Coaching the Nerd (Nerds Vs Jocks #2) - Eli Easton Page 0,2

Tray ran backward, holding up the ball and scanning ahead.

There. He was running backward, toward the north end. Yet he appeared to be intent on the southern goal. That was exactly the sort of—

“Sean! Catch!” he yelled and sent the ball sailing right toward me.

Oh. Oh shit.

I held up my arms. Perhaps I should have informed everyone beforehand that I’d never played ball before. I’d never caught a football in my life. Oh fuck.

The ball hit me, after sailing over my outstretched arms, and the pointy end slammed into my sternum, causing a wave of pain and stealing my breath. But somehow, I managed to fold my arms in and hang on to it. I was quite proud of myself for that, even as I was gasping for air.

“Run!” someone was shouting. “Run, Sean!”

Oh. Yes.

I paused only a fraction of a second, half turning toward the goal line close behind me. But then, of course, I remembered. I started running, hugging the ball, toward the north end.

Dear God, it was far away. Did I really have to run all that way?

For a moment, it seemed like everyone just looked at me. And I wondered if, perhaps, because I was the new guy, they were giving me a head start? That was sporting of them.

Where were the boundaries? My instinct was to curve left to escape what would surely be an assault at any moment since I was holding the ball. But going out of bounds was an offense 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 the way a fox felt when they were let out of a cage in front of a pack of hounds. I ran as fast as I could, which wasn’t very fast on the slippery wet grass. And I still hadn’t gotten my breath back and….

And then 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, my effort 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 glass 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 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.