Crash and Burn

•19•

September
Jackson

     Brett taps his racket with mine in silent praise for my deflection. I and the rest of the defenders get reorganized after stopping the b-string from scoring. As I readjust my helmet, I notice Coach O'Malley taking notes, vigorously, on his clipboard. I always get self-conscious when he's doing that. There's a whistle from one of the coaches signaling for the two attackers to start their fight over the ball. Linden, our a-string attacker, gets the ball and sprints for the other side of the goal. He doges multiple players before he's blocked and has to pass it to Kyle. Linden through the pearl a little further up the field and a little higher than the player. Kyle sprints off, spinning around defenders, before taking a running leap and catching the ball in his net.

However, the b-strings aren't totally useless. The attacker that Linden fought for the ball comes sprinting at Kyle while he's coming back down from his catch. The attacker body checks Kyle right as he hits the ground. Kyle goes flying, the pearl coming loose from his rackets net. I hear Kyle gasp as the air is knocked from his lungs, his back arching a bit. The player who body checked him just stands there as another one of his teammates gets the ball and beads towards us.

Kyle is a pretty big dude, but this body checker He's not. I mean, he's definitely taller than me, six-foot maybe. But he wasn't ripped like Kyle. It was hard to even tell with all the gear on, but I knew he wasn't all muscled up.

The defense line is so disoriented from Kyle's KO that we hardly put up any fight with the attacker maneuvering through us. Then there's the whistle of a net being swung, a body hitting the ground, and a ball hitting the net. The b-strings erupt in excited cheers that the attacker runs back—meeting the body checker halfway—and chest-bumping him midair. Linden jogs over to Kyle and helps him up.

Coach O'Malley blows his whistle and everyone rallies around him, the other coaches passing out waters. Coach taps his board as he scans our helmeted heads. Then he nods. "Not bad today, gentlemen. That last play was a little embarrassing for my starters," there are snickers for the b-stringers, "but they held up for the majority of the scrimmage. Good defending, Daniels. I really liked that deflection towards the end of the game. Uh, Chapman, great job as usual. Bergman, take it easy this weekend." He ran through a few more names and then, "Smith, God, great job, but stop hurting my starters."

I scan the group for Smith. The majority of the team has taken their helmets off. Their hair matted from sweat. Then I find who I assume is Smith. His teammates are around him jumping and clapping him on the back and spraying him with their water bottles. His dark hair is soaked and his smile isn't bigger than a smug smirk.

"Alright, you disgusting boys. No wondering some of you can't get a girlfriend, y'all smell awful." More snickers. "Now go get cleaned up and for the ones who have significant others—have fun tonight. Enjoy your weekend. I'll see all of you bright and early for Monday morning practice." We break it down and start jogging to the locker room.

While I'm jogging I take my helmet off and shake my red hair loose.

The locker room is nothing but noise and steam from the showers. Lockers slam shut as players leave, showers squeak on and off. I turn my shower head off and wrap a towel around my waist. I got to UCF a bit late so my locker is all by itself on the last isle. I open and set my clothes on the bench.

Once I'm dressed I sling my duffle bag over my shoulder and head for the door, towel around my shoulders. Get dressed in this muggy room is the worst. On my way out my eyes can't help but drift to that Smith player.