8==D
I sat in my first lecture of the day rubbing the still hairless patches of skin on my wrists and forearms. The "Great Hole to the Pole" incident had been two weeks earlier, and I could still feel the pain of the tape as I pulled that shit off. It was like a phantom ache or something. I'd never look at a roll of duct tape or a flagpole the same way again. I seriously thought I might've had Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or some other shit like that.
I tried to listen to the professor as he droned on about something or other. It was "Principles of Microeconomics," and I was bored out of my fucking mind. I was beginning to seriously think that these blowhard professors sat at home at night and thought up ways to make this shit more boring. To make a sucky lecture even worse, the dude, who seemed to be getting off on the sound of his own voice, had written the text, too. So most of us had read this riveting material sometime in the previous twenty-four hours. Now I was bored and pissed that I had wasted the two hours I'd spent trying to read every word he was spewing verbatim from the aforementioned snoozetastic text. I spent the rest of the class watching the hands creep around the clock face. Apparently it was just as bored as the rest of us were.
My poor brain, which was slowly being lulled into a petrified state, passed the time by listing the fuckton of other places it would rather be. The gym, in the cafeteria, in the library working on the research paper I had due for my humanities class, sleeping, balls deep in some hot chick (Who am I kidding? I'd rather be balls deep in any chick, considering my current dating life and my level of desperation at this point.), football practice, standing in line at the DMV... hell, honestly? Anywhere was better than the here and now. I'd even consider packing up and heading back to Forks. No, I wasn't that desperate. Yet. Give me another month; by then football season will be well underway, and I'll probably be begging to crawl home to Mommy.
We were a week into classes, and the first game of the season was just around the corner. The team had been together since the end of June, conditioning and learning plays. If I known then what I knew now I probably would have stayed my ass in the Pacific Northwest. But back when I had accepted the scholarship I was caught up in the fanfare of the excitement of press releases and photo shoots to announce my school choice. I was feeling cocky with all the wining and dining the University of Florida, Florida State University, and Texas A&M were throwing at me. They were my top three choices and each of them were trying to sway me to accept their invitations to attend their esteemed institution. The high opinion I already had of myself was just getting higher and higher, like a stripper inching her way up her brass pole. Little did I know that, much like the skanky bitches, my life was about to spiral down its own pole. But not with nearly the grace of a cosmetically enhanced, lap dancing whore.
I remember the excitement I felt as I pulled on the UF cap that sat before me on the press junket table. I thought that once I accepted UF's scholarship I'd be home free. Riding high. Once the Golden Boy, always the Golden Boy. Well, at least that's what the boosters and scouts lead me to believe. All the newspapers and sports networks were heralding me as a four star quarterback and the next Tim Tebow. Whatever, not even gonna touch that shit. That guy's a legend. The week I arrived at UF the Gainesville Sun's headlines read: "The Golden Boy Shines in the Sunshine State!" Looking back, that headline may have been a bit premature. I mean, that was why I was brought to Florida: to pick up where Tebow left off. But those are some fucking big shoes to fill, and I never even entertained the idea that my arrival would be received in any way other than warmly. Shit, I was actually expecting ticker tape parades and dinners in my honor with the way the scouts made everything sound. Ass lickers. Instead, the entire two and a half months I'd been at UF were pure torture. And rush week hadn't even started yet. I was fucked beyond the realm of fuckdom.
8==D
Practices were grueling. I thought I knew pain; I'm a QB for fuck's sake, but the shit I'd been through back in Forks was a fucking tea party compared to the paces Coach was putting us through. Not that I'd ever been to a tea party before. That shit's for old biddies with grey hair and saggy tits. I'll have you know my tits don't sag. Wanna feel? But I digress. Between Coach riding my ass and the hits I'd been taking during practices I looked like a giant walking bruise. My ribs were in a constant state of being taped up thanks to that fucker, Emmett McCarty. What was his major malfunction? The dude never missed an opportunity to knock the shit out of me. Hell, he'd hit me so many times and with so much force that if I shook my head you could hear my brain sloshing back and forth in my skull. Once, about a month into practices, I couldn't take that shit anymore. After a particularly hard (and cheap) shot I jumped up and, flicking the snaps off my helmet, ripped it from my head and slammed it to the ground only inches from his gargantuan foot. The asstard stood there laughing and celebrating the hit with his buddies. I grabbed him by the shoulder pad to swing him around to face me.
