RUNNING BACK

Chapter 28: Spider Monkey Goes to the Dance

The game itself is everything it promised to be. We're playing like a team that knows what it's doing. On our first offensive series, we run the ball down the field with a combination of quarterback keepers, Chaplin with short gains up the middle, and play-action fakes to Ramirez. We score on our first series, and kickoff team tackles their returner at the twenty.

It's a great start.

Murphy calls for the defense to take the field, and he gives me the nod. No one is questioning my abilities at safety anymore. Finally.

I don't think people are too excited about my participation, but they tolerate it. I line up deep and wait for the snap. On their first play, number thirteen, a wide receiver, runs into my territory, and I stay on him tight. He shoves me away from him, trying to get open, but I stick to him like a barnacle. They do a pump fake to a run play. Once I see that Marshall has taken care of the ball runner, I start to jog back to my position. That's when it happens.

Number thirteen shoves me in the back, hard. I fall forward onto the ground and catch myself with my hands. I turn my head to look up at him. "What the hell?" I yell, pissed.

He looms over me, looking down. "I read about you, thirty-four. Better stay off me, dyke," he hisses. "I'm not about to let some bitch beat me."

We're so far from the play that nobody seems to notice what's going on. I jump up and jog back to position. I scan the sidelines, and I see Coach Murphy talking to Darius Little, who is pointing in my direction. I'm not about to let this asshole push me around. Next play I stick even closer, and he's getting super frustrated.

"Why don't you go out for cheerleading like a normal bitch and get off my ass?"

I smile at him and give him a wink. Probably not the right thing to do. By third down, he's seething.

On that play, I can see in his body language that he's the target. I'm running with him and he can't shake me. He shoves me in the shoulder, sending me to the ground right as the ball is falling into his hands. He runs it in for a touchdown.

I'm devastated.

When I jump up to my feet, a flag is on the ground and the referee waves the touchdown off. They call offensive pass interference on the Ganders' number thirteen. No score. And it costs them fifteen yards.

They have to punt.

Murphy meets me at the sidelines with a look of concern on his face. "What's goin' on out there, Thomas?"

"Nothing coach," I say, gruffly. "It's only a little rubbing, that's all."

"Looked like a hell of a lot more than rubbing." He peers at me doubtfully.

Marshall materializes out of nowhere, confronting me with his elbows bent, palms face up as if to ask a question.

"What?" I snap.

"What the hell's up with thirteen?"

"I'm being a big pain in his ass. He's taking it personally."

He stares at me silently. I can see the wheels turning. "Next time he tries something dirty, you let me know in the huddle. I'll take care of that," Marshall says, folding his arms over his chest. Murph nods and glances at me as if to say he agrees one hundred percent.

I'm sure Marshall would do an excellent job of "taking care of that," protecting me once again. But this is football. If I'm on the field, I've got to be able to take care of myself. So, I inhale a deep breath and look from Murph to Marshall. "Listen, you two, I'm a player, not an innocent bystander. I don't need to be coddled or protected. I have to stick up for myself, or nobody on that field is going to respect me. Okay?" I give each of them a hard glare, daring them to challenge me. Marshall just groans.