Sweet as Syn

28: GREYSON-Mother Teresa

Thank fuck Syn didn't sleep over, because the poor girl would've woken up covered in vomit. At around six a.m., with no warning, I woke up and threw up on my pillow before I had the chance to make it to the bathroom.

As if on cue, I hear synchronous footsteps, all of us running to our bathrooms.

"Brooklyn!" I hear Hunter scream from his room down the hall from mine. "I'm going to force-feed you your own cooking, and then I'm going to murder you!"

I open my mouth to laugh, but the moment I do, the contents in my stomach empty into the toilet, my intestines coiling painfully. God, I hate being sick. I should have known not to pity-eat Brooklyn's E. Coli salad.

After two more rounds of retching up burning hot acid and falling asleep with my head in the toilet, my phone rings and wakes me up. "In The Ayer" by Flo Rida blares from my nightstand to the bathroom, and I force myself to crawl into the other room because I know Syn is on the other line.

I snatch the phone off the stand and fall back to the floor, curling up in fetal position. How I managed to move and make it all the way here, I have no idea.

"Did you die?" is how she greets me. All I can do is mumble incoherently, hoping she'll get the hint that yes, I did indeed die. "Grey?" Now she sounds concerned. "It's nine-thirty," she informs me, and if I wasn't feeling like absolute ass, I would have had a mini heart attack. I'm missing game day practice right now, the most important warm up before the game. "I stopped by to drop off protein shakes, but none of you are here right now. Is everyone alright?"

"Please..." I try to say, but it barely comes out. "Tell Coach we got food poisoning."

"Oh my gosh, the freaking salad," she says, and I can practically see her biting her cheek, trying to contain her laughter.

I hear wind in the speaker, then overhear her conversation with my coach.

"Hi Coach Amodio, I'm sorry to interrupt, but Greyson, Cameron, Hunter and Brooklyn are currently all in bed with food poisoning."

"Shit!" I hear him curse, then apologize to Syn for cursing. "Did that idiot Bernardeau guilt-trip them into eating his cooking again?"

She giggles and I assume nods, and he curses again. "Alright, thanks for lettin' me know. You can tell them they can sit out for this game, but their asses better be planted on the bench, wearing their jerseys."

Fuck. I'd hate to miss a game now, especially if none of my guys are playing. I trust my team, but the four of us usually wrack up most of the winning points.

"Okay, thanks, Coach. They're going to be devastated about missing out, but I'll let them know. I'll see you on the field tonight."

There's a pause, and then a, "You're a nice, young lady, Syn." Although I'm cringing in embarrassment, Amodio is more of a father-figure than my own dad, and it feels kinda nice knowing he approves. "I don't know what those dimwits did to get you, but they're lucky to have ya."

Damn straight we are.

"Oh, I was forced into it," she jokes, and I'll be damned if I just heard a friggin' chuckle come out of him. "I'll see you tonight, sir. Good luck to you and your boys."

Gosh, I can listen to her talk all day with that honey sweet voice of hers, even if it's not to me. Also, what eighteen-year-old has such polite manners, and the ability to make the grumpiest of old men laugh? Seriously, I have the best fucking girlfriend.

"I'll be over in fifteen," she tells me, and I call out, "No!" as best as I can. I don't want her seeing me curled up on the floor like an incompetent child, covered in vomit. But my attempt at speaking only had me gagging and throwing up on the bedroom floor, and it seems as if Syn already made up her mind and is on her way over.