The Newest Bobcat in the Goal: A Spotlight on Grant Rollins
Born and raised in Illinois, it’s hardly surprising that his return is drawing attention even before the season officially begins.
Published 08/31/2019, Chicago Tribune—Sports
By: Ian Rowe
It’s a sunny August day in Chicago, only a few short weeks from the opening of the Exy season, and Grant Rollins has obviously just come from practice. His jersey is emblazoned with Rollins on the back, but he still spells it out conscientiously for the women behind the counter as he orders his drink—a large black coffee with two extra espresso shots.
That extra caffeinated kick makes sense. These past few years, Rollins has surprised everyone by becoming one to watch on the court. He’s stoic and steady as he sits at the table, but in the goal, Rollins is a powerhouse with seemingly endless energy. Blessed with fast reflexes any goalie should envy and the knowledge of Exy to match, it isn’t any surprise the Bobcats were vying for Rollins in June.
But Rollins’ career didn’t begin here. In recent memory, Rollins led his former team—the Palmetto State Foxes, based in South Carolina—to qualify for back-to-back Class I Championships. Before that, he singlehandedly reinstated and captained the high school Exy team in Freeport, IL, only a few short hours from where he sits now. You can trace his highlights back over a decade, and yet it seems the best is still to come.
Rollins gracefully refuses the flattery though. “I’ve still got a lot to prove,” he says. “I’m only 24. This will be my first season as a pro player. I’ve got a long way to go and plenty to learn from the Bobcats.”
Maybe Rollins has been humbled by his former team. To hear some people tell it, Rollins barely made recruitment during his Class I run, and he made waves for all the wrong reasons his freshman year of college. As for the Foxes themselves? Despite their recent successes, they don’t carry the same illustrious reputation that Rollins himself does now. The numbers tell that story all on their own. Prior to Rollins’ tenure as captain, the Foxes hadn’t seen the Championships since Dan Wilds was captain.
That seems like it should be ancient history for Rollins now, especially when faced with his bright future, but to this day Rollins still refuses to speak ill of his old teammates. “The Foxes are a great team,” Rollins says, with what seems to be genuine loyalty. “I’ll always owe Coach Wymack for giving me a chance. I may not wear orange anymore, but I’ll be cheering them on from Chicago.”
The Bobcats’ red and white seems to suit him just fine too though. Rollins grew up near here, after all, and it seems like a kind of symmetry that he’s back now. That hometown connection has certainly earned him more buzz than some of the other new recruits for the Bobcats this year. Whether it was a strategic move or a nostalgic one, it’s done wonders for his burgeoning pro career.
“Of course, I used to watch every Bobcats game,” he admits, with perfectly timed chagrin. It’s clear Rollins’ has given his fair share of interviews, but it’s impossible to hold that against him. “I even had a Bobcats jersey as a kid. I wish I’d kept it.”
When asked to elaborate on his childhood, Rollins politely declines. He’s been spotted with his mother in nearby Freeport though, graciously signing autographs despite the somewhat complicated story of Exy there. Perhaps, like much of Rollins’ public history prior to adulthood, it’s better left unsaid.
It’s clear that Rollins is a local hero now, and it seems likely that his reputation will soon spread beyond his home state. After all, it’s only his first year with the Bobcats, and multiple sources have confirmed that Rollins can plan on plenty of time in the goal.
“We were lucky to find Rollins,” Bobcats’ Coach Clarissa Fowler said earlier this month, when Exy Digest asked her to provide insights on her new recruits for the 2019-2020 season. “He’s professional, eager to learn, and he puts the hours in. We’re going to have a great season.”
Time will tell if that’s true, but the Bobcats are set play their opening match against the Milwaukee Rams on September 4th. The Bobcats’ last few seasons have ended in disappointment, but if there’s one thing Rollins clearly knows after his time with the Foxes, it’s keeping a dream alive.
Rollins, for his part, echoes the same optimism as his new coach regardless. “The Bobcats are extremely talented and I’m fortunate to be here. I’m excited to see how far we go.”
