Football players are assholes. I know; I'm related to their king. My older, and annoyingly overprotective, brother Jake is the star quarterback at Santa Cruz High School. I love him but hate living in his shadow. Everyone worshiping the air he breat...
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I climbed the bleachers with my heart pounding in my ears. I appreciated the view from up here so much more and took what felt like the first deep breath since I flipped that coin. My school event checkbox was the only reason I pushed through that awkward exchange. What was with Logan's statue impression? Why would he look at me?
A few people clapped me on the back for the coin toss as if I'd had any control over the outcome. Another two girls shoved their phone numbers into my palm for Jake and asked how they could toss the coin in future games. I had no answer other than crumpling up their numbers.
"Ellie, there you are." Mom leaned forward in her seat.
I sucked in my stomach and squeezed past my parents, my belly stinging from Logan's football. With my hand palming the sore skin, I smiled. "Yeah, I was-"
"We saw. Everyone saw." Dad squeezed my lack of a defined bicep muscle. "Nice throw, didn't know you had that in you."
"Everyone saw?" My eyebrows furrowed. "Even Jake?"
"Don't worry. Jake was tying his shoe when you threw the ball." Mom's smile didn't reach her eyes as I sucked in my gut and stepped over her feet. "Going off how miserable you looked down there, I'll take it you didn't speak to him."
"Yes." My lips rolled in, and I paused at my seat. "That was as happy fas as I make. He still owes me an apology."
Harper laughed before my butt plopped down. "Did you just kiss a fucking football?"
I covered my mouth, but a few small laughs escaped. They stopped at her words, "You know, that's not the kind of ball your mouth-"
"Alright," I cut her off with a wave. "We don't need to go there. Parents in earshot."
My relaxed state was short-lived once the game started. It was the worst game I'd ever seen. During every play, I became torn between being excited and discouraged. Fortunately, Jake and Logan were never on the field together, so I cheered for whoever was up, despite the murderous looks when I cheered for Salesian.
I retained my title of the worst person to describe a game, ignoring Harper's sexed-up version, but anyone saw that Jake and Logan's styles couldn't have been more different. With a relaxed swagger, Jake was confident, prepared, and almost mechanical. He managed his team with controlled, barked-out orders. They moved up the field like a well-oiled machine in slow, methodical run plays that used up big clock time chunks. He executed them with the confidence and experience of a seasoned high school senior. His patience paid off, as Santa Cruz took the first 7-0 lead.
"At least all those missed meatball rolling sessions were worth it," I mused to Mom. Her meek smile and pale cheeks showed her nerves had started to take over.
Logan was mesmerizing. My eyes were glued to him. He was relaxed, lightning-quick on his feet, and adept at improvising after their plays fell flat. Exuberant was never a word I used to describe a football player, but he zipped all over the field like a grand chess master who played against amateurs.
