Tyler spreads the ball around a bit in the game. I mean, he can't just throw it to me every single time. Farmington's not a bad team. In fact, they went to a bowl last year, but they can't stop me, and because they can't stop me, they can't stop the Western Bulldogs.
I line up on the right side, squaring my feet. I look across and see that the linebacker covering me is number 47, a guy I've burned two times already for big chunks of yardage. Farmington runs a 3-4, and their outside linebackers tend to play close, only a couple of yards off the line to jam guys like me . . . if they can. "Don't worry, 47, it's all going to be over soon," I call, grinning, making sure to keep my voice low enough that the ref won't throw a flag on me. "Thirty minutes at most, and you can go crawling back home."
“Fuck you, bitch!" he yells, and I've got him. He's distracted, not playing smart, and it’s just a matter of time.
I can see Tyler out of the corner of my eye smile as he starts his count. He knows what's coming, I've used it enough before. It's not a particularly original taunt, but fuck it, it works.
The ball snaps, and 47 is out of control, so pissed off he charges instead of waiting for me to come to him. I slap his outside shoulder, sending him past me while I slide my hips and body to the outside.
I'm uncovered as I turn back, just in time to catch Tyler's pass. I’ve gotta give it to him. He's not the strongest armed QB in the conference, but he's got laser precision, and I don't need to break stride at all as I draw his pass in and turn upfield.
I see the free safety coming to try to stick me and I lower a shoulder, taking him on my left side while I send a quick angled step that puts my entire weight into him, and the hundred and ninety-pound bitch goes flying while I spin off, already accelerating upfield again. There's only one guy who has a shot at catching me. He's got the pursuit angle, and as a cornerback, he's pretty fast. He’s closing the distance quickly, but I've only got twenty yards to go.
Fuck it. We're up by two touchdowns already, one of them mine, and I want to have some fun. When the cornerback gets close enough, we're nearly at the goal line, and I lay out, diving over top of him and flipping, completing the front flip to land on my feet in the end zone, the cornerback left lying on the turf with a chunk of grass for a snack, and the roar of the fans is a physical wave that lifts me while the rest of the team comes rushing toward me.
Someone hits me from behind, and I realize that 47 isn't willing to let my taunt go, but as he drives into me, I roll with it, flipping him over and landing him on the turf underneath me, face to face.
"Don't worry. I'll seal the deal of making you my bitch after the game. Just make sure you've got lots of lube," I taunt him again as the mob of players on both sides tries to pull us apart.
The late hit costs Farmington fifteen yards on the kickoff, and 47 gets thrown out of the game. As I head off the field, the ref gives me a warning. "Watch the trash talk, 83. Any more of it, and I'll throw a flag on you."
Like I care. I've already broken their starting linebacker, gotten two touchdowns, a fucking ESPN highlight reel catch, and I've still got a quarter to pad my stats. I jog off the field and take a seat on the bench. I look around for a moment, then remember that we're on an away game, so the training staff is light. Carrie's back at Western.
"Looking for your PAT again?" Tyler asks, taking a seat next to me and pulling off his helmet. "You know she's probably back at campus, watching the game and dreaming of you. You hit that yet?"
"Fuck you, Paulson," I seethe unexpectedly for some reason. I’d already warned him once. "I told all of you to stop calling her that."
"What, PAT? Fuck it, man. She's just another slut," Tyler continues, his words cut off when I grab him by the shoulder pads and jerk him to his feet. "Whoa, what the fuck, man?"
"I said . . . stop calling her that," I hiss, my face inches from him. "She ain't no slut. Back off, or the only thing you'll be doing the rest of the season is learning how to jack off left-handed."
"Whoa, whoa!" Coach Thibedeau, our tight end coach and offensive coordinator yells, getting in between us. “You two, calm the fuck down!"
"Just remember what I said," I finish, letting go of him. "Not a word."
Tyler's pissed, but he lets Coach Thibs lead him away while I sit back down and stew. What the fuck am I doing? I know that sort of blowup is going to be caught by the cameras, and even if I'd told Tyler before to not call Carrie that, we'd done shit like that with each other lots of times. Coach Thibs isn't in a good mood either when he comes back.
"What the hell are you doing, Duncan?" he yells, barely restraining himself from popping me in the shoulder pads as he echoes my own inner thoughts. "Are you trying to get yourself benched or something?"