I wake up to the sound of the alarm ringing from my phone.

          It's the following day of our Alberta road trip, after being sent straight to bed by Coach Anton for yet another pathetic performance last night. The sheets of the hotel bed wrap around my warm body, my eyes adapting to the light shining in through the hotel bedroom. Ugh...please just let me lay here all day. I'm so tired. And to make matters even worse, I feel my stomach gurgling for breakfast. We've got practice again this morning, and just the thought of getting out of bed pains my soul.

          Regardless, I push myself through the discomfort, letting out a lethargic yawn. I see that Tony's bed is empty, and he's already gotten up. Again, just like last night when we didn't talk, in the past, Tony would always wait for me to wake up with him. Naturally, he's more of a morning person than me, but this time he didn't wait to get breakfast together. Maybe he was trying to be nice and let me sleep in for an extra twenty minutes. Again, I don't feel that deep, passionate friendship between us these days.

          After brushing my teeth and doing my hair, I make my way down to the breakfast room, where the boys are eating. Just like I figured, there is Tony, sitting down and eating without inviting me. It also stings when he doesn't even look at me passing by, myself attempting to acknowledge his presence. The team is rather quiet again. Some of the boys are still finding ways to laugh and crack jokes, but not like last year, where we'd be in hysterical laughter.

          Okay...here comes the hard part. No matter what I do, no matter how bad I want more, I'm only going for one helping of breakfast—that's it. I don't fucking care if I'm craving for seconds, it's not happening. After having Coach Anton cut me from the starting lineup last night, especially through text and not even to my face, I have to resist this desire to eat more and more. Speaking of Coach Anton, I look over and catch him glaring at me with a distasteful look, before his eyes wander back to having a conversation with T-roy and Melvin Direton. I can really feel the negative energy beginning to fester between us. Like I mentioned before, your relationship with your coach plays a high factor when it comes to your performance on the court, and your overall enjoyment for the sport in general. 

          Nonetheless, taking a deep breath internally, and reminding myself to get it together, I start piling my paper plate with breakfast. I add some hashbrowns and scrambled eggs, along with a few pieces of bacon—a much smaller portion than my stomach is wishing for—but this is how things have to be. I take a few packages of ketchup and pour myself a glass of fresh orange juice. Rather than sitting with Tony as usual, I have a seat down beside Kevin. He's one of the few teammates who still trusts me, so we eat together alone, talking and discussing different topics.

          "Okay, boys," Coach Anton says after we finish our meals. "We'll be meeting over at the practice gym in twenty minutes."

          The Alberta University has two gyms—one where they play their games—and another where they hold their practices.

          "So get your shit and let's go," he says in an irritated tone.

          After disposing of my condiments and paper cutlery, we all make our back up to the second floor of the hotel. When Tony and I are in the room again together, we don't speak. There's a part of me wishing to ask why he's being closed off, considering I'm the reason he got on the team. Regardless of the effort I'm putting in, let's not forget it was me who convinced Meldrum to let him join last season. Regardless, we don't talk as he exits the room, making me feel even worse about myself than I already am.

          On the way back down from the second floor, as the team is all walking out, I feel the urge to use the bathroom. Using the main restroom from the lobby, I go in and handle my business. But right then as I'm washing my hands, a deep craving for more food washes over me like an addict. I'm just not satisfied with the amount of breakfast I got. Oh, God. Come on, Declan. It's not worth it. I have to keep myself in line. I have to prove to Coach Anton that I'm worthy of being back in the starting lineup. I'm straight-up embarrassed to be coming off the bench, as I was once ranked third amongst the very best players in the entire country.

          But no matter how hard I resist, my stomach is telling me differently, and that I can handle just a couple of extra waffles. I still have fifteen minutes until practice, and the training gym is only a five-minute walk from the hotel. So, me being the fat ass I am, not being able to control my impulses, I make sure all my teammates are out of the building, before throwing some batter into the waffle-making machines. God..why am I risking it? Is this really all worth it?

          Nonetheless, a few minutes later, I flip the waffles onto another paper plate. I take the can of provided whipped cream and spray it over the waffles, my heart beating with excitement. I then pour an excessive amount of maple syrup, ready to quickly eat so I have enough time to make it to practice. I sit down and start eating, loving the whipped cream and sugary maple syrup combined over the crunchy, warm waffle. I eat in paranoia, praying that none of my teammates, especially Coach Anton, see me here consuming more food all by myself, because that would be a terrible look with the tremendous weight I've gained.

          After finishing, already feeling guilty, I start making my way to the practice gym. I check my phone and see I'll be right on time. Before I go, I grab myself a cinnamon bun for the road, and stuff it into the depths of my training bag. Perfect...that wasn't so bad after all. I was worried I'd be in deep shit for a second there.

          But just as I'm about to enter the practice facility, I realize that I left my room card back in the lobby bathroom, knowing that we'll be charged extra if not returned on check-out day. Panicking that I'll now be late and under the wrath of Coach Anton, I have no choice but to run back, grab the key, and make my way back to the facility once again—gaining an additional ten minutes, making me officially late for practice.

          As I walk into the gym with a pit of anxiety, the boys are already warming up and doing their stretches. I feel my face go bright red as everyone's attention moves to me, upon the fact I'm running late for practice when I'm supposed to be the leader.

