Page 71 of Don't Go Faking My Heart

"Rusty could have broken his hand on Philip's helmet," I say.

"Then he probably shouldn't punch someone wearing a helmet," Duke says. "Otherwise, these guys can't pick up enough speed to?—"

Even as Duke says this, Tripp takes two steps and bodyslams a player. Tripp's feet slide out from under him and he falls and spins on the ice several times. His opponent goes flying across the ice, smashes into the boards, and crumples.

"I stand corrected," Duke says.

Lou laughs hysterically and zooms in. "This is my favorite sport. Forget the NFL. I'm all about football hockey."

"Ice football," Duke corrects.

"Same difference."

The Dirtbags are playing defense now, and the first few plays for the Badgers end with the quarterback falling on his butt. Finally, Rusty and Philip are allowed back in. I watch Rusty walk and slide back into place. A few moments later, the Badgers' center hikes the ball to the quarterback. He catches the ball this time while Rusty's team scrambles and falls all over the ice. The quarterback tosses the ball to Philip, who catches it. Two of the Dirtbags try to tackle him, but they both miss and fall, instead.

Philip keeps the ball, taking tiny little steps to run. He looks like a toddler trying to escape a bathtub on tile. He slips and wobbles, but he manages to stay upright as he heads toward the end zone.

Unfortunately for Philip, Rusty is way more comfortable running on ice than anyone should be. He plants his feet differently than the others, and he makes a lot more ground than Philip does.

Philip is a few yards from scoring when Rusty comes at him at an angle. Rusty jumps into a slide and smashes Philip, causing a?—

"FUMBLE!" the announcer yells.

Rusty jumps onto the ball and slides into the boards. But Philip gets onto his knees and crawls—which is even stupider looking on ice—to Rusty. Then he punches him in the back.

"FOUL!" I scream, jumping up and pointing.

The ref slides over and pulls Philip off, putting him in the penalty box, this time for two minutes.

With the change of possession, the Dirtbags get the ball and our quarterback throws it to Sonny. One of the defenders jumps to try to intercept it, but his feet slip apart when he lands, pulling his legs into the splits. Duke hisses in sympathy as we all laugh.

Sonny catches the ball neatly. A defender chases him down and launches himself forward, but Sonny stiff arms the guy, who falls to the ice. The motion pushes Sonny off-balance, though, and as he hurdles toward the end zone, he throws one leg and the opposite arm out, looking like the world's worst figure skater as he tries to regain balance.

But he holds onto the ball as he slides into the end zone.

"TOUCHDOWN!" Daryl yells.

"That's my man!" Parker yells.

The game continues, and we all watch in a mix of shock and awe. Because this is without a doubt the least athletic-looking display of athleticism anyone has ever seen.

With every play, a half dozen grown men fall on their butts, their backs, or their faces. Guys grab jerseys and throw each other down in displays of brute strength just to have the guy they toppled grab their leg and drop them, too. They smash each other into the boards, taunt, and use gestures they wouldn't like their mommas seeing, and all the while, the arena laughs, boos, and cheers.

When Philip is back in, the teams trade a few touchdowns. Tripp, Rusty, and Sonny all drive Philip into the boards a couple of times. Their kickers fall on their butts after every extra-point attempt.

It's amazing.

Lou has laugh-cried through her makeup.

Parker cackles while she records Sonny's every move.

Jane laughs and cheers Tripp on.

And of course, my friends all laugh hysterically whenever Philip drops to the ice.

By halftime, the score is 33-19 for the Dirtbags.

Jane, Parker, and I hop up to get snacks from the concession stand. I hold Rusty's sweatshirt tight around my body as the adrenaline of watching him seems to wear off and the chill in the arena sets in.

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