On the next play, Reid passes the ball to number eighty-seven—Parker—who makes the catch and pivots toward the end zone. Before he can take a single step, a defender in green and white closes in, drops his shoulder, and hammers Parker’s right side.
The hit is brutal and I gasp as he goes down, the crunch of protective gear echoing across the field.
Dios mío. How can he possibly walk away from a hit like that?
Parker’s crumpled form lies prone in the grass, unmoving, the ball tucked protectively under his arm. My chest tightens, and an eternity passes as I wait for him to sit up or move or do something.
Come on, Parker. Get up.
He doesn’t so much as wiggle his fingers.
Fear crawls up my spine, and I clasp my paws together, willing him to move.
Get up and walk it off, you smug bastard!
If he thinks a football injury is going to get him out of doing his half of the AMP term paper, he’s got another thing coming, so he might as well get up and get on with it already.
Right. Freaking. Now.
Myattention is laser focused on Parker—as is most of the stadium—and when he finally rolls over, it’s like the steel band circling my chest has been cut away and I can breathe again, full and deep. I fill my lungs with fresh air as one of his teammates offers him a hand and pulls him to his feet. They do some weird dude handshake and then it’s like nothing even happened.
They just go right back to playing the game.
No “I’m good.”No “Sorry for scaring the shit out of you.” Not even a wave to say, “Thanks for your concern, but I’ve got this.”
What. The. Actual. Fuck?
My head is spinning and my emotions have a severe case of whiplash, but I shake it off and clap along with the rest of the players and fans. Why anyone would want to play a game where their brains are at risk of being scrambled is beyond me. And why are Americans so obsessed with football, anyway? It’s archaic and hard hitting and lacks the grace and beauty of a sport like gymnastics.
Then it’s probably a good thing no one asked your opinion.
Fair enough.
The clock finally runs out and the whistle sounds, signaling half-time, my favorite part of game day, second only to the final whistle.
I head for the tunnel, fantasizing about a cold shower and a bucket of water, but Sharpe waves me over.
Right on schedule.
The man has a habit of calling for me whenever there’s a water break and I’m half-convinced it’s intentional. Just an extra little twist of the knife on this heinous punishment.
Maybe it’s paranoia, but if anyone knows how hot and miserable this suit is, surely it’s the Spirit Squad Head Coach.
I follow him into the tunnel and he leads me to a rolling cart that’s been pushed off to the side. It’s filled with cardboard boxes and though the boxes on top of the cart are open, I can’t see the contents.
“What’s all this?” I ask, resting my paws on my hips.
Sharpe moves to the far side of the cart, lips pressed into a grim line.
Because that’s not foreboding or anything.
“We’re trying something different today.” He hefts a blue and white device that looks a bit like a paintball gun and has a long white tube bearing the Waverly logo where the barrel should be. “The Assistant Athletic Director for Marketing and Promotions came to see me yesterday. He wants us to try something new this weekend.” Sharpe pauses, probably to catch his breath after reciting that absurdly long title. “If it goes well and the fans enjoy it, it could become part of the regular program.”
“And what exactly is this mysterious test?” I ask, his vague explanation spurring my suspicion.
“A t-shirt cannon.”
A t-shirt cannon? He can’t be serious.
