Straight Boys

Straighter than Straight

Andrew's POV

"Andrew..." I looked up from my slouched position at my desk. It was my dad. His hair was tousled, like he ran his fingers through it too many time, unlike how it usually was, all gelled back and neat. The glasses that were perched on the bridge of his nose kept sliding down because how much care he had lost over the past day - day and a half; of how much stress he's had.

"Yeah, dad?" His head was peaking through my doorway, probably scared of my reaction as of lately. I hadn't been myself because of the accident, so he was afraid of what I'd do with one wrong word or slip of the tongue. The wounds were new, deep, and not even close to heeling. He was afraid of worsening them, but how worse could they get after only just finding out the day before that your life was never going to be the same again.

"Are you going to the game tonight?" I glanced at my alarm clock to see that it was only four. I had to be at the field at five. Exhaling a shaky breath, I turned back to my dad and nodded. "Yeah." I had to go. I was the captain. Even if the coach understood my circumstance, I couldn't leave my team hanging in the air for Roundsville to gobble them up. I was better than that: as a team player and their captain.

My dad nodded back. "Okay. I'm going to the hospital, then." I clenched my jaw. The stupid hospital. The Hell house my mother and Lola were living at for the next thousand years, probably.

In a quick moment, I had my letterman jacket on and was leaving the house before my dad could even find his car keys. Gripping the steering wheel after turning on the car, I drove out of my neighborhood and towards the filling stadium. Hopefully, hopefully playing a little football would get my mind off of things. Lola wouldn't be in the stands, though, cheering at the top of her lungs for me to beat the pansies up.

A sad chuckle leaves my mouth at the memory.

And my parents wouldn't be there, either, to yell at the other team's parents. I would be virtually alone out there, naked almost, without my family.

Parking my mother's old minivan just outside of our team's changing room, I hopped outside with my bag loosely over my shoulder and sad thoughts plaguing my brain. With tense muscles, I walked through the doors towards my lockers. It wasn't even 4:30 yet, but there still were a few people mulling about by their lockers. I passed some of them, all of them giving me pitying looks, which I should have been used to by now since it's been happening for almost the whole day, but I wasn't. I hated it, and I hated them for doing it. Why didn't people understand most other people didn't like receiving pity? Why couldn't they leave a sad man alone when he wanted to be left alone? Why could I just be at my home, sleeping this nightmare away? Why couldn't I get used to the stares and empty words within a day? Why didn't it work like that?

"Hey, man," it was Ferguson Mitchell, one of our linebackers, "You don't have to be here. We got this. You can go be with your mom." I ignored him.

"Dude, go home! You shouldn't be here, you're heads not in the game." I kept walking, my eyes set on my locker.

"Andrew, Buddy, you gotto go see how your mom's doing!"

"Parsley, bro, you really up for playing, tonight?"

"I'm sorry about your sister."

I was on the verge of cracking. I wanted them to shut up, they needed to shut up. I was fine. I could handle the fucking game. I was fine. Them putting all these images into my mind of Lola on her death bed, my mother all scraped up, they didn't know how much it killed me. They needed to close their mouths. I was fine.

Pulling my locker open with as little anger noticeable, I grabbed my gear and started to get dressed. I kept my ears closed, my mind elsewhere, so as not to get distracted by the players' worry and good intentions. I just wanted to play the game, maybe win it if we were lucky, and get drunk afterwards. I would still get drunk if we didn't win, but the win would be a bonus.