Elliot ditched his jock reputation after high school. He happily traded his cleats and shoulder pads for college cafeteria food and seminars notes. Now, without the distraction of football, he has managed to find success at the University of Minneso...
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"Welcome, folks," the loud speaker boomed. "To the fifth non-conference football game of the season - and the first between the Golden Gophers and the Fighting Irish since 1938."
Being in a stadium full of students felt like a circus of nostalgia. The smell of salty pretzels, the noisy students, and yes, even the tacky body glitter made Elliot cringe. He recalled the endless practices and tournaments he had endured during high school, not missing his sore muscles and bruises. It seemed like a different chapter in his life, or maybe a different book entirely. From his place on the stands, he could finally enjoy football instead of cursing its invention.
He watched the team track the ball as Quinn sprinted down the field. She was faster than most of the other players - most. A speedy running back tailed her, beating her pace with his wide strides. He cornered her to the edge of the field and she fumbled.
Elliot rolled his eyes. "Dickhead," he muttered.
"GOOD RUN, QUINNIE!" Nicki screamed into the wind. Supportively, she added, "YOU LOOK REALLY PRETTY!"
College football was different than high school. Elliot remembered petty fights and sideline brawls. He wasn't used to such clean, non-violent games.
"Notre Dame's number nineteen Ronan Price sacks Minnesota's number twenty-two Quinn Strat."
Some things never change, though. Ronan was still the star, even in a different state.
"But make no mistake," the announcer continued. "Strat may have fumbled, but she is a player to watch. Earlier this season, at only 19 years old, she became the first woman to set the collegiate record for most rushing yards in a single game, beating Price's previous record of 298. She is definitely Minnesota's ace - every time they player her, they can't lose."
The crowd roared, sweeping the players with a medley of shouts and wooing.
On the field, Ronan tore off his helmet and approached Quinn. She removed her mouth guard to spit. Her tongue tasted too much like dirt.
"Damn, girl. You can run," he praised.
She didn't even blink. "And you can keep your compliments to yourself. This isn't little league."
