Fucking fuck.
I groan, my hands instinctively dropping to protect the boys, but it’s too late.
Tears sting the corners of my eyes, and I clamp my eyelids shut, suppressing them.
I’ve never cried on the field and I’m not about to start now, even if I have a busted nut.
“Jesus Christ.” Vaughn crouches next to me. At least, I think he does. I can’t see him because I’m folded like an accordion and my goddamn eyes are sealed shut, but his voice seems to be at ear level as he asks, “Are you okay?”
“I think my soul just left my body,” I pant, gasping for breath. “What the fuck just happened?”
He doesn’t answer and when I finally open my eyes, he’s holding out a rolled blue and white t-shirt.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He shakes his head. “Afraid not.”
I scan the sideline for the Wildcat and he makes anoopsiegesture, covering his mouth with both hands as the cheerleaders put the cannon back on the cart.
At least no one else will get shot in the nuts today.
A trainer rushes over and the O-line crowds in as he grills me about my pain level—which is a fucking twelve on a ten-point scale—and suggests I hit the bench while he gets some ice.
Right. Because I’m going to apply an ice pack to my junk in front of one hundred thousand people like a complete and total douche.
“Am I hallucinating right now, or did that just happen?” Coop asks, struggling to speak through fits of laughter.
I straighten, despite the painful throbbing in my groin. “Fuck you and your jokes, DeLaurentis.”
Smith slaps me on the back as I hobble over to the bench to await my ice pack. “Man, that’s the funniest shit I’ve ever seen.”
“That’s certainly one way to make history,” Reid says, clapping my shoulder as I pass.
I think he’s trying to be supportive, but it’s a miss for me.
“That shit is going to be on ESPN and every other network by tomorrow morning,” Coop crows. “Our boy is about to reach meme status.”
Lucky me.
As I drop on the bench, a video appears on the big screen. It’s a clip of the Wildcat with the goddamn cannon. I watch in horror as he lowers the cannon and fires. The camera swings to me and though it missed the initial impact, they got a great shot of me bent in half clutching my balls.
Just my fucking luck.
* * *
An hour later,I’m chilling in the trainer’s room with an icepack on my nuts, celebrating the fact that we’re the only team in the conference that’s 5-0 when my phone vibrates with another incoming text.
Judging by the timestamps, it’s been blowing up since the third quarter. More specifically, since I got nailed in the dick with a t-shirt. So far, it’s been a mix of sympathy—mostly from family, plus a handful of cleat chasers—and smartass comments from my friends.
Aside from my parents, I haven’t responded to the messages, leaving them on read.
I check the new message and a slow grin spreads across my face when I see it’s from Sutton.
Shorty: Heard about the unfortunate incident during today’s game.
Fuck. She doesn’t even like football. How the hell did she hear about it already?
Because all of Wildcat nation was there to bear witness to your humiliation.
