Friday Night Lights (Patrochilles)

Friday Night Lights

Exhaustion ached over him and the idea that even after practice was over, there was still another 30 minutes of walking to be done, made his brain hurt.

Patroclus grabbed his unnecessarily large (and heavy) duffel bag, packed full of football equipment. He had managed to (mostly) stuff his backpack inside and he wrapped the shoulder strap around his shoulders so it fit like a backpack, the strap rubbing against his neck and the bag and it's contents slapping against the back of his knees.

It was the height of high school football preseason and Georgia's summer heat, the worst possible combination. The coaches were certain the pain and sweat would be worth it when their champion team went to state, led by the crush-worthy star quarterback, Achilles.

Most of the boys had cars, rotting pieces of steel pickup trucks or fresh-out-of-Detroit sedans. There seemed to be no in between of poverty and high class. In school it was class tension; on the field you were judged by your skill. Could you kick? Could you run? Could you pass? Could you throw?

Patroclus was built for wide receiver in the sense that he wasn't built. He was smaller than most of the towering giants on the field. But he could slip in between players faster than anyone else and his feet were their own mind. Running wasn't a chore: it was freeing. He was still muscular but he didn't need freakishly large arms or insanely toned legs.

The cars honked and blasted country music as they tore out of the parking lot, hitting the accelerator as they hit the county highways. Mothers picked up their freshman and sophomores, still too young to be driving.

Patroclus was the only senior who would be making the walk home, walking along the dusty gravel side of the road, as his fellow players sped by, most likely laughing but never offering a ride. He was used to the work and solitude by now. To have four years of a lonely high school experience gave one mental strength. When you had problems, you had no one to text. No one to vent to. No one to rant to.

Achilles, however, had everyone and everything.

Patroclus had made the mistake of grabbing his phone after practice one day. The amount of notifications was staggering. The texts were from everyone: club advisers, his father, his mother, doting girls trying not to come off as easy yet exuding it, and guys trying to get him to parties.

He was the school's golden boy, and it was easy to see how. Patroclus was smitten and he didn't consider himself so easily swayed. It wasn't just his looks-- though that had been the first thing Patroclus noticed. He spoke with an air of dignity and respect yet, he wasn't always interested in what you had to say. He'd politely ask you to shut up and you'd do it. But the respect thing was what drew Patroclus in. They'd spoken maybe once or twice outside of the required football conversations.

The first time was the phone situation. Patroclus had grabbed Achilles' phone by accident and pressed the power button. As he gaped at the sudden notifications he thought he had, Achilles had come up behind him, smiling. "I think we mixed phones up," he said, simply plucking his out of Patroclus' hands and replacing his phone with Patroclus'. Patroclus stumbled over apologetic words and he got a smile and a nod in return. His own phone was free of notifications. If they had spoken before that, it hadn't been memorable and had been lost to time. But Patroclus doubted it.

But now Achilles was driving alongside him as he left the school parking lot, passenger side window rolled down. "Where are you going?" he called out, causing Patroclus to stop. He'd been expecting taunting and teasing but on second thought, this was Achilles...

"Just home." It was simple enough. Part of Patroclus wanted him to go away, so the risk of embarrassing himself would disappear with the blue Ford pickup, but the other part...