Page 1 of Linebacker
CHAPTER1
“Pass the ball, numb nuts,” I shout out, then take a step back into the shadow. “Shit Hope, you’re an idiot.” I reprimand myself under my breath. When I dare to step forward again, I’m thankful to see that despite my outburst, the noise on the field has masked it and hasn’t given me away.
My father would pop an artery if he learned that the majority of the time when he thinks I’m studying in the library, I’m actually out here, feeding my addiction. I don’t get to come to the games, only the practice and when I’m not under my father’s scrutiny, I get to stream most of the NFL games on my phone but I have to do that once I’m in my bedroom with the sound down low. So, despite me hating every single member of the football team in front of me, I hide here in the shadows, getting my fix.
The British Universities American Football League (BUAFL) is tiny compared to its US counterpart and doesn’t get the recognition either. But it’s real, and I’m fortunate to go to one of the few high schools that has the sport on their curriculum. This is due to our American PE teacher, Dexter Blackmore, being an ex-Florida State University coach. Rumour has it he moved over to the UK for the love of his life, despite his devotion to the game. Guess his craving for the sport is as fierce as my own, because with sheer determination and perseverance, he brought his obsession for the game to a rather insignificant Yorkshire school.
After recruiting a dozen of half-interested students, who were starving for something new in their mundane life other than gaming, drinking cheap vodka and vaping, he got them to play out-of-school hours. Word of mouth was all it took before his love of the game spread to a ton of over sixteen lads. It was like a virus, and before he knew it, he had a pretty good line-up. The Head of the school couldn’t ignore the fact that he had sparked fresh interest within the male pupils at the school and took it to the board. That was back in 2010, Since then they’d added American Football to the list of sports the school offered. The following year, Capa Down Academy boasted an impressive squad. The Capa Cobras were good enough to be part of a small but capable high school league.
“What the fuck, Bell?” I hiss as the quarterback Alfie Bell, who after getting the ball from the snap, tries to run it himself but almost immediately is sacked by Vance Marshall, otherwise known as Mars, tagged as the best defence linebacker in the league.
God, that must hurt.
Although Bell is a bit of a monster himself, he has nothing on Mars, a huge 6 feet 1 inch, 220-pound physique of pure hard muscle. With short cropped blond hair and grey eyes, Mars has a Nordic look about him. Slightly crooked strong nose, and generous, yet mostly in-expressive lips, you couldn’t deny that he’s a handsome dude. “Only got yourself to blame, greedy arsehole. You had options out there,” I mumble, far from the usual acceptable sports commentary. “Both your wide receivers were open. Should have passed the fucking ball.”
I let out a snigger as I watch Bell clamber to his feet and step up towards Mars, getting all up in his face. His body language shows how pissed he is at being sacked by his close friend. I can’t help but enjoy the drama, knowing that these two so-called pals are butting heads. Although if it comes to blows, my money is on Mars. Bell is all piss and wind, but for some reason has a hold over the majority of the football team. While Mars is just as much an arsehole, he’s more the silent but deadly, broody type. He doesn’t need words, because the dark and dangerous glare he casts to those who cross him is enough to make the devil think twice about his actions.
A wave of disappointment washes over me when Coach Blackmore steps in between the two of them, giving them the hard word. I let out a vast sigh of frustration as the sound of their laughter carries on the breeze. I watch the two friends slap each other’s back before they go in for a bro-hug.
The squad line up again to continue practice and I retreat further into the darkness in disgust, deciding that however much I love the game, I’ve seen enough of the fuckwit’s camaraderie for one day. Too much bromance will only make me want to hurl.
As I’m here, I might as well put my free time away from my father’s overbearing control to good use. I jog over to the door that leads back into the school, and the quickest way to get to the changing rooms. There are only fifteen minutes of practice left, and all the other teachers and pupils seem to have left for the day. It’s only fair that I grasp the opportunity while I can.
The headmaster will no doubt still be here, but as his office is at the other end of the building where chances are, he’ll be ball’s deep in Candy Whitshaw, the six former he’s shagging, I doubt he’s going to be a problem. It’s the worst kept secret ever. Even the department heads who are aware of his extracurricular activity seem to turn a blind eye. It makes me wonder what he’s got over the rest of the teachers in this school.
I slip through the boys’ changing room door, keeping one foot out in the corridor in case I need to abandon my mission. I hold my breath so I can hear. It takes a couple of seconds to listen for any sign that anyone is still hanging around in here, but when I’m met with complete silence, I make my move.
