Charlie
Thecrowdisroaring,axes swinging in sync, the field is tense with anticipation. First home game of the season, and the fans are crazed for a win.
And I’m crazed to kill my bloody twin. His smug ass on the sideline, bamboozling the general manager to get him a sideline pass. Fucking bollocks is what it is.
Filthy son of a bitch, boyfriend stealing twat.
He’s a slimy snake slithering on the sideline, his cheeky fangs waiting to be rearranged by my cleats. Just you wait Drew, I’ll ruin you exactly how you tried to ruin me. But I’m not giving up. I’m not the softie you are just gonna roll over and call it a day.
I don’t know what kind of venom he forced down Austin’s throat, but I’ll lather his mouth with rat poison, watch that motherfucker choke on the pellets.
If Austin wouldn’t run away every time I breathe in his direction or unblock me from his phone, we could sort this out. We haven’t even broken up properly. In my mind we are still getting it on, our relationship thrown in a scuffle by a fucking puck stopper.
Uggh I thought he’d be over these mind games by now. I know my father fucked him up and made him hate the world, but for heaven's sake his frontal cortex should have developed past that.
That thick skull should have formed the ability to empathize or at the very least comprehend that stalking and fucking your brother’s boyfriend is not normal behavior.
Oi Charlie… get your head out of your arse.
You got the whole country waiting for your—Monday night kickoff. You can’t cock this up, you’re a queer and a Brit. Two things that should automatically disqualify you from American Football. And you are as old as the queen compared to these young bucks.
The referee blows the whistle, I summon a deep breath and trot my way forward. My mind and body merge into a single flow of consciousness. My tippy toes wallop the leather into the end zone for a touchback. Bloody classic.
This is what they pay me for, a zinger of a leg, with the accuracy of a drone. The Lumberjacks haven’t allowed a touchdown return from a kickoff since signing my arse.
Roars of approval spawn in the stands.
My brother isn’t the only one that’s a sports legend in Minnesota.
Suck that, you twat.
I glance over to the sideline, Drew’s whispering some devilish sermon in Austin’s ear—probably just some more grime in an attempt to brainwash him.
Fucking bastard, wait until Austin runs back to my side, fleeing from your fangs. It’ll send him back to the bottle, incapacitating hisarse for weeks. But that might be exactly what he needs to shift his focus from my boyfriend.
A bender consumed with alcohol and God knows what kind of drugs he picks up from the streets of downtown St. Paul. Pills, lines of speed, or IV injections. Nothing would surprise me.
The first half is bloodbath, the Wisconsin Cheeseheads came to play tonight. Every yard is fought for with sweat and grunts. All of a sudden the score is 14 – 14. There are four seconds left on the clock in the half.
Our offense drove us down to the forty-four yard line. A field goal from here would be a sixty-one-yarder. Normally, sweat would be dripping down my knickers in this situation. But tonight, I would love nothing more than to show Austin what a fucking hunk I am on the turf.
The Lumberjacks pay me 6.9 million per year, the highest in the league for a bloody kicker. Last season, I went for 46/48 field goals made for a 96% percent success rate. Tonight, I’ll make sure it’s 100%. Show them what a ‘washed up’ thirty-nine year old can do.
I inhale a heavy breath, letting the thoughts of Austin and Drew escape my mind, allowing my being to funnel every drop of my focus into harmony between my right foot and mind. A superhighway of nerves buzzing all at once.
The referee screams his whistle, the ball launches back from the center, Cheeseheads are blitzing on the edges. The crowd is silent.
I launch my foot, leather flying in the air. My heart flutters, this one felt a bit off. I close my eyes, waiting for the announcers to flood the air with the call.
“Folks this one is looking tight… I’m not sure—Oh wait… it sneaks right inside! It’s good!!! Lumberjacks take the lead heading into halftime 17 – 14. If there’s one thing to count on, it’s the foot of Charlie Evans.”
Ha. That makes me chuckle, the whole stadium hearing the announcers gloat my name on national broadcast. This old man still has it.
I trot my way to the locker room tunnel, fans trying to pat my back on the way, begging for me to sign their black and red jerseys. I sign a couple to be generous and continue on the concrete floor. Cleats a-clacking.
The halftime locker room meeting is only for players. Might be my only opportunity to slink a few words into Austin’s ears without Drew slithering down his back, controlling every moment of his life, like a choker managing the words that are allowed to spill from his mouth.
My eyes frantically search for Austin’s jersey, number thirteen. He’s in the far corner of the locker room, doing his best to hide from me. I snake my way through the team, trying to reach him in between Coach’s words. “Good half, but not good enough. Those Cheeseheads—”
