Our Sandbox

thirteen - nolan

Nolan

My body collides for the hundredth time into the dummy, the pads on my shoulders pressing harassing into my skin, a familiar and homely feeling. 

"Again!" Coach Rogers shouts again, blowing his whistle like a train conductor aggressively. I grind my teeth together, the thick sweat padding my forehead and plastering my hair to my head. I run back to the baseline, crouching into my starting position. 

Coach blows his whistle again and I charge at full force towards the dummy, the force of my impact slightly weaker than the last. I've been at this for nearly an hour. I guess I deserve it, after missing practice. 

But I knew Coach couldn't kick me off the team, or even bench me, not before the game on Friday versus Timberland High. Those bitches have been our rivals since the dawn of time. 

"You call that a block?" Coach shouts, and I turn to him, allowing my mouth guard to slip from my mouth. 

"Yes, sir." I shout back, trying to control my temper. I could tackle him instead of the dummy, but I don't think that would bode well with my scholarship opportunities. 

"This is what happens when you skip my practices boy!" He shouts, his normally pink face turning a dark shade of scarlet, like a piece of a grapefruit stuck on the body of a sumo wrestler. He told the team that when he was younger he was the king of Emerson High School, captain of the winning football team, the Panthers. But I can't imagine the more round than tall man being a stud. 

"It was for a good reason, Coach." I blurt back, pulling my helmet off my head and wiping my forehead with the back of my hand. He just grunts and rolls his eyes. 

"Let me guess, Melissa came calling?" He said sarcastically. Coach is a worse stalker than most girls, he actually knows who every player on the team is dating or semi-dating or even just hooking up with, even the bench warmers. 

"I'm disappointed Coach, you should know by now that we broke up." I smirk, picking up my water bottle and spraying a stream of the blissful drink into my mouth. 

Most other people on the team would get an earful if they talked that way to him, but he owed my father. I'm not quite sure what or why, but I'd always taken full advantage. 

"Poor little golden boy." He scoffs, placing his whistle back in his mouth. "Five laps, Howard. And don't lag or I'll add another one." 

~

Stumbling out of the locker room shower, I wince, the splints in my shins creeping higher up my leg. (*a shin splint is a pain that a lot of athletes get*). 

"Thanks a lot, Coach." I mumble to myself as I towel off, drying my hair as much as I could against the damp towel. Opening my gym bag, I pull on a "PANTHERS" t-shirt, and a pair of gray sweatpants. Slipping on my slides, I limp out of the school and towards my car. 

I pull my phone out of my pocket, checking for a text from Piper. Five new messages: one from dad, one from Mike, one from Will, and two from...Melissa. I groan audibly, deleting the messages from my lock screen. Once the notifications disappear, the picture on my lock screen appears again - a picture of Piper and I from last summer. We were at the beach with our families, and I'm raising her above my head like a child. She's laughing and her eyes are shut tight, her dark hair going in every direction with the wind. 

I smile slightly, remembering how annoyed she got when I threw sand in her hair. It didn't wash out for two weeks. 

Pulling out my keys, I open my car, listening to the familiar beep of it unlocking.