Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 8

mother signed you up for."
    The lump in Hinata's throat expanded until it filled his whole chest. He reached out, grasping the cool metal of the surprisingly heavy keys in his hand. "Yes. It would be improper to fail in that duty."
    Andre released the keys, drew his arm back into the front of the car and shifted the vehicle smoothly into reverse. Hinata opened his Statistics text. The words danced on the page, making random shapes. He had not known his brothers, Hajime and Masaaki, realized he still longed to dance, let alone approved of his dancing. His next few exhales shook. It was no wonder, then, that though his text lay open in his lap for the duration of the thirty minute ride from his new dance studio to campus, the meaning of the increasingly blurry shapes on the pages made little sense to Hinata.
    ****
    Peter felt the hit right down to the base of his spine, and he knew, even before the white hot fire ripped up the back of his thigh, serious damage had been done. His mind alternated between the grey static housed there so much of the time lately, and the single image of his Butterfly his mom had salvaged from the Fresno Bee's reporting of activities at his old high school. Coach Thompson was there before Peter could open his eyes against the fiery pain.
    "Dammit, Jenkins, I told you to get your head in the game before you got hurt." The man's gruff tone, pinched lips and tightly held shoulders told more of the story than his words did. Peter swallowed against a swelling wave of nausea. He tried to ask his coach if he was hurt bad enough to lose his scholarship, but when he opened his mouth the only sounds coming out reminded him of the death cries of some of the animals he'd hunted with Tater and Rufus. A wall of blackness fell, crushing him beneath it, stealing his sight and power of speech. Peter clung tenaciously to the edges of his consciousness aware of the steady pressure of his coach's hand on his shoulder and the steady sound of the man's voice calling out orders to end practice.
    "Get the rest of the boys off the field, Larkson. Practice was almost over anyway, and we can take the extra twenty minutes out of their hides tomorrow. Sanders, get the cell phone I know you have stashed in your gear over on the bench, and call 911. Tell them we need an ambulance out at the football field."
    Peter jerked. He was drowning in blackness, and he wanted to sit up more than he wanted to draw his next breath. He pushed against the hand on his shoulder. The pressure pinning him to the ground increased, and Coach Thompson's voice sounded in his ear. "You keep your stubborn ass right where it is, Jenkins. You move one damned muscle before the paramedics get here and I'll bench you for the rest of the season even if the docs release you in a week."
    The blackness receded enough for Peter to make out the older man's worried eyes, and he nodded. "Yessir. I'll stay right here."
    The bright afternoon sun backlit Coach Thompson's blond hair and cast his face in shadow. For a split second his brown eyes seemed as blue as Peter's own, and his hair two shades darker than the ash blond color the other coaches teased him about getting from a box of Miss Clairol. Peter swallowed thickly. Sanders jogged to a stop next to their coach. "They're on their way, coach."
    Coach Thompson squeezed Peter's shoulder. "Good job, Sanders. Now go hit the showers. I'll see you at practice tomorrow." Sanders ignored the coach, dropping to his knees next to Peter's head. He'd ditched his helmet, and sweat shone on his face. "Damn, Jenkins, I ain't ready to fill your size fifteens."
    Peter laughed weakly. "Tough shit, Sanders. You better not let the Spartans kick our asses next weekend."
    Sanders clenched his jaw. "I'll do my best."
    The paramedics arrived then, and Sanders moved aside to let them work. Their coach barked at him to get his ass to the showers, and Peter winced. Poor Sanders was in for a world of hurt that was probably gonna rival the hot poker stabbing into the back of Peter's right thigh. Sanders really was not ready to step into Peter's position yet, and Coach Thompson would be riding his ass hard for however long it took for him to get there. Unless Peter came back before Sanders either quit the team or came up to Coach Thompson's gold standard… Peter bit his lip. The poor fucker was toast. Peter watched Roger Sanders face pale as he made more of those dying animal noises when the paramedics shifted him onto the stretcher