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Fifty Yard Line 3
Poppy
Ijusthungup with my parents when a knock sounded, and the door pushed open before I could get the words come in out of my mouth. My eyes went wide as the last person I thought would ever be visiting me stepped into the room. The sounds of questions and media noise was heard and then silenced as he closed the solid wood door and locked it behind him.
Wow, he had a great behind. I cleared my throat. No. I was just suffering from a concussion among other injuries one might sustain when two football players land on them.
He turned and with an expression of sincere anger said, “I would have thrown that ball if you were the messiah, the grim reaper, or an alien from another planet. Understand?”
“Um.” I did not understand why he came here to yell at me about throwing a football no matter what.
He pointed at me, all authority posture like he was going to arrest me—Sheesh Poppy, get it together. What the hell did they give me in here? I missed the start of that but got the last bits of his statement which was the question again.
He asked, “Understand?”
“No.” I tried to focus. “I didn’t catch that last part at all.” And because I seemed to be on truth serum I said, “I was too busy looking at your body.”
He was about to say something else, but that startled him. I was trying to concentrate on not blurting out my every thought. It was not working.
I added, “I meant your ass.”
He took a step back and almost banged into the door. “Excuse me?”
“You are fucking beautiful when you blush, dude.” I went to move my arm and winced. Ah, yes. That one had a cast on it. “It’s broken. You broke it.”
I held it up so he could see. I hadn’t told my parents everything because they were under the impression journalism was my extra-curricular activities and I was here getting a degree in English so I could teach high school back home where my hobby would help me help students with the media side of the yearbook and the school blog.
“So, you’re in trouble for being on the field?” he asked and took a tentative step forward.
“What?” I asked.
“What?” he parroted. “You said you didn’t tell your parents and you’re—”
“Oh my God. Did I say that out loud?” I shouldn’t have gotten that excited. The room was moving a bit. “Wait a minute. One, two.” I took in a deep breath, closed my eyes. “Three, four.”
“You okay?” he asked and sounded closer.
“I think I’m going to throw up.” I tried to suppress it, but there was no use.
I opened my eyes and didn’t have to get out of the bed because the waste basket with the clear plastic lining was being held by our star quarterback as I vomited into it. Awesome.
He snickered and said, “Well, I do my best.”
I looked up at him and he said, “You said awesome.”
Ah, yes. Of course, I did. “Thank you.”
“Sit back. You got a concussion?” he asked as he took that trash can to the adjoining bathroom and—
“No!” I wanted to die. Why couldn’t I just keel right the fuck over? Why didn’t two men about five hundred pounds combined with gear do more damage?
“Grabbed another liner for this one.” He held up the trash can. I closed my eyes. In a softer tone than I thought he might be capable of he asked, “You’re…that…I mean is that…normal or…because of us landing on you?”
I refused to open my eyes from this point forward. I had spent my life behind a camera, taking pictures. I got one of those destruction proof kid cameras when I was five for my birthday and that was it. I was hooked on seeing the world from that view.
I admitted, “A day early, but stress does that.”
He let out a whoosh of air and my eyes opened despite my effort to keep them closed. “That scared me for a minute there.”
