Saved By A Bad Boy

[13]. I Can and I Will...

I didn't usually watch school football games. Well, at least I hadn't since the whole betrayal thing with Jax. I used to attend all the time, just for moral support. But I never really liked it all that much. Don't get me wrong, the sport was just fine, but I hated how so many people in this school drop all dignity just to worship these high school athletes like they're actually making a noteworthy difference in the world.

Still, I went in the past to watch Jax and cheer him on as he got on that field and played the game of how-much-brain-damage-can-one-person-get. But, for the most part, I only went to make sure he didn't get his neck snapped by some 300-pound right-wing.

Today, however, I was sitting on the bleachers in front of the first home game this season, an English assignment spread out on my legs as I wrote a report regarding my opinion of Moby Dick.

"Are you seriously going to be doing that the whole time?" Maya asked, sitting down beside me after returning from the bathroom. She was dressed in all black and blue, showing off the team colors with pride. I snorted. As if she actually even cared about football. I've known Maya long enough to tell you that she was not into any sports whatsoever. But of course she pretended to be, always insisting on being the loudest one in the crowd. I suppose that - if she could do a cartwheel without breaking herself or someone else - she could've made the cheerleading squad. But after failing tryouts four years in a row, I guess she had to resort to fan-girling over all the muscled players.

"Yes," I answered, not even glancing upward. I could practically feel her rolling her eyes at me, but I didn't care, too busy with my report. Out of the corner of my vision, I saw our team scurrying around the field. The ball was in our possession. It was hiked to Jax, who was about forty yards from the touchdown zone. Instead of throwing it, he was weaving through the field, dodging players with fluid ease before reaching his destination. The crowd goes wild, and all of his teammates pound their chests in some rhythmic gorilla call. We were ahead by twenty-three, but the pure enthusiasm on the bleachers made it feel like the most intense game of all time. Maya wouldn't stop screaming and chanting.

Ever since Jax became team captain in our sophomore year of high school, we've had two winning seasons in a row. He was pretty good at leading a team, and observant, too. He knew just where to go and just what to do, like football was his second language.

But I worried about him. When his mom died, he used football not only as a distraction, but also as an outlet for his anger and recklessness. Jax drilled it into himself until he had mastered the game itself, and now he got out on that field with a level of ferocity that was good for the competition, but maybe it was just a bit too dangerous for himself.

So I sat there, studying my English report but secretly watching the game. It didn't take long to end, which was a surprise. Our team won, which wasn't a surprise. We were all expecting the victory, even those who weren't exactly enthralled with the game.

The team celebrated by butting heads and slapping each other's backs, then jogged off the field while shouting at the top of their lungs.

Barbarians.

I stood up slowly, slinging my backpack onto my shoulder and filing out of my row of bleachers, right behind Maya. She was chattering on and on about how pliable Trent Tyson's butt looked in his uniform.

I considered telling her about Jax and I, and how we were kinda-sorta talking civilly to each other again. Not friends, but not enemies. I suppose our relationship could only be described as a weird region of "acquaintances," whose conversations ranged from joking about stupid things to arguing about stupid things to jokingly arguing about stupid things.