Does the author achieve something challenging within writing this piece : 
Victor glanced out across the field, the sizzling heat blanching the concrete under the bleachers. Another afternoon of training was wrapping up around him, with random teammates clapping him over the shoulder as they jogged past. His tendons ached with fatigue, and he attempted to ease the strain in his neck by stretching it wearily to the side.

“So tired of all this,” he muttered, despite the sense of fulfillment pulsing through his veins. It never quite seemed enough.

Removing the residual sweat from his face with the hem of his jersey, he wrenched at the corner and dragged it across his brow. As he craned his neck, his taut abs caught the afternoon sunshine, and he was assaulted by a barrage of wolf whistles.

“Yo, Vic, you’ve been benching, eh?” one male voice called out to him from across the field.

“She ain’t gonna call you back, but I will!” another jibed in good humour.

“As if I’d have the time for that, my life is so stressful I could just about—” Victor lamented, his attention suddenly swallowed by a passing silhouette, a female figure with a perfect, core-of-an apple shape. His stare glassed over as Lara sent him a smile from behind her dark bangs, her olive complexion glowing in the orange light as she came into view . Her light green eyes lingered just a moment too long and his stomach shot him a jolt of wonderment as he smiled back.

“Yeah, that’s what we don’t have time for , Vic “ he mumbled under his breath, well out of her earshot as she elapsed him like a polarising eclipse as he ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth, shaking his head. Her pristine white teeth, full lips and the echoes of her laughter interweaved through the blaring whistle of his coach. His legs screamed with lactic acid from running drills , and he found relief in the cooling breeze that brushed against his perspiration. In the quiet reprieve of the emptying arena, his thoughts flashed to his profoundly emptier shoe-box apartment. His hand, running along a faded imprint across his back, sent him chills . It was when his time was idle , his fingers would explore all the old wounds and he stopped himself; steeling his grip on his forearm. The impending evening promised him a decent meal , a sound night of sleep and insurmountable volumes of pay-per-view. Yet he felt exhausted as his mind flirted with the prospect of abandon. A night of rampant corruption, of revelry, and flames of his inexhaustible youth. That’s when he felt a presence at his shoulder , and he lift his gaze. “Lara? How long have you been standing there?” he asked, broken from his distraction. “Not long, you look stressed out, is everything okay?” Her soft lilt fell on his ears , rendering him speechless .


“Oh yeah. Just , life of a quarterback, y’know how hard it is being in demand right?”

“Cheerleading coach and head cheerleader in an institution like this, yeah I think I might have a slight idea.”

Her laugh washed over him as his mind was soothed by its smoothness. “I have to get back out there , but I just wanted to say hey.” Leaning forward, she pressed an open palm against his shoulder, leaving a slip of paper fluttering into his lap as she walked away.

“Hey , to you too” he called out , in disorientation, fishing the scrap of paper from his lap. His fingers toyed with edge of the paper, and he slipped it into his pocket with resignation

There was no answer as she disappeared into the haze of twilight that shimmered across the field .

“What have we got ourselves into , huh?” . He grinned ruefully at the setting sun , with her number under his fingers as they returned to the crumpled paper and traced the digits with temptation . He sighed into the unfolding night as he rose from the bleachers and made his way toward the parking lot.      

After a long few hours spent in traffic , Victor curtailed the escalating effect of gridlock on his nerves by fiddling with the radio. Song after song, he surfed the channels , sifting through droning ballads and unrelated classics that remanded him vaguely of childhood. Unresolved, he switched the station off entirely, strumming a fabricated tune on his jeans , and humming in agitation.

 “C’mon” he willed the stagnant vehicles with an offset jaw, scratching at his shoulder blade and realigning his neck . His mind was transported to an afternoon , one he never recalled often , and its vivid presence made him flinch. 

The sun had been a waning backdrop as he’d stood crying on a green lawn, plastic spade in hand. A sandpit laid under his bare feet, and a familiar voice thundered through him, grinding him to a halt . Tears streamed down his face , each one a grave mistake. “You have until the count of three to stop crying-“ Looming above him, his fate was closing in. “ One…I’m not playing Victor …Two-“ . 

Suddenly the blare of a horn sent sobering reality coursing through him as his eyes flew open and he slammed the accelerator, his memory entrenching itself in the dark corners of his subconscious as he drove in silence.The shadows of the highway painted themselves across his features in a haunting reflection of his solitude.