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Fifty Yard Line 7
Poppy
Onceinmyroom and settled, I could catch up on the messages on my phone. Of course, the angle on my camera clarified to all the world that Brady Parker didn’t see me until he was already coming down on top of me. It also showed that other player looked directly at me and decided to hit him anyway. My name was attached to those images and that clip, but the faculty advisor was still trying to get all the attention. I was totally willing to step out of the spotlight and let him.
This whole incident had made me change my views on what I wanted to do with my life. I went from being certain to thinking maybe my mother was right after all. Maybe journalism was not the calling I thought it was.
My roommate couldn’t help me the other day because she was away for a family funeral. She felt terrible about not being there to help me, but I again admitted, “I was fine.”
“He is fine. Like F. I. N. E. fine.” She used to be a cheerleader in high school, so I think she still enjoyed spelling things out. I giggled.
I wanted to tell her how amazing he was. How he took care of me, didn’t freak out or get squeamish about real adult things, and…I couldn’t because I promised him I wouldn’t.
My parents arrived, took me to dinner, tried to make me take the prescription pain pill when I was tired and hurting again, but I refused. They stayed a couple of days and then headed home.
I flushed the pain pills because I was a week without using them, my period was over, and aside from the natural aches and pains of bruises and a broken arm healing, I was doing okay.
I was doing really great actually. I didn’t try to interrupt Brady’s life in any way. I had seen him a couple times on campus, but I didn’t want people to gossip, so I just kept walking.
Everything seemed to be going well until the newest book in a series I was reading hit my phone and I had this flashback of— “Oh no. No. No. No. I did not!”
It was like all the crazy shit I said when I was coming down from the anesthesia and sedatives rolled up to the front of my brain to say, look at what you said to him!
I could have texted, called, or something, but I was on campus, and I knew a text would be easy to lie to, so I got a lift to the practice field and practically vibrated with nervous tension as I took one more step closer to that chain link fence and looked through it.
I understood a certain amount of this panic was due to the fact that I needed to know if I said what I said to him. Needed to know he would not tell anyone what I said to him. Ever. Like, not even as an old man telling tales about this one time in college this girl said she wished she was abducted by aliens with penis’s ribbed for her pleasure! I internally screamed that last part. I gulped.
The problem remained that no matter how much I was mortified at that thought, I was paralyzed at the sight of that field. Practice was wrapping up, winding down. It was ending and players began to head my way. I could hear their cleats clicking against the concrete as they came closer. My heart was thundering. I held onto the fence with my good hand and closed my eyes.
I wanted to leave. I wanted to move. I just stood there until I heard Brady’s voice. “Hey. You okay?”
I couldn’t even say no. I squeezed my eyes tighter.
“She okay, man?” someone else asked.
“Uh, yeah. I think we had a meeting I forgot. I got it. See you tomorrow,” Brady answered.
I tried my best to keep breathing.
The clicking was in the distance now and I thought I was going to pass out when I felt a finger touch my index finger. I was still holding onto the fence for dear life. That touch made me move that finger. He quietly said, “Let go.”
I shook my head no.
“It’s okay. I got you. Let go.” He moved to touch the other fingers and they loosened at his insistence.
It was then I realized he was on my side of the fence, next to me. “Hey. Look up here. Look at me.”
Finger under my chin this time, he directed, and I lifted my face upward. My eyes opened and a sweat drenched Brady Parker looked like a superhero to me. He needed his own cereal box. I had a hundred things to say, but blurted out, “I don’t want to have sex with aliens.”
He blinked a couple times, then he sucked in his lips and tried to keep from smiling as he let those perfect proportions flesh back out. He sort of snickered and said, “You remembered the drive.”
“I am so…I was…I read…and…I…” I realized I had a hold on the hand he had used to pry my fingers free. “I’m so sorry. I uh…”
“You want to grab dinner with me?” he asked.
No. Hell no. “Yes.” My mouth was way bolder than my brain.
“I uh…I need to shower.” He looked out at the parking lot and the players heading to cars in their post shower outfits. “Where is your car?”
