Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 8

season hit, and Peter only had enough time for practice and studying as hard as he could. Though his fingers were bruised from catching so many passes he could no longer count them he made time to write in his journal every night for a few minutes after he finished up his school work. Every entry mentioned his 'butterfly', though now he referred to her by her name, which he'd learned was Kenkyusha. He rolled the syllables about in his mouth as he fell asleep aching from the hits he'd taken at practice.
    Some nights he dreamed of her. Some mornings he woke with sheets he needed to ball up and hide under his bed to wash while his momma was away at work. His coach pushed him harder and harder at practice every day, until finally Peter broke. "What in the pits of hell do you want from me, Coach? I can't rightly give you somethin' I don't even know you want!"
    Peter didn't realize he'd bellowed the words until the entire team stopped what they were doing to gape at him. His coach grinned, striding over to smack him hard on the shoulder. "I want you to put that right there into your game so I can get you a football scholarship to college, boy. That's what I want." The coach’s words were spoken far more quietly than Peter's had been, and the other players, seeing there would be no more drama, turned back to what they'd been doing. "I see greatness in you, boy. And I'll ride your ass until everyone else can see it too. You have a helluva arm, but you've got about as much grace on the field as a bull moose. I want you to take some dance classes."
    Peter reared back. His stomach clenched. "Coach, the guys— come on, you know what they'll think!"
    Coach grunted. "I don't give a damn what these high school heroes think, Peter, and neither should you. Boy, you could go all the way to the pros, but not unless you get a little more grace to your swagger."
    Peter gulped. "The pros?"
    Coach grinned, and the expression was the wickedest, most promising thing Peter had ever seen outside of a dirty magazine. Peter shook his head, and then held up a quick hand. "I'm not saying no, Coach, I'm just trying to wrap my head around this."
    Coach clapped him on the shoulder again. "I know, boy. That's fine. You'll still owe me five laps around the field at the end of practice for your disrespectful tone just now."
    Peter nodded. "Yessir. I— Coach? Where am I gonna find a dancing class?"
    Coach gave a dark laugh as wicked as his smile had been. "I've already got you signed up for one, son. This division hasn't seen anything like what we're going to unleash on them in a few months."
    Peter nodded, and got back to his drills. He wasn't sure what his coach meant by in a few months, because he knew for a fact their first game was less than a week away. Unless—
    "Coach?"
    The grizzled man turned back from where he'd been striding away from Peter. "Yeah?"
    "Are you saying I'm gonna be on the bench sir?" Peter held his breath after the question hit the air. Coach nodded sharply.
    "That's exactly what I mean, son. I'm not going to give these idiots a crack at you until you can dance around them like they're standing still." With that Peter's coach turned on his heel, and resumed his trek to the other side of the field where the other wide receiver was warming up. Peter watched as the coach spoke to Henderson. The other boy's face lit up like Christmas and the Fourth of July combined, and Peter knew without being told. Henderson had just been given the starting position.
    A heavy weight settled in Peter's stomach. His hand lifted to the chin strap of his helmet, and coach whirled around, motioning with his hand raised to his face, his first two fingers spread into a vee that he pointed to his own eyes and then to his second string wide receiver. Peter's hand dropped away from his chin strap. He clenched his jaw. He'd take the damn dance classes, and he'd learn whatever Coach thought they could teach him there. He'd work his ass off, and in two months he'd make sure he was ready to take the starting spot from Henderson.
    Peter growled at the boy throwing the ball to him. "Make it harder. Make me work for it." Brian Johns quirked an eyebrow at him, and then cocked his arm back.
    "Alright, Simpson, I'll make it harder. Drop back to your right and watch me to see where I'm throwing." Johns smirked at him as he let the ball fly. Peter ran, leaping into the air and diving forward at the last moment to snatch the ball just before it smacked into the