Location: Dubois, WY
Date: December 23rd
Trigger warnings: murder/death, bad relationships with your father, anxiety, one line that can be interpreted as self harm, mentions of guns, smoking, alcohol, and food
There’s a journalist in Dubois.
It’s late on December 23rd, and it feels like the entire town is at the local shop, looking for the last few essentials before Christmas. It’s easy for Grayson to spot the one stranger in the store. Easier still when that stranger is standing by the meats and sending surreptitious glances over at Grayson and his father. In the summer, when the tourists flood the town, she might’ve stood a chance at blending in. In December though, when the town is barren and every face is painfully familiar, this move isn’t as subtle as the woman no doubt thinks it is. Grayson grips the handle of his basket tighter, and avoids her gaze.
They've only just stepped onto the parking lot when the journalist strikes. Grayson is used to the press who meet them at the Court—he wouldn’t exactly call them respectful, but they’re pretending to be, if nothing else. This woman doesn’t even bother with that charade. She gets her camera out immediately, talking a mile a minute, and Grayson realizes paparazzi is a better word than journalist.
He also realizes she’s talking to his father, not to him, and the cold shock of that silences him. “Mr. Sharpe, your son’s team recently made headlines as they qualified for the Championships, but I’d still like to talk about his interview last month. We know what he’s got to say on your family’s tragedy, but no one’s managed to get your side of things. Why is that?”
For once, the elder Sharpe man speaks up before his son has a chance. “I’m a private man.” His tone is either frustrated or disdainful, but it’s nothing good. “My son is the celebrity here. He’s the one who wanted to answer questions about this—so you can talk to him, not me.” Grayson tells himself his father’s contempt is for the woman with the camera, but he’s not sure, especially not when his dad speeds up to leave them both behind.
“No comment,” Grayson says immediately, utterly deadpan. Hollow. He races to catch up to his father. Behind him, some of the townsfolk have left the store to cluster around the entrance, drawn in by the promise of scandal. He can feel the heavy weight of their judgmental gazes on the back of his neck, and he knows what they’ll say. That Sharpe boy’s brought the wrong kind of attention right to their doorsteps, and they love it. They’ll think he wants this, the same as they do. As he rushes off, he can hear the journalist turning towards the local gossips for a statement instead.
Grayson and his father don’t talk on the ride home. They don’t talk when they unload the groceries. Grayson goes through the motions, chopping the vegetables, preparing the meal. Once everything is in the oven though, and Grayson doesn’t have anything to do with his hands, he ruins everything. “Dad,” he says, voice too loud in a house that’s been silent since the aftershock of a gun went off outside. “Can we talk?”
His dad nods, but his eyes dart towards the door. “Is this about that reporter at the general store?”
Grayson shakes his head. He knows why his dad didn't step in then; he doesn't necessarily know why he’s never stepped in. The years of silence between him and his father only let his doubts grow, and if he’s going to surrender Palmetto—Jen—for good, there can’t be any indecision. He’s spent too long torn between these two lives, and now that he’s made a final choice, he’s got to live with it.
“About...mom,” Grayson says. “About what happened. We never talk about it.” Grayson’s stomach churns, the kind of anxiety he should get before a match, or a fight. Instead, he feels it now, when his dad reluctantly sits down at the table across from him, a handle of whiskey conveniently in place. Grayson’s fingers tap on the table for a moment, a rapid fire staccato that matches his heartbeat. He doesn’t have his own words, so he steals Jen’s, remembering their conversation in his car. “I was a kid,” he blurts, and somehow that, as much as anything, feels like admitting to a wrongdoing. “What happened? Why didn't we try harder?” Why didn't they stop Grayson from holding the gun, maybe. Stop the townsfolk from glaring at him afterwards. Grayson doesn’t know what he means, only that he has to say something.
