Take a Look At Yourself

My muscles ached as I walked slowly back to the locker room. That had probably been the dumbest thing I had ever done in my life. Why did I have to be so antagonistic? If I had just followed the rules, my entire body wouldn't feel like it was on fire and my lungs wouldn't be searing.

As I neared the locker room, I felt it. The feeling I hated the most in the world. The bile was rising up my throat and would soon hit the pavement. It had been a long time since I had thrown up. It wasn't exactly a sensation I enjoyed. The bile rose and hit the pavement, a nice orange color. Maybe I shouldn't have run that hard. What point was I trying to prove anyway? Not to mention, I now had a gnarly track burn from purposefully falling.

"Jesus Christ, Harrison," Coach Peterson said. It was the first time I had seen him talk calmly to me all day. "Are you okay? I didn't actually think that you would puke. I think we need to get that track burn looked at." He put a hand to my back.

Shoving his hand away, I glared at him. There went that damn angry personality again. "I'm fine. I don't need any help from you." I tried to stand up and got woozy. Coach got me and guided me into the trainer's room.

All the football boys stared at me as I slowly walked into the locker room. I forced a glower onto my face even though it was taking way too much of my energy. I think I had dehydrated myself. I think that I may have actually fucked myself up a little bit.

"Jesus H. Christ," the trainer said when he saw me. "Are you fucking shitting me? What the hell happened?" He was staring at my leg which was still bleeding.

"Someone has a problem with authority," Coach Peterson said and helped me sit on the table.

I pointed at the script on my left arm. In bold typewriter font, it read: Question Authority. That got a chuckle out of both the trainer and the coach. Two football players peeked their heads in the room, one of them being the cute one with the dimples.

The trainer dabbed at the scrape on my leg, mumbling about how stupid athletes could be. Coach Peterson stared at me, handing me Gatorade and some orange slices. Well, at least he seemed to care a little bit.

"Hey, so, way to fuck things up for all of us, Harrison," the quarterback said.

I turned, ice in my ices. "Fuck you, Mike. You're the reason I'm here in the first place. So, go fuck yourself."

Coach Peterson sighed. "Knock it the fuck off, Harrison. We get it. You don't want to be here."

I scoffed. "Damn right I don't want to be here! I got screwed over in all this. And it's you're fucking fault and your stupid quarterback. I got soccer taken away from me and am forced to be on your team. I don't have to enjoy it."

Pulling away from the trainer, I walked out of the locker room. All of this was utter bullshit.

Notes

Oh come on now, Carmen. Give it a chance!