Elevator

Chapter.24

This chapter is dedicated to the awesome @xxNobodySpecialxx for getting the riddle right first (here's you hug) (づ￣ ³￣)づ !!!a lot of you got it right, but she was the first so yeah . YAY ^.^ Go follow her and do the HAPPY DANCE with her :P I love you all ;)

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*Ashton P.O.V*

"Ashton, your dad said he was going to come to the game next week. He knows how important this is to you," my mom beams, while washing the dishes. "Aren't you excited?" she asks , confused noticing that I wasn't smiling. 

"Yeah," I urge, forcing a smile as I walk into the house. "It's just school, you know," I say truthfully, but not mentioning any detail's.

Honestly, I just feel like crap. Why did I say such stupid things? I groan, plopping myself down on my bed. I slip my shoes off and loosen my tie. I am such a jerk! Two people found out about the elevator, I got kicked off the football, and I maybe, kind of took my anger on Amanda. She hates me now for sure and she's going to avoid me. And now everything just sucks.

*Flashback*

"Ashton, when you hold the ball, place your fingers by these lines,"  my dad shows me exactly how. I mirror his position and place my fingers by the lines, while licking my lips. I can do this, I know I can! "Now son, you raise your arms like this," my dad raises his arms and so did I. "Then, you throw." Dad threw the ball and so did I.

The only difference was the fact that dad's ended up going all the way to the other side of the yard. And mine ended up, flying in back of me and hitting the chairs.

"I don't get it, dad." I pout, like the little kid  I was. "I did the same thing as you and I still couldn't throw like you." 

"Well that's true, kid. No one can throw like your amazing dad!" he replies, puffing his chest , to make himself look some what more manly.

"What!?" I yell in shock. 

Is this it? Was all my hard work in vain? Would I never be able to play football like my dad? I walk away, sulking, hoping the tears wouldn't fall.

"I'm just kidding," my dad lightly chuckles as I turn to face him. He bends down to my level and ruffles my hair. I make a disgusted face as I groan. "The reason why you can't throw like me is because well... wait I don't know if I can tell you," he jokes once again, but I didn't realize.

"Don't worry, dad, I won't tell any one," I assure him as my eyes widen, waiting impatiently to here his next word.

He clears his throat and proceeds. " It's because you have your own football inside you," he smiles.

"There's a football inside me?!" I ask, astonished, while patting my belly, attempting to feel it.

"No," he laughs, taking a hold of my hand. "It's a metaphor," he explains.

"A metaphor," I repeat with awe. I was unsure what the word meant, but kept that to myself. I can't let my dad know, that I don't know.

"Yes. That means, you don't actually have one in you, but you have a unique style," my dad gets up and picks up the football. "You can take the fact that you are able to throw backwards to your advantage."

"How? By hitting other players?" I ask, not amused.

"Well, you can catch the opposing team off guard, by throwing the ball backwards like how you did before, now to your teammates." He plays with the ball and then passes it to me. "Try it."