Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike Read Online Free Page A

instant, I became disconnected from reality; every thing and every one around me appeared irregular and deviant. It seemed like they were living in one world, and I was living in another.
    As a result, I was paranoid about being noticed so I nonchalantly took a seat at my desk and elected not to speak or look at anyone.
    The psychedelic trip officially began when I looked at the computer screen and saw an assortment of colored circles cascading continuously towards the edge. I was captivated; I knew this wasn't supposed to be happening but somehow – it was.
    The most fascinating aspect was witnessing a spectacle no one else could see. Then my trip ventured to the dark side when I began feeling like my stomach was entangled in knots. I stood up, walked out of the computer lab and plopped down on a couch in the adjacent room; where I remained in a state of perpetual pain.
    When study hall ended, a teammate approached me with an interesting analysis.
    "Dude, what's up with you?" he asked, in bewilderment.
    "What do you mean?" I countered.
    "You sat in front of your computer staring at the screen for an hour straight and didn't move an inch!" he explained, seemingly undecided if he should laugh or be concerned.
    The hour he spoke of seemed more like five minutes to me. Although I didn't tell him I was on shrooms, I did tell myself I would NEVER take them again.
    The negative side effects were not done punishing me. I failed to wake up the following morning in time for our workout and when I showed up 15 minutes late, our coach told everyone to meet on the track at 7am – he had his own way of dealing with late arrivals.
    It was early, the air was cold, the wind was brisk and I was surrounded by disgruntled teammates. Their irritation was justified; after all, I was the sole reason they were there. The annoyance soon transformed into anger when our coach revealed what the punishment would be.
    "As you all know, Brad was late. As a result, you will all be running around this track for the next hour. That is, everyone except for Brad, he's going to stand here and watch you do it," he said, capping off his edict with a distasteful glance.
    Part of me was secretly happy I didn't have to run, but hiding it was a must. Everyone, and I do mean EVERYONE, sharply turned their attention towards me, followed by a flood of insults.
    "Asshole."
    "Cocksucker."
    "Piece of shit."
    "Dickhead."
    I stood and watched as they all took off in a pack. I assumed they were talking shit about me the entire time, but I was certain they were talking shit about me each time they passed.
    Half way through their trek, one of them decided to douse me in the face with a bottle of Gatorade; it was a direct hit. I couldn't react, I deserved it and I had to become acquainted with a new reality – I was severely disliked.
    When it was over, I walked ahead of them by myself, a lone wolf. Moments later, an upperclassman tossed a rock at me, lightly striking my back. Gatorade to the face was one thing, but they took it too far, so I reached down, grabbed the biggest rock I could find and aimlessly threw it back at them as hard as I could.
    "Hey man, chill out," one of them said, as I marched on.
    I was chilled out, I just couldn't let them think I was the guy you could throw rocks at. If I was an outcast, I was certainly going to be the crazy outcast you didn't want to mess with.
    However, it soon became clear that my reaction only made them want to mess with me even more.
    The following week, I bent down to put my right shoe on and felt a mushy object hit my toe. Upon further inspection, I realized there was a dead bird inside my shoe; the whole locker-room erupted in laughter.
    It still wasn't over; they were planning to strike again.
    This time, it was at a house party. I typically get too drunk for my own good and this night wasn't any different. Eventually, I found myself in the bed of a pickup truck parked in the front yard, slipping in and out of