Page 58 of Scoring the Player

---

Shit.I’m thrown backwards.

Goddamn current’s pissed off tonight.

Wh-what was that?

A slimy hand rubbed up my leg.

I’m knocked sideways as my head whips side to side.

The clacking of my jaw’s so loud it’s a shark’s beacon.

I dip below the surface, but it’s like staring at a black curtain.

Where is he?

This is a horrible plan.

Okay, that’s definitely a fin! Whatthehellisthat?!

My eyes pinch closed as I touch my leg to see if it’s still there.

I’m dead.

Wait, no, I’m webbed in seaweed.

Where the hell is this dude?

How’re my lungs on fire if I’m freezing?

Am I hypothermic? Or is it hyper?

Who c-cares? Time to go.

I try to turn when waves as hard as sandbags pummel me beneath the surface.

I kick my way back up, retching up saltwater.

Darkness in every direction with bullets of silver.

Where the hell’s the shore?

Waves hit the back of my head—brick after brick—knocking me back under.

I’m being ripped in different directions by my legs, arms, and head.

I crunch in, tucking my knees, and fight until I break the surface.

I duck too late. The wave lands a sharp blow to my face. Then another.

I hear it again.“…fucking coward.”

A growling “Damn kid” echoes down the hall. The stomping gets louder before the door bangs open.

“How many times I gotta tell ya t’ clean up ’fore ya sleep?!” Dad slurs.

He sways on his feet, the stench of piss hits my nose, and I wince at the wet patch on his pants.

“I’ll clean it up,” I tell him, knowing I already cleaned up before bed. But there’s no point fighting with him.

---