"Hey! What the fuck is your problem, McCarty? Are you trying to kill me before we even play our first game?" I was seething. If this were a real game and not a scrimmage, then as offensive tackle it was his job to protect me. Instead it seemed like he was trying to end my college football career with every play.
"I'm just playin' the game, pretty boy. I thought that's what we were all here to do, or were you under the assumption this was ballet class?"
"No go, ass wipe. I'm not buying that you're just 'playing.' Now, what's the deal? If you have a problem with me then let's just deal with it so we can go back to playing as a fucking team! Otherwise we should just fight to the death and get this shit over with!" I yelled just inches from the guard on his helmet.
"You are my problem, Eddiekins! I can't stand pricks like you who think you should just be handed everything. I'm thinking if you were handed an ass kicking, then maybe that over-inflated ego of yours will finally hang as limp as your dick!" Just when it looked like Emmett was about to take me up on the whole Mortal Combat thing, Jasper wedged his way between us, pressing a palm firmly on each of our chests and separating us.
"Whoa, there, fellas. No need for a pissin' contest here on the field. It's not good for the grass, and Coach will kill you both if you fuck up his precious practice field." The guy had balls getting between the two of us, but I guess he figured neither of us wanted him dead so he was safe. Thanks to his cojones of titanium and fast thinking, Emmett and I live to piss each other off another day. And another. And another...
In case you've never had the misfortune of visiting Florida, that bitch of a state is hot as hell. In fact, I bet in Hell they say that it’s "hot as Florida" when the heat gets going good down there. And we're not out lounging on some beach in banana hammocks. No, our asses are in the damn swamp! (They don’t call our arena “The Swamp” for nothing.) Between the heat, one hundred percent humidity, and blood sucking bugs the size of Volkswagen beetles it's a miserable place to be. Are you familiar with UF's mascot? It's a gator, as in Alli-gator. They didn't just choose the fucker 'cause this is Florida. They chose it because the college is infested with them. They're in the lakes, in the swamps, and even in the fucking pools! Last week they had to cancel swim practice because some sorority floozy nearly became the main course for a wayward gator who lived in the lake a few hundred yards away. I would have paid money to see that chick scrambling out of the water when she realized she wasn't alone. Oh, don't look at me like that; you know you'd laugh, too. Besides, she was fine and the university put a new fence around the pool. Problem solved, but needless to say, swimmers check the bottom of the pool before diving in now.
Most of my time prior to the start of classes was tied up with practice. When we weren't practicing on the field then we were either in the gym or doing some team building bullshit. I have always loved being part of a team. The camaraderie, the brotherhood, the sense of depending on one another to do battle against another team: it was all invigorating. But since my arrival had been met with less revelry than the Plague, I was finding it difficult to connect with these guys who I was supposed to be trusting and working together with. Not to mention they questioned my every call and belittled me every fucking chance they could. Like the time they all pissed in my Gatorade. Seriously. They pissed in my sports drink!
Ever drink Gatorade? I hate the shit, but I learned to tolerate it because that's what the high school managers gave us to keep us hydrated during practices and games. Well, the stuff was developed where? Yep, you guessed it: UF. Hence the gator in Gatorade. Down here, you'd think that the shit was tap water for as much as everyone drinks it! Seriously, go into a restaurant in Gainesville and order a glass of water and I can almost promise you the waitress brings you a glass of Gatorade. I knew it tasted "off," but it wasn't until Emmett asked how I was enjoying my "pisserade" that I realized why it was more disgusting than usual. I made a mental note to never accept a drink from McCarty or any of his lackeys again. That was after I puked all over the sidelines.
One practice, not long after the "pisserade" incident, I had just finished choking down a cup of the "Drink of Champions" in an effort to remain vertical during a typical sweltering practice. I was hunched down in the line up, calling out the play, when I first saw her. She was perched in the bleachers that rimmed the practice field, her face hidden behind a camera lens. I had no idea how long she'd been there, but I knew it the moment Emmett arrived, 'cause the fucker railroaded my ass. I must have called "hike" but was distracted. I paid for my stupidity with a fuckton of humiliation and pain. As I lay there face up in the sun-warmed grass, I looked sideways towards where she had sat, but she was gone. A moan of defeat mixed with disappointment and pain rolled from my chest as I wondered for the millionth time what the hell I was doing in this swamp and where the fuck my life had gone. I could hear Emmett and his stupid minions chuckling around me until they were silenced with a loud thwack! and a very pissed, very feminine voice.
