Schooling the Jock (Nerds Vs Jocks #1) - - Eli Easton Page 0,98
that earned a penalty, according to the rules I’d read online. But the lines, on this practice field, were not marked. How far left was too far?
“Sean, what the fuck are you doing?” shouted Tray.
And then everyone ran at me all at once. The disgust in Tray’s shout told me I was doing something wrong, but I was committed now and also really wanted to avoid the dozen people heading my way. This must be what a rabbit felt like when it’s released from a cage in front of a pack of hounds. My lungs were working again, thankfully, and I sucked in lungs full of air and ran as fast as I could, which wasn’t very fast on the slippery wet grass.
A multitude of hands reached for me. I tried to dodge and stepped into a skid mark slick with mud. I flailed, losing the ball as my arms waved for balance, but it was no use.
As if in slow motion, I felt flags being yanked off my belt even as I sailed through the air. I tried to grab onto someone’s arm to stop my fall, but they pulled away and my effort was in vain. I landed, spectacularly, in a thick ooze of mud.
Have you ever seen that video of milk droplets forming a veritable crown as a drop falls into a pool of milk in slow motion? That was probably what it looked like as I face-planted right into the thick of it, and the mud splashed up all around my head.
It was disgusting—cold and slimy and gritty. I managed not to breathe it in, but I could taste the dirt and feel it in my mouth as I sat up, spluttering. My knee hurt badly—probably skinned—as did my wrist and palm where I’d tried to catch myself.
People were laughing and someone—Tray, I think—berated me using the word fuck liberally. But my glasses were covered with mud, so I couldn’t see. Shame and humiliation burned through me as I sat, the mud now soaking through my sweatpants to coat my butt. I removed my glasses to attempt to clean them, but the mud still stung in my eyes and my shirt was soaked. I wouldn’t cry. I would not cry.
Someone squatted down in front of me as I attempted to wipe slime out of my eyes with my sleeve. He took the glasses from my hand. Even though he was a little blurry, I could see it was Bubba. I blinked to clear my vision and watched as he cleaned my muddy lenses on his gray sweatshirt. His tongue poked out in concentration, and when they were clean, he looked at my face and carefully put the glasses back on, tucking each end behind my ears with utter focus. Then he met my gaze and smiled at me sheepishly. “Um… turns out you were on Tray’s team. Sorry. My bad.”
A silly bubble of warmth bloomed in my chest at his kindness. “Oh,” I said. “Yes, I thought that’s what Tray said at the start. I should have been more insistent.”
Bubba’s smile widened. “Yeah, it’s pretty much always a good idea not to listen to me.” He shrugged, but there was something in the self-deprecating remark that made me wonder. He held out his hand. “Lemme help you up.”
He pulled me to my feet. I winced when I put weight on the leg with the skinned knee and my hand hurt. With my lenses clean, I could see Tray standing there with his arms crossed, looking at me with what could only be termed disgust.
“It’s my fault.” Bubba told him. “I told Hedgehog—er, Sean—he was on my team and he should run that way.”
“Bubba, what the fuck!” Tray said loudly, but then he rolled his eyes and the tension eased, like maybe it wasn’t that big a deal.
“Yeah, well, Bubba strikes again,” Bubba said with another shrug. “Anyhow, Sean needs to go home and clean up. So fuck off, dudes.”
Bubba put his arm around my shoulder and helped me limp off the field. At the far end, I could swear he gave me a little pat on the rump as he shooed me off toward home like a child. “See ya, Sean,” he said, a little downheartedly.
“It’s not your fault,” I said. It absolutely was his fault, but he’d been trying to be helpful, which was more than I could say for anyone else on the team. But Bubba was already jogging away, back toward the game.