His dad lets out a long, slow breath. Pours himself a glass of whiskey too quickly, until it’s overfull and some of the dark liquor splashes out onto the wooden table beneath it. “I’m sorry,” his dad begins, and Grayson’s drumming fingers still. He’s never realized how badly he needed to hear those words, and it feels like something vital loosens in his chest, like he can breath for the first time—and then his dad speaks up again. “Grayson, I really am. I thought you understood. You couldn’t be charged with anything serious, not when you were only seven. We told them the truth, and then I had to back off. It was the only way.”
“Oh,” Grayson says, without heat. So his dad couldn’t face the law with him, so what. Grayson has always embraced his own guilt. “But what about everyone in town? Even when the case was closed, you let them talk about me. You know what they say.”
“You shouldn't care what they think,” his dad says, and the idea that Grayson can just not care about the entire town turning against him feels laughable.
He’s been in Palmetto long enough to know not every town is a warzone, and Dubois doesn’t feel normal anymore. Coming back home was supposed to solve his problems, settle the part of him that wants anything different, and it hasn't. He’s still as lost as he was in that banquet hall with Jen. “I can’t just ignore them, dad.”
“Why not? I do.” His dad seems genuinely perplexed, as if their situations are equivalent. Grayson’s spent his entire life ensuring they aren’t.
Dubois for Palmetto, that’s the tradeoff, but it’s not the full truth. Yes, Grayson loves the horses here, and the sprawling wilderness outside of town, but they're not the reason he comes back every year. He comes back for his dad, for the family that’s stuck here.
He’s always been alright with the deal before. You sacrifice for family; it’s not even a question. Tonight, though, Grayson looks over at this man and thinks: I already gave up Jen for you.
And oh, God, he wants more in return for something that huge. An answer. An explanation. An better apology. Grayson’s hands twitch on the table. “Because I care,” he says. “I was seven years old, and they treated me like a garbage, and no one stopped them.”
“It was a rough time for me,” his dad protests, and for all the world he sounds distraught. It’s more emotion that he’s shown in years, and it’s not directed towards Grayson. “She was the love of my life. My wife. You can’t imagine what it felt like. I know I didn't handle things right, but I needed to grieve.”
“She was my mom.” The words fall out of his mouth before he thinks them through. Jen’s words, again. Grayson desperately wishes Jen was here. They would know what to say—they’d know whether Grayson’s allowed to feel angry right now. He feels that anger anyway, and it makes his throat tight and raw.
Grayson’s dad runs a hand down his face. “I’m tired, Grayson,” he says. “You saw that woman at the store. You know what I’ve been dealing with. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but we aren't talking about this right now.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said so,” his dad finally snaps.
A beat. Grayson almost gives in.
Then: “Please.” Grayson presses for more the way he’ll press on his bruises after a rough game. It isn’t fair that his dad gets to claim exhaustion after a single encounter, when Grayson’s made a life out of answering these questions for him. “I’m not—” he flounders, looks for a way to sanitize his anger even now, “—I just want to know what’s going on in your head, dad. I wanna know why it has to be like this, and then I’ll stop asking. I promise.” Please, he thinks it this time, desperately, I just need to remember this is worth it. Give me something. He’s splintering, even Grayson knows that. He needs something concrete to keep him grounded, and he needs it to happen here, in Dubois. Not Palmetto.
He needs his dad.
“I know what happened but I don’t—” Grayson stops here, because admitting any kind of doubt is the greatest sin of all, and Grayson knows that. “Can you just talk to me?”
His dad downs the whiskey. His expression has always been flat, unreadable, but right now it’s cold. Grayson knows this conversation is over even before his dad opens his mouth again. “I said we aren't talking about this right now. That’s to protect you Grayson. I know how hard it must be to live with what happened. Why would you want to get into this right before Christmas?”
His dad, Grayson realizes, doesn't know anything about what Grayson lives with. Grayson’s going to fall into the chasm between them, and not for the first time, he thinks about Jen instead. Mornings with the horses and sugary sweet lattes and the only person Grayson’s been honest with in years: and even then, he’d lied about the most important thing in the end. Jen, all the way in Palmetto. Jen with a stupid gnome in their hands as they chose a better life all on their own. Jen, who’d cried because Grayson couldn’t the same, because he chose this life over them.