"What the fuck, Em? Are trying to kill him?" I pried my eyes open to see who was bitching out Emmett McCarty this time.
"Holy shit, Bells! What did you just hit me with and what are you doing out here? This is a closed practice, get the fuck off the field," Emmett commanded. My head lolled from side to side trying to see who he was yelling back at. I finally caught a glimpse of her as she stepped into my field of vision, blocking the sun as she stood over me.
"My clipboard, and you know that I have a press pass. Don't ever talk to me that way, asstard, and this shit has to stop! That was a cheap shot! He's your teammate, for Pete's sake!"
"Why are you chicks all so eager to defend this prick? Don't think Eddiekins can take care of himself?"
"No one could if they had to deal with all you daft Delts. I swear you've all been knocked in the head one too many times." The shouting stopped, and she squatted down close to me, her head blocking the sun. I was having trouble focusing. "You okay?" By the time I realized she was talking to me, coach had jogged over to our little party and was hovering over me as well. She was all I could see, though. Her face was completely blacked out, but could make out the thick curtain of hair that fell all around it. I felt someone taking off my helmet, and I tried to sit the fuck up so I could see who she was. I sucked in a sharp gasp.
"Whoa, there, buddy. I think you need to stay right where you are for now. Can you talk?" asked the hair with a voice of an angel.
What the fuck? An angel? Who the hell talks like that? I tell you who: a pussy, that's who! Pull your shit together!
Shut. Up. I growled back at Captain Kirk. Or Shatner. Did it really matter? They were really one and the same, and both annoying as hell. I just wish whoever he was would leave me alone. The last thing I needed was my prick of an inner voice to pick that moment to jump in and join the fun. Fun being a relative fucking term at the moment.
I tried to answer her, but my chest really hurt like a motherfucker. Emmett must have finally cracked a rib that time. That shit hurt! My hand went to my ribs, and I groaned in pain. Somehow I managed to squeak out a quiet, "Fuuuuuuuuuuuck!"
"Stay still, son. Let me get these pads off ya so I can get a look at those ribs," coach instructed as he rolled me to my side to loosen the safety gear.
So much for protective wear, the inner voice of doom chuckled sarcastically.
"Careful, coach, he doesn't look so good," worried the sweet voice. My eyes shifted to catch a glimpse of her just as she had her head turned, talking to the man who was rolling my battered body around like it was fucking pizza dough. All I saw was a quick flash of a smile, but I was convinced in that instant that she was an angel.
I think you took a hit to the head as well as the chest, Golden Boy.
I mean it, dammit! Shut the fuck up, Shatner! I'm trying to die here, and you can't even respect that! I was at my breaking point.
"I think he's gonna pass out. Emmett, you stupid ass, go get the guy some water or Gatorade or something, and stop snickering before I kick you so hard you have to fish your athletic cup from your prostate!" She was a feisty angel, for sure. From somewhere deep inside my head I heard the opening strains of "Lady" by Styx. I had no clue where that shit came from, except that my mother had an affinity for sappy love songs. Regardless, the song filtered through my fuzzy mind.
Dude, what's with the cheesy 70's power ballads playing over the loud speakers in here? Can you cut that shit out? It's getting old and really fucking annoying!
You're getting really old, and you’re always fucking annoying! Why do you even hang around if I annoy you so much? I was here first, so just pack up your shit and go back to the Starship Enterprise!
Oh, no way! I'm sticking around for a front row seat to this train wreck. There's no getting rid of me now.
I realized it was pointless to argue with the voice in my head. I had a moment where I worried that I may be suffering from Dissociative Identity Disorder. Great. I went from thinking I had PTSD earlier to worrying about having DID? Now I was a fucking hypochondriac, too. I decided to add it to the list of all the ways I was stacking up to be exactly like the losers I had despised in high school. I was falling fast.
I moaned. Between the pain in my side and the pain in the ass that was currently squatting in my cerebral cortex like a bum in an alleyway, I was ready to call it quits and sign a DNR form so those fuckers wouldn't try to resuscitate me when I finally died. Hell, I'd pull the damn plug myself. That is if there'd been a plug to pull.
As the last notes of the love song wafted over my synapses, before I blacked out, I heard the voice of the angel one last time.
"So help me, McCarty, you had best get your head out of your ass, or our deal is off! I swear, you and the Delts will be on your own. And as for our other 'arrangement,' well, you can sure as hell forget about that, mister!"
8==D
Chapter 1 Chapter 3
