THE SECOND PRACTICE of the day is full pads.

"It may be hot here but just wait until White Sands," Lane says after helping me adjust my pads. It's nice that he's finally decided I'm worthy of his attention. Small steps, I assure myself. Afternoon practice is training camp torture and no one is exempt, not even kickers. Coach Morely has me and Lane run four slow laps around the field. He doesn't want us twisting an ankle by doing sprints with the other players.

When our mile is complete, we head onto the field and join special teams. I haven't seen Aiden since lunch, and I do my best not to think about him. The coach lines us up for additional warmups and after that the true practice begins. Although we're wearing pads, these are no-contact drills with me kicking extra points and field goals with a mock defense running at me. I miss my first two attempts to get the ball through the goalposts because of nerves. The sun beating down doesn't help nor do grumbles from players. Lane walks over and bumps my shoulder pad with his. "Come on, Givens, I know you got better than this or you wouldn't be here. If it helps, picture them naked."

Did he really just say that? I double check his expression. His twinkling eyes let me know he did say it. Naked, oh boy. My brain rushes to Aiden. If my face wasn't red from the heat before, it is now. The whistle blows and Lane sets up for the hike. Once the center snaps, Lane catches and places the ball for me. I run forward and just the feel of the ball meeting the side of my foot tells me it's golden. The football sails through the goalposts dead-center.

I breathe a sigh of relief as players run past me and line up again. Sounds on the field resonate deep. The rattle of pads, cussing, grunts, and groans are part of what I love. It's the sound of playing football for a professional team.

"Let's see if we can do that again, ladies," Coach Morely yells. He blows his whistle and we do it again. He runs us through the same drills so many times my head spins from the repetition. When we finally get a break, I jog to the sidelines for water.

As I approach the table filled with plastic water bottles, the players are jostling for drinks and someone bumps me on my right side, causing me to misstep. Another player bumps me on the left and I stumble and land on one knee. I pop up and no one looks at me. This wasn't accidental, and it's nothing I haven't been through before. I guess I expected more from grown men than I did from college boys. The incident pisses me off, but I keep my mouth shut.

Coach Morely walks over at the five-minute mark. "Kickers take a lap and work on some individual kicking drills. The remainder of the team is running wind sprints until you puke." Teammates groan. Coach continues, "When it's a no-contact practice that means no contact. It doesn't matter if you're on the field or waiting for a drink." More grumbles accompany his speech.

Lane and I start our lap. I do my own bitching once we're far enough away not to be overheard. "They're running wind sprints because of me."

He doesn't bother looking in my direction. "No, they're running because they didn't follow the rules. Something I learned years ago-during practice one of the coaches is always watching. Every guy running those sprints knows what just happened and why they're running. That's on them."

"They'll only hate me more." I look over at Lane.

His lips quirk. "That might be impossible."

I laugh. He's right, it might be.

"Come on," Lane says after we finish the lap. "Let's put some of your kicking physics into punting and see if you're onto something or full of shit." We head to the fifty yard line and set up. The press, who have been absent since this morning's practice, have returned. I do my best to ignore them as I line up six footballs. Facing Lane, I'm ready to toss him one of the balls. "Remember, I don't practice punting, so this may not work."

"You can't be backing down now or I'll call foul. Toss me the damned ball."

Punting dynamics is much different than field goals and extra point kicks. First: A center with long snapping abilities hikes the ball to the kicker during a punt. I'm tossing instead because my long snapping skills suck. Second: The punter catches the ball and leads it to his foot to make the kick. A punter uses the top of his foot to kick; whereas, I use the side of my foot. It's a different mindset and why there's usually a separate kicker and punter.

We're only interested in Lane's hang-time right now. Every kicker should know something about physics if they want to improve their game. Lane has the rudiments, he just needs to use it more in his favor.

He kicks the first ball. "Right there," I call when the ball hangs before descending. "Kick it farther this time and let's see what we get."

We work on Lane's punting. We don't increase it by much, but it's fun to analyze the mathematical trajectory of the football. I glance over at special teams and they're still running wind sprints. I see a player run to the sideline and puke. Guilt. It eats at me. I need to focus on me and my abilities. Proving one's self never happens overnight.

"Community college football isn't like this," I tell Lane in order to bring my thoughts around to what we're doing. "Our team never had the proper number of players, so we learned a little of everything. I'll lose my skills if we continue being separated like this."

"Skills, huh?" I receive a partial grin from Lane. "You're not talking tackling and hitting are you?"

I scan the special teams' players again. These guys are twice the size as my former teammates. "I can hit," I say in a weaker voice than I meant to.

"Did you know I started college ball as a wide receiver?"

I hadn't read that when I looked up his history. "Then why are you a punter?" I ask.

Lane removes his helmet and wipes sweat from his eyes. "The short reason is I didn't have what it took to play on the line. I did well in high school, but college was a little more than I could take. My coach suggested I try kicking and it gave me what I needed to make it as a professional player." He looks over at our teammates. "What it really comes down to is I didn't like being hit." He glances back at me when he says the last part.

I took hits on the college team. This isn't college, though. Just a short while ago, two teammates bumped me and I went to a knee. I can make all the excuses I want and the biggest being I wasn't ready. They're excuses. "Is this your way of saying I'm gonna keep getting hit by my own teammates?"

He nods. "Yeah, until you stick up for yourself or run away in defeat."

I don't want or need this crap. I just want to play. "What do you suggest?"

Lane turns and looks directly at me. "Learn to hit back."