I should target someone else, but as Alfie Bell is the main instigator of my torment on the football team, I can’t help but want to humiliate him the most. As I don’t get many chances to take revenge, it's inevitable. He is on top of my list.
Bell’s holdall stands out like a dick on a cake. It’s expensive, pretentious and far from his out-of-work parents’ budget. So, undoubtedly is nicked off one of the rich kids from year nine. I zip open the top, grimacing as I put my hand inside and rummage through the contents until I find the item that I’m looking for.
His boxer briefs have seen better days. The fabric of the crotch, not that I scrutinize it, is threadbare and one good fart could be enough to render them crotchless. I would have preferred an expensive pair to ruin. Calvin Klein or Armani. Nope, they're a supermarket brand, but they’ll still serve their purpose.
With not much time to spare before the locker room will heave with testosterone-laden ball bags, I pull out a plastic bag from the zip pocket of my backpack. In it is a small jar of Nutella and a wooden stirring stick I gained from the coffee shop. With the grotty undergarment laid out on the bench, I twist off the top of the jar and, using the stick, mix up the contents until it becomes pliable. I scoop out a big dollop and spread it towards the rear of the pants until it looks like an enormous skid mark. On deciding to go all out, I add more, shaping it the best I can so it looks like the Bell-end himself got caught short and shit in his pants. To complete the prank, I lay the offending item across Bell’s luminous, puke-green Nike trainers that he’s so damn proud of, making it blatantly obvious who the soiled undergarment belongs to.
My shoulders shake as I force myself to hold in the rumble of amusement that’s brewing in my chest. I place the half-empty jar and wooden stick back into the plastic bag and make a quick exit. The hall is still deserted thankfully. The last thing I need is to be seen anywhere near the boys’ changing room. I take an alternative route towards the main school entrance so as not to risk coming face to face with any of the football team.
Best call yet, because when I get to where the hallway takes a right, I just make it around the corner before I hear footsteps and the unmistakable clicking of cleats hitting the tiled floor. I’m so tempted to hang around hoping to hear the reaction to the dirty pants, but it’s too risky. I pick up my pace, making sure that I don’t make a sound until I’m bursting out of the main entrance and down the steps. I drop the plastic bag containing the evidence on top of the already overflowing litter bin that hasn’t been emptied since lunch break and walk away from the school.
CHAPTER2
It’s when I’m in the coffee shop’s bathroom getting changed that I let myself go. The snorts of giggles that erupt from me burst out like lava, every muscle in my body shaking, wanting to be included in the celebration. But it’s not long until the tears of laughter, that are now streaming down my face, morph to those of horror and regret at what I'd done. I’ve stooped to their level.
Although those arseholes have done nothing but give me shit since the day I turned up; the only female might I add, looking to join the football team. Hell, I didn’t get anywhere near Coach Blackmore to even ask the question. They made sure of that by pushing and ridiculing me until they were determined that I had no other option but to leave.
“So why should I be remorseful?” I ask my reflection in the mirror, swiping away the wet tracks of my tears from my face. “It’s time to give them shit back. I just have to make sure they don’t see it coming.”
As I stand in my underwear, I fold up my ripped black jeans, the well-washed ‘The Pretty Reckless’ band t-shirt and my second-hand biker jacket, which has so many cracks in the leather I'm surprised it hasn’t broken apart and turned to dust. I put them away in the bag that I keep here, stashed in the manager's office.
Out of the plastic bag that had been resting on top of the holdall, I pull out an oversized, high neck, calf-length dress and reluctantly yank it over my head. I cringe at my reflection. The floral pattern is obnoxious. Like someone has just chucked up a night’s worth of multi-coloured cocktails and thrown on a handful of dead flowers to mask the sickening smell. Although, all I can smell is mothballs.
Forced to wear old-fashioned clothing is bad enough, but that they belonged to my dead mother makes it twice as sickening.
A memory of my dear sweet mum jumps into my head. Pulled back hair, makeup free face, and a smile and brightness in her eyes that was only true for me. I smile to myself, but then it falls, and I shudder as I also recall how her expression would become fake, and her hand would shake as soon as my father appeared.
You see, my father controlled her every emotion and move she made, and it was entrenched in her that it was her job to keep me in line. Little did he know my mum did everything she could to make my life as normal as possible. She hid many things from him that no doubt he would have classed as immoral, an act against God’s teachings. Like going to the cinema, because Satan himself lives in the popcorn machine, right!?
They were our secrets, and she had learnt to be a master of deceit. In the name of sanity.
