The good news is that when I land, I land flat on the dirt.
No Addie beneath me.
No rugby ball beneath me.
No crooked stick beneath me.
The bad news is that dots start dancing in my vision.
Fuck.
I know this feeling.
It’s not the impact.
It’s dehydration and overheating.
I need water.
Stat.
“I stand corrected,” she says over me. “You can, in fact, hit a rugby ball with a hockey stick while in that stance. Nicely done, Captain.”
I breathe in dirt and sweat. I should push myself up, but I don’t want to.
Not while my head’s swimming.
“Cut!” the director yells. “Beautiful. That was absolutely beautiful. Nice improv, Coach.”
“Electrolytes,” she says to someone. “Now. Collins. Get over here. I need muscle. Yours better not be all for show.”
Shit.
I’m still on the ground.
And I don’t want to move.
Fuuuuck. I know what this means.
“Still with us, Duncan?” she says quieter, closer.
“Yep.” I try to move my arms, but she puts a hand to one, making me go still.
“Don’t move just yet. Did you land on anything wrong?”
“My pride.”
“Anything hurt? Ribs? Ankles? Wrists?”
“I didn’t fall that hard.”
“Hot?”
“Fucking sun. Fucking eighty million takes.”
“You still sweating?”
I don’t answer because she won’t like the answer.