Grayson chose this. Over Jen.
“Fine.” Grayson’s voice sounds strange, strangled, even to himself. There’s nothing here tonight, nothing his dad will give him, even when Grayson doesn’t play along with his dad’s silence. Jen loves him when Grayson’s never done anything to earn it, never shown them the affection they deserve back, and his dad won’t even talk to him when he begs. “I’m going for a walk.”
His dad sighs, but he doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t follow him. Grayson’s footsteps take him through dimly lit streets. They’re empty, and it’s almost Christmas. Grayson reaches the end of the block, and considers turning around. Past experience tells him that if he goes back now, his dad will pretend this never happened. Grayson will go back home, and then back to Palmetto, and everything will be the same as he left it. That’s what he wants, right?
Without letting himself acknowledge the answer to that, Grayson keeps walking. Catches a ride all the way to the airport instead. Purchases a ticket. He waits outside, no luggage at his feet. Despite everything, Grayson doesn’t believe he’ll go through with it, and he still doesn’t go home. He lights a cigarette—and then another when it’s done, and another—and focuses on that instead of the clock ticking down to a flight he isn’t actually going to catch.
It’s blissfully empty at this hour of the night, but Grayson can’t escape when a familiar face approaches him. He squints in the haze, in the dark, and then groans out loud, because it’s that fucking journalist again.
Grayson can imagine what he looks like right now. He’s chain-smoking outside an airport with red-rimmed eyes, clearly waiting for a flight when only this morning he was buying groceries for a Christmas dinner, and that says enough. A glance at his watch confirms that it’s past midnight too—so technically it’s Christmas Eve. “Where’s the camera?” he asks, warily.
“Already checked my bag, so you’re safe,” the woman says. Her tone is nonchalant. Maybe that’s an act; maybe she means it. Grayson doesn’t know, and right now, he doesn’t care. Either way, she’s leaving town. Grayson wants to believe it’s because she’s got a family to return to, but maybe she’s simply realized Grayson’s story isn’t worth it. “You feel like sharing?” she asks, nodding towards the cigarette.
Grayson’s mouth forms the words fuck off automatically, but he doesn’t say them out loud. It’s officially Christmas Eve, and Grayson’s waiting for a flight out of Dubois. He’s fucked everything up, but it’s not too late to change his mind. He can still rush to the ranch, and pretend he never brought up the past. Go back to normal. Go back home.
Grayson’s heart clenches uncomfortably in his chest. He’s lonely enough that he might suffocate on it—and this isn’t new. He’s been lonely for a long time now, when he really thinks about it. He just hasn’t thought about it. Hasn’t let himself. Grayson knows with a cold kind of certainty that if he gets on this plane tonight, it means he wants things to change. That loneliness will still live in him, but maybe he can do something about it too.
Oh, God, he’s going to do this, isn’t he? Grayson loves his dad, and right now, he has to leave him: maybe both things can be true. Either way, if he goes back to the ranch now, if he doesn’t do something new, then he’ll lose Jen forever. Likely he already has, and this eleventh hour change of heart won’t mean a thing, other than to ruin his relationship with his father. Grayson swallows twice, hard, and reaches in his pocket for the pack of cigarettes. “I’m off the record tonight,” he says hollowly, because he has to make that point now, apparently. After all these years, he’s a true Fox. His trauma is now interesting enough that people will buy and sell it for more than social currency, and he’s still going to share a smoke with the person who wants to use him for her headlines.
She nods, takes the offering. Up close, she’s messier than the reporters he’s used to—worn denim instead of nice clothes, hair thrown up in a bun, bags under her eyes. She doesn’t know him, and he doesn’t know her, and she doesn’t ask any more questions. They both focus on the bitter taste of smoke, and even though she leaves behind her card when she’s done, Grayson’s pathetically grateful for the silent companionship.
The plane lands. Grayson boards. He leaves Dubois behind.
