My girl.
I never thought I’d get a chance to say that, but after last night I can finally see a tangible future. I knew I was a goner for Valentina the moment she threw her first barb. Fighting with that woman gets me as hard as a brick house. Then she just had to go and be utterly spectacular. Like a shooting star flashing across the night sky. Now I know that I must do everything I can to have her fall in love with me.
Soba isn’t the only one who’s a goner for a girl. Maybe it’s time that Papas catches up.
The whistle blows and the Cougars punter kicks the ball, attempting to do an onside kick. He flubs up and the ball barely travels five feet which means we have optimal field position. Which means it’s time for me to shine.
I situate my helmet and strap it on, jogging to meet Rinaldi in our huddle.
He lifts the flap on his wrist coach and gives us the play. “Y-stick with Loving at H-back and route up the middle. Chase, commit to the flat. Get that stick route to open up. Got it?” We nod, and he yells break as we all clap our hands.
We line up, me to Rinaldi’s right and the rest of our receivers set up to run their routes if I get stuck. I wigglemy fingers with nervous glee. This is my favorite route and has never let me down. Our O-line needs to hold that outside linebacker, and the other receivers have to get those corners to engage. All that’s left is running through the safety’s and hitting my spot right when Rinaldi launches.
We’re on the Cougars 46-yard line and I can easily get fifteen if I hit the hole just right.
“Thirty-one red. Thirty-one red. Away. Hike.” The ball is snapped and I break, sprinting straight for the hole our tackle has freed up.
Just like we hoped, the corners are right on our receivers' heels and Rinaldi drops back. I see him over my shoulder and throw up my hand. He launches the ball and it flies through the air, a perfect spiral as always.
The Cougars safety falls right in line with me and I have to work to put my shoulder at his face and keep my catching hand free. I see it curve and begin to drop just where I need it to be. I jump up like I’m on a springboard and reach for the ball with both hands. It lands like a newborn baby cradled in my arms and I hit the ground with the safety on my back, his hands trying to swat my catch, then he wraps up and pulls me down.
I roll over as a few guys rush over and just as the safety stands, I see his face look down at me with venom in his eyes. His lips quirk up into an evil smile, then I feel his cleat pinch my left forearm, giving it a little twist to really grind it in there.
I scream in pain and Bash barrels at him, clocking him in the helmet. My O-line rushes as does the Cougars and flags fly everywhere. Refs are trying to break up the fighting and our trainer rushes onto the field to tend to me. I grip my arm, holding it close to my body andwrithing in pain. Fire spreads and all I can think about is how long I’ll be on the sidelines.
“Where are you hurt?” He yells over the crowd.
“My arm.” My voice is laced with pain and my eyes are squeezed shut.
“Can you walk?” I nod my head with my face and teeth clenched. “Let’s get you up.” Chase and the trainer help me to my feet with a grunt.
The ref turns on his mic and I hear him call the penalties. “There are multiple fouls on the play. Unsportsmanlike conduct, defense number ninety-one. Unsportsmanlike conduct, offense number sixty-eight. Both players are ejected. First down.”
The crowd boos and cheers and players rush off the field while there is an injury timeout. I’m rushed into the tent and the training team begins examining me. The pain begins to dwindle from a ten to a six, but they insist I go into the med room for a better look.
I run off the field, still holding my arm, and our trainer runs right beside me.
“I’m not gonna lie, Nic. It looks like a sprain.”
“I’m fine. Just throw it in some ice and get me back out there.” I argue with him because there is no way I’ll accept that this is anymore than a small injury that will have me missing the rest of the game at most.
We don’t stop jogging until we’re back in the physician’s room. Dr. Wilson listens to what happened, explained by me and the trainers, and works quickly to find out exactly what’s going on. I’m thrown into the x-ray room, and the tech scans. When I come out, I sit waiting for the doc to give me the all clear.
He walks in, the look on his face gloom, and I already know. “Fuck no. I’m fine Wilson. I’ll sit out the remainder of the game.”
“It’s a sprain. Two to four weeks,” he replies.
“No! I’ve gotta play in the Thanksgiving game against the Warriors. I’m not sitting out four weeks.”
“It doesn’t really matter what you want. We have to get you into PT and take it from there.”
My nostrils flare and my teeth gnash with anger. “Two,” I argue.
“We’ll see. Let’s get you fixed up for now and changed. You can go back out but then you’re off to more exams after.”
I shake my head, burning with rage and wanting revenge on that prick. I hope Bash fucked him and that he thinks it was worth the ejection and subsequent fine that will follow.
I’m laying flat on my back, my eyes closed and my mind clouded with negative thoughts. After the game when we came out to see our friends and family, Valentina ran and practically jumped into my arms before remembering my injury. She had tears in her eyes and a wobbly lip.
