#17 stared with a vacant expression. “What do you mean? Playing football,” the QB said with a look of confusion.

Bobby pushed his chest against #17’s, pinning him against the wall. “Ya, well that’s the problem. You’re supposed to be throwing this game, shithead.” Bobby’s face twisted like that of a gargoyle. “That was the deal, or do you want another beating?”

“It takes a great bit of force to break the tibia bone.”

#17’s eyes lit up with the realization of who was standing before him. “Wait, it’s you?” He paused, breathing hard as he looked at Bobby’s concrete chest. “I’ve been doing some thinking,” he fought the urge to stutter, “and I changed my mind. The way I see it, that so-called beating was nothing more than a cheap shot.” With an unexpected burst of strength, #17 pushed Bobby back. “And if something does happen to my family, I now know who to report to the police,” he said, pointing to the team logo on Bobby’s cheer uniform.

The next few seconds were almost endless. There was no sound or sense of where he was. Then all at once, reality snapped back into focus. Bobby wasn’t sure how long they’d been standing there, but the rage he felt inside was unreal. Feeling confident after his show of bravado, #17 pushed past Bobby and headed for the locker room. With this display of disrespect, Bobby’s fury hit an all-time high.

“Oh no you don’t,” Bobby said as he reached for #17.

Grabbing him by the back of the shoulder pads, Booby pushed forward. Both of their feet tangled together causing them to tumble to the pavement. As they struggled against one another, Bobby managed to get his hands on the helmet #17 dropped when they both fell. Sitting on top of #17’s chest, Bobby hoisted the helmet high above his head with two strong hands, then brought it down with great force. The helmet smashing into the young quarterback’s head sounded like a watermelon hitting a brick wall.

If the first shot wasn’t enough to knock him out, the second one certainly did the trick. That didn’t stop him from taking a third crack for good measure, though. And as #17 stayed motionless in a bloody heap, Bobby did his best to control his breathing and get his bearings straight. Everything began to slowly go in and out of focus while he remained hunched over #17’s lifeless body. Then he started to get light-headed and fought the urge to puke. It was only after a few moments of heavy concentration that he was able to stand upright again.

Thank God for the loud band and the cheering fans. If it wasn’t for them somebody surely would’ve heard all the commotion from the fight and came to investigate. Bobby peeked around the corner of the hallway and figured the third quarter was about to start because it was surprisingly devoid of people. As much as he was grateful for this, it also meant he was on the clock. He had to come up with a plan to get rid of the body immediately.

Before he had a chance to think, though, he could hear the echo of footsteps fastly approaching. Without any idea of what to do, he grabbed #17 by the ankles and drug him into the nearby restroom down the hall. The big frame of the QB’s body—along with all the pads—made it more difficult than Bobby would have liked. As they reached the restrooms, Bobby could hear the voices of whoever was marching down the corridor. It sounded like a couple of older men. And just as they turned the corner, Bobby and #17’s limp body vanished into the men’s room.

Even with his strength tapping out, Bobby managed to drag the QB into the last empty stall. Luckily, the restroom was empty. The next problem was hoisting the QB’s deadweight onto the toilet seat. Bobby hadn’t realized how heavy the body was until he had to pick it up. It took much effort, but he finally managed to get the body into a sitting position on the toilet with #17’s wide shoulders propped up against the wall. He had barely managed to accomplish this task when the door opened with a sudden creak.

“Deavon, you in here?”

“Shit,” Bobby said under his breath.

Two pairs of footsteps were making their way over to the last stall. Bobby managed to tuck #17’s feet into the toilet bowl so the body was sitting in a strange cross-legged style. This made a bit of noise and the footsteps quickened.

“Is that you Deavon?” Unknown to Bobby, the voice was that of the assistant coach who had been searching for the missing QB since he didn’t show up for the coach’s halftime speech. “You alright son?”

With no other options, Bobby sat on the QB’s bent legs. “Sorry, not Deavon,” he said, changing the pitch of his voice to sound like someone else.

There was a pause and he had the feeling they were looking at his shoes from the gap under the stall door. “Sorry,” the second man said unceremoniously. Then they both left, leaving Bobby sitting there on the legs of what might be or not be a dead body.

A wave of relief washed over Bobby, but it didn’t last long. He had to get back out on the field before someone came looking for him; if they weren’t already. Now came the fun part.

Bobby locked the stall and propped #17’s back against the toilet as best he could. Then he got down on all fours—a difficult task in such a cramped space—and attempted to squeeze his wide frame through the small space under the stall door. If the stench of a stadium restroom wasn’t bad enough, try crawling around face-to-face with the floor after countless people had unloaded wet nacho and beer dumps in there over the last hour or so.

Once Bobby managed to free himself from the snug stall, he checked himself out in the mirror to make sure he wasn’t too disheveled looking. But even after cleaning up real quick there wasn’t anything he could do about the smell permeating from his body: a combination of BO, piss droplets, and the over-scented flowery hand soap had formed a lethal concoction that was fierce enough to keep even his closest friends away. And since the cheer squad didn’t shower after the games like the football players, there was no doubt in his mind that nobody would sit with him on the bus ride home. Hell, they might go as far as to strap him to the roof of the bus. Though, he certainly preferred that option over leaving the stadium in the back of a police cruiser.

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