“WOO! Oh yeah little man! How you like that, bitch!?” one of the three-hundred pound linemen yelled into Jackson’s facemask after a particularly nasty collision. Jackson swore the guy had groped him before standing up, but brushed the thought out of his mind. Hands and fingers sometimes wandered where they were not supposed to in the heat of the moment. He just stumbled back to his feet wordlessly and got back into formation.

Jackson limped forward towards the locker room, glad that the first practice was over. Coach Briley walked next to him and put a strong hand on his helmet, shaking it affectionately.

“Don’t worry, kid,” the coach said with a soft smile. The man was close enough that Jackson could smell his cologne, and the rugged scent calmed his nerves a little. He exhaled, sighing slowly.

“These guys go hard on hotshot freshmen to make you a little more humble. Brings you down to earth, eh?” He laughed and slapped Jackson on the back, hard.

Jackson stumbled forward a little. “Thanks, coach.” He felt slightly better, but not much. At least next practice might not be so bad.