Page 60 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

I nod, chewing at my mouthpiece. I am ready. I’m more ready than that asshat he’s marching out there in my spot play after pathetic play. I keep that shit in, though. Coach doesn’t appreciate second-guessing, especially when it’s from a selfish place. Which mine is. I want the time. I want the ball.

I want the chance.

Our offense goes out again, and after Dante moves them upfield thirty yards with one hell of a pass to Jax, the next play results in a turnover because Cam Ledger doesn’t know how to protect the fucking ball. It gets punched out at the fifty, giving King State excellent field position. We’re tied, and a score here will put them up.

“I need you in there,” Dante grumbles as he steps in next to me and pushes his helmet up on his forehead. He sprays water in his mouth and swishes, then spits. “I’m fucking eating grass because nobody can block. All Ledger wants to do is run the ball. He doesn’t know how to throw offensive blocks. And his hands are literally jelly. I mean, what the fuck! How do you drop that?”

I shake my head and bite my tongue.

“I know, I know. You can’t say nothin’. But I sure can,” my friend says, slapping my back and dropping his helmet down before striding down the line.

He’s right. It’s not as if our backup quarterback can throw half as far as he can, and with a tie game against a team we were projected to slaughter, Coach might break his rule about players stepping on his toes mid-game.

I watch from my periphery as Dante’s hands flail, his head moving with his words. My roommate doesn’t mince words and he talks a lot of shit on the field. Coach has tuned him out most of the last two years because he knows he can’t shut him up, but I hope this time his words sink in.

Coach finally turns his head, but his mouth doesn’t open. And his expression does not look like that of a man glad to receive input.

Shit.

I turn my focus back to the field and jump a few times, pumping blood through my legs. It takes King State six minutes to score, running the third quarter down to two minutes left. I glance up at the box, my family and Rachel still in their seats. It’s hard to tell for sure, but I think my dad is leaning on the railing, his hands clasped. I fill in the details from memory, how he chews at the side of his mouth and twitches anytime our team fucks up. My dad isn’t a vocal sports parent, but he sure wears his disappointment when his son isn’t used the right way.

“I said my piece,” Dante says, finally making his way back to my side while the special teams unit rushes out to try to make up for lost time with a killer return.

“And how’d that go?” I ask.

“Well, he didn’t tell me to get out of his face, so . . .”

I laugh hard, but honestly? That is encouraging.

Our return team gets a few extra yards, but Dante has his work cut out for him. He heads out to the field, Ledger still in my position, and within seconds the ball is loose again from another drop. This time, our team manages to recover Cam’s fumble, and we somehow get six yards on it. But I guess that’s the last straw for Coach.

I’m on the field in seconds, Cam throwing a baby fit that sends one of the coolers of Gatorade to the ground along with a table full of towels and cups. The team managers are all scrambling to clean it up, and Coach is barking at him for making a scene.

My grin is massive. So big it hurts my cheeks. Karma is queen.

“Alright, are we ready to put this away now?” Dante slaps my chest a few times in the huddle.

“Yessir!” I nod, taking friendly hits from the rest of the squad.

Dante calls my favorite play, where I fake right and run a sweep to the left. The Kings defense doesn’t seem to realize I’ve subbed in, or maybe they assume I’m not up to my best stuff because I don’t have anyone seriously tailing me. The ball is snapped and my legs take over, tricking the tackles and knocking them off balance as I juke and take the ball. I make it fifteen yards before I’m knocked out of bounds. I bounce back up to show how little I’m hurt, and rush to the huddle again.

“How’d that feel?” Dante asks.

“Like we’re playing against a bunch of toddlers. Give me the ball,” I growl.

“Ayyy, yeah. That’s our boy!” Dante calls another play for me, a short dump pass that I take for another fifteen, and I feel like my legs are fire.

We run it again, and I find the end zone with ease, spinning the ball in the grass and holding up my arms as Dante rushes at me. We bump chests and I run sideways, scanning the box for her. My dad’s on his feet with his hands up, so I give him a fist that he mimics, but then to the right, I catch another one in my honor. Rachel is jumping. My mom is hugging her. And my life is definitely out of the bubble.

21/

rachel

I love Octobers in the Midwest.

Yes, it’s cold. But the colors make up for everything. This is when I wish I did something that didn’t involve a lab. In a perfect world, I’d work in a lab made of glass in the middle of a meadow. Probably not the most conducive setting for a controlled environment, what with the shift in sunlight and massive costs to maintain a glass house one temperature. But if I’m fantasizing about such things then I’d probably be stupid wealthy in this scenario, so I’m sure I can have it built to spec.

Halloween is coming up. It’s another one of those life events that I’ve usually taken a pass on. Growing up, I relied on easy costumes and my brother to do most of the doorbell ringing and candy hunting. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth, so as I got older, the motivation waned. I became the pre-teen who passed out chocolate and complimented kids for talking their parents into buying whatever Marvel character costume was hyped for the season.

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