Love Me | Series Book #1

ELEVEN

"Go Aaron! Take it to the end! No no! Turn it around, AROUND!"

My eyes strained to see the field as I adjusted myself to sit up higher. The relentless wind nipped at my hair, and I cursed myself for forgetting a hair band once again. I watched between the broad shoulders of a balding man and his much smaller partner seated to the left. The ball, a little dot in the sky, was in constant motion, high in the air, then back to fumbling on the ground only to be scavenged seconds later by a stampede of boys only four feet high. It wasn't long before I spotted curly hairs protruding from the helmet. And then he was gone, trotting towards the eighteen, back on his feet after the failed run.

Dad was of course directly behind the line, pacing back in forth. His hands constantly fumbled with his white cap crumbled into his fist. He couldn't sit still even for a minor league game as this, even if he tried. His expressions never stayed static, fluctuating back in forth between a scowl and desperation. This was why I preferred to stand farther off the field in his taut moments. I didn't want to be in the line of his aggression when his temper erupted. It was bad enough listening to the careless profanities directed at my brother every time one simple mistake was made.

"Sprint Aaron!" His thunderous tone boomed. "Come on! Ball's in the air!"

My brother ran with his eyes on the prize, merely looking away every few seconds to survey the opposing team. The victory was in motion once more, rebounding back and forth between gleaming helmets of red and blue. Neither could hold on for more than one second as it jumped in an out of their hands tauntingly, refusing to claimed. Once more, the ball was in the air, soaring towards the limitless sky. My eyes trained back his jersey, number eight. He butted his way through a wall, head down with perfect posture. He could only see the ball. And maybe, had not every being of his attention been focused on the simple object, he would have seen the much stockier, more aggressive, player ramming in full force from behind. I twisted my knuckles in my hands as I watched each seen unfold. Aaron's eyes connected with mine through his netted helmet in all of a millisecond, before his face contorted, eyebrows pinching in obvious pain as his body went out of lock towards the ground.

The skid of his exposed skin against the prickly turf, made me flinch, half due to the scorching sound, but more in anticipation of the wrath of our father soon to embark. And just as predicted...

"What the hell was that? Get up off the ground now!" he demanded with hands in his hair. "Let's go! Get up!"

He searched frantically with a teary gaze, and I shot him my most sympathetic look the moment his eyes found mine.

"It's okay," I mouthed, although I wasn't sure he'd gotten it.

But, just as quickly, we parted eyes and he was back in the direction of the game, sadness now replaced with fury. If only Dad could see just how seriously his words affected him. I was the only one who noticed the slight slump in his posture or the way he froze, seeming to lose track of time for a moment after every foul play.

But now, the game was back in session with our team in possession. Another rocketed throw from number ten landed in the arms of three. Three was rather clumsy on his feet, but I couldn't help but grudgingly think that he had no reason to be nervous. After all, the resulting score of this quarter wasn't on his shoulders.

Dad was pacing again, making all shapes of wild gestures with his hands. I couldn't keep up with his endless commands, as his voice drowned out any other calamities within the surrounding area. And then, out of nowhere, came a blurred motion of feet, a streak of red yards away from the defense heading towards touchdown. The hollers changed octave then, hopeful, more enthused as I made out the number eight. Three saw the opportunity, and without hesitation sent it into a spiraling frenzy.