          "What's going on, Rashard?" Coach Anton asks, looking at me with another evil glare. "Why are you late for practice? Everybody else seemed to make it on time but you."

          I feel my cheeks go even redder. This is a bad, bad look, especially after the text he sent me last night. I look over at my teammates and see them with expressions of lost trust written across their faces, especially Tony at the end of the warmup line.

          "I, uh...I—I—" The words don't come out.

          "I don't care what your excuse is," he continues, enraged. "Just get your shoes on and hurry up."

          With that, I get down on one knee and start tying up the laces to my Kobe's. It's extremely awkward. The boys are continuously warming up as I just crouch there, that same silence floating among us.

          "You wanna take any longer?" Coach Anton sarcastically asks, me awkwardly finishing the final knot to my shoes.

          "Sorry," I mumble, joining with the other boys.

          After shaking his head in disappointment again, he speaks to the group, "Alright. Like I said last night after our loss, it's now or never boys. There's only so much I can do, but you guys gotta want it. Anyway, let's start off by doing the three-man weave."

          Lining up to execute the drill, we get into a rhythm, following our passes and laying the ball in. After making ten in a row, we transition into our defensive approach, by doing side shuffles and one-on-one drills to improve our fundamentals. But even with the basics that we seemed to master last year, the team just doesn't have that chemistry that led to success in the past. And I'm already getting tired again, and practice has just started.

          "You guys gotta be hungry for it!" Coach Anton shouts, clearly annoyed with the effort we're putting in. "I need to see some fire! I need to hear some communication!"

          After we complete the drill, we move into ball-handling exercises. Coach Anton has us each grab two balls per person, doing pound dribbles to strengthen our cores. This was actually one of my favourite drills in the past. I would push myself so hard, giving it everything I had. But right now my arms feel weak, like they're about to dislocate from my shoulder sockets. Despite us trying to keep up, Coach Anton is not impressed. Yet only halfway into practice, he's clearly seen enough.

          "Stop...stop...stop," he says, blowing the whistle with anger. "You guys don't wanna work hard? Fine...we'll run the rest of practice. Everybody on the baseline."

          And with that, our heads hanging in shame, the entire fun of the sport being taken away, we line up and get ready for our punishment.

          "You guys have thirty seconds to run a set. I don't care if we stay here until midnight, we aren't leaving this gym until each one of you crosses that line before that. Now go!"

          We start sprinting back and forth. Coach Anton has his phone in hand, recording the time.

          "Nope," he says as we cross the line late, shaking his head like always. "You're two seconds late. Do it again."

          We retrace our steps, over and over again, every time missing the goal by only a second or two. It's so degrading. It's like Coach Anton enjoys watching us suffer, as in between sets we're all desperately gasping for air. I, in particular, can barely even stand up. I keep squatting down and placing my hands behind my head, doing everything possible to get more oxygen. I'm so fucking tired, and that extra waffle and whipped hasn't helped. I feel like I'm literally about to pass out. It just seems like every day I'm enjoying basketball less and less, and enjoying eating food more and more.

          Eventually, after what seems like a death sentence, somehow, someway, Coach Anton takes pity on us and, granting us a five-minute water break. My entire body is stiff as a plank, and my lungs feel like I've been smoking cigarettes all my life. 

          But even after our break, Coach Anton wants to run a quick ten-minute scrimmage. Dying internally, desperately wishing this was over, we meet at the centre line to divide the teams. To make matters even worse, my heart drops as he explains we're going shirts vs skins. With no remorse or hesitation, he calls for me on the skins team. You know what...I think he's doing this on purpose to humiliate me, knowing how insecure I'm becoming of my body.

          "Come on, Rashard," he mocks when seeing me hesitant to take off my practice jersey. "Just ten more minutes and you can go lay back down."

          Fuck off, I'm tempted to say, but bite my tongue, knowing that will push me even further into this abyss I'm creating for myself. Realizing I have no choice, I reluctantly slide my top off, exposing the beginning of man boobs and flabby arms and hanging belly. My teammates look shocked, and as I predicted, it's a very humiliating experience. Trying my hardest to push away the shame, Coach Anton does the jump ball and the scrimmage begins. I jog up and down the court, the flab bouncing with every embarrassing stride. I bet Coach Anton is loving every second of this...dirty bastard.

          As always now, our execution is awful. Both teams' defense is poor, and rather than being aggressive and getting into the paint, we're settling for long, contested jump shots, and none of them are falling. Possibly due to Coach Anton running us until we practically dropped dead, our performance is just embarrassing. Not just for the team, but especially for me—my chubby, heavy body hauling itself up and down the court. Gosh...why can't this practice just end already.

          After what seems like an eternity—certainly longer than Coach Anton's promise of ten minutes—he finally calls off the practice. He's so disappointed he doesn't even give a usual post-practice speech. Instead, he tells us to meet back at the hotel and get ready for our game tomorrow. Sighing and exhausted, we start making our way back to the hotel, feeling not only deflated, but belittled too by Coach Anton's rage. I can only imagine what he'll be like if we lose again tomorrow.

          The only thing making me happy is the cinnamon bun I snuck into my bag earlier at team breakfast.