I quickly react and stand up, sticking my arms straight out away from my body in revulsion. My cell phone and ear buds drop like a rock through the slats of the bleachers. One entire side of the field turns to see where the death cry originated from. Most of them wearing a momentary look of concern on their faces until they see where and particularly who it’s coming from.
Me.
“Oh, it’s just Coop,” someone says casually from the sidelines. “He’s hysterical.”
They comment as if it’s a usual occurrence to see Coop terrorizing me like some sort of fraternity boy hazing a neophyte. Uh, reality check people. This isn’t normal.
Coop and I haven’t said much to each other since last night, but it’s obvious that he’s not pleased with me. I didn’t think he would be, but I guess he’s pissed that I quit, and he didn’t see it coming, and probably that I fell asleep on the phone last night too. It explains the sweat bath. This is how he expresses himself when he’s fuming. Like a thirteen-year-old brat.
I can feel the muscles in my neck tighten when Coop lets out a deep boisterous laugh at my expense and tosses me a damp towel with the Nighthawks logo on it.
“Here, Owens. Don’t ever say I never gave you anything.”
I almost use the thing to wipe myself off when it dawns on me that it’s damp because it’s also soaked with Coop’s sweat, so I throw it right back at him, which only encourages him to laugh even harder.
“No thanks. You looked a little tired out there today. You probably need it more.”
I use my next best option and turn my T-shirt up to wipe my face forgetting for a moment that I don’t wear a bra most days in the summer. Luckily before I flash anyone my teacup sized boobs, Coop throws the balled-up towel back hard at me. It hits me with a thump in the center in my chest.
“Ouch!”
“Stop flashing your boobs to the fans,” he says gruffly. “You’ll frighten the children.”
I allow my shirt to fall down as the spectators around us including the same two grumpy grandpas up front try badly to hold back their laughter. I’ve long since decided that most people here today are drunk. Four or five beers, drinking in this heat, and everything starts to seem a little funny.
“Excuse me. We don’t mean to interrupt, but do you mind signing an autograph for my boy, Mr. Barnes?”
A woman with a kind face, who’s been sitting within earshot of us, asks Coop for an autograph for her son who is standing quietly by her side. While Coop chooses to avoid the media, he acts much differently with his fans. I wipe my hands off on my leggings and pull a promotional picture out of my bag and hand it to him along with a Sharpie.
“What’s your name?” He crouches down to ask the boy.
“Craig.”
“Nice to meet you, Craig. Do you play football?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What position do you play?”
“Coach said I’m small, so they made me a free safety.”
“Awesome. That’s a great position. That means you’re fast.”
The little boy’s eyes light up from the compliment.
“Did you have a good time today?”
“Yup!”
“You weren’t bored?”
“No, sir. Not even a little bit.”
“Are the Nighthawks your favorite team?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who’s your favorite player on the team?”
