Care For Me ✔️

11

L I L Y

Coach splits us into two teams and begins explaining the rules of the game. As I listen to said rules, the more anxious I become.

Don't aim for the face?

Who on earth came up with something so violent and passed it off as fun? Where's the joy in getting hit with a ball, squishy or not.

Bella and Maya seem to be excited, sharing giggles and smiles as they pull me into their huddle and come up with a game tactic on who they want to knock out first.

My eyes are near bulging from their sockets as I listen to them debate on whether or not they should attack Melissa or Kelsey first. I nod along as if I know who either of those girls are, trying my best to match their excitement.

Ten minutes in, sweat coated and ready to drop, the facade of excitement is long gone and I want nothing more than for this game to be over.

I haven't been hit with the ball yet, Maya and Bella keeping a protective stance in front of me, acting like my human shields. Despite wanting to be out, I'm glad for their protection. I don't think my bruises would appreciate a hit, soft ball or not.

The rest of the kids on our team are hellva competitive. I don't want to face their wrath if I'm put out too early on. The pep talk they provided before the game proved it would not be a nice chat if I made the bench.

My muscles ache as I flail around like a baby giraffe, trying my hardest to dodge the ball. Eyes watering, lungs straining to get a speckle of oxygen. I'm wheezing like a fish out of water, sluggishly sliding back and forth. I haven't hit a single person.

I can't bring myself to try.

I'm too unfit for this.

I need a nap and a gallon of water.

I don't know why laughter still rings in the air, like this is a barrel of fun. It's exhausting, and excruciating, and I really need to lay down before I fall down.

I look over to the other team, terror paralysing me as the ball swoops towards me, heading straight for my purple painted leg. It'll hurt when it hits, I know it will, but I can't bring myself to move. My limbs are frozen, like I'm nothing more than a statue about to be hit by the hammer that makes it crack.

The ball hits its target, pain radiates in waves from my shin to the top of my thigh. It wasn't a hard hit, it wasn't malicious. If my leg wasn't already compromised, I doubt it would've hurt at all. I blink the tears back as I bite my bottom lip in an attempt to hold back the pathetic whimper pleading to escape.

Slowly, I limp towards the empty bench. First to be eliminated. What a loser. I can already feel the heated glares of my teammates, hear their snide remarks as I hesitantly weave my way past them.

Thirty five minutes later, the game has finally come to an end. More and more of my teammates began to be eliminated not too long after myself, which eases some of the terror slowly suffocating me. Thoughts of how disappointed in me they'd be in me creep back into my head, but it's okay. At least it's not just me.

For the first time in my life, I'm not alone in whatever punishment I'll face.

Surprisingly, as our losing team comes back together into a huddle, there's no glares, there's no sneers or hateful looks or angry teammates looking to inflict punishment. They're all laughing and joking around, calling each other a "loser" like it's something to be proud of.