," he said with an abrasive tone.

Just like that, I understood why the team was currently building a legendary loss streak. Coach Spencer's high-class accent, clear lack of experience, his expensive clothes, and even more expensive watch all shouted one of two possibilities.

Nepotism, or bribery.

Or maybe a combination of both, I thought, but before I continue with that line of thought, he spoke again. "Since the weaklings are gone, we can start the assessment," he said dismissively, like we weren't worth his time.

Yet, he was still insistent on assessing us as the Head Coach rather than just delegating it to the other coaches. It was horrible news, though that went a long way to explain why they were suddenly looking for new practice squad members in the middle of the playing season.

Some of the other students came to the same decision as me, but lacked the foresight to suppress their reaction. "Is there something funny!" Coach Spencer exploded immediately, looking at the nearest one responsible for the snicker.

"N-nothing," the boy managed to stammer.

"Do you think I'm the janitor, boy? Call me coach," he shouted, quick to lash out.

Excellent, I thought with a sigh, though making sure that particular expression wasn't caught by our dear coach.

It was a wonder how people made that mistake, but there was a difference between being tough and being a bitchy asshole who thought who shouted loudest meant toughness. And the petulance in his tone firmly put him in the second category.

An ugly, dangerous combination with the watch on his wrist, more expensive than a car. And I wasn't just talking about my own junk car, but an actual, expensive sports car.

Perfect, I thought with a subtle shake of my head, letting my shoulders loosen just a touch more, not wanting to get the attention of the entitled asshole coach. Ultimately, he was the Head Coach, which meant he would spend not much with the practice squad after flexing a bit.

I just needed to keep my head down for a while.