Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Here we are, seconds from the end. I’m not entirely sure how this happened. I've always believed that you make your own choices, but that's bull. I learned the hard way that your choices make you. Anyways, I am sure that tonight did not go according to plan.
Earlier That Afternoon
"I double dog dare you."
"What are we in third grade?" I scoffed. "F*** off, man. I'm not streaking at the game."
"Come on bro, don't be a pu**y. You can make history. No one's ever pulled it off, cause no one is you. You're the fastest guy ever. You are the Wesley Maverson. If anyone can get away with this, it's you," Steve said, poking my chest for emphasis.
"Come on, Wes. Show this one pony town what a real man is," Ronnie slurred. "I'll make it worth your while."
"Ronnie, you're a lush. Someone cut her off." I paused for dramatic effect before asserting, "I'll do it, but not ‘cause you dared me. I'm not a kid. I'm doing it ‘cause this town needs a wake-up call, and I'm the only one with the balls to do it."
The resounding cheer from my crew was deafening. "Wes-ley! Wes-ley ! Wes-ley!"
"Arright, ok. I think we've all pregamed enough," Steve slurred.
I couldn't agree more. After two hours of tailgating at my house, I was ready to get back to the stadium.
"Let's kill this game!" Steve shouted. "Seniors on three!"
When all of my friends dogpiled Steve, I opted to stay on the sidelines. My mind was racing. I couldn't believe I actually agreed to run naked across the football field on homecoming. I mean, sure. It's not like this shithole of a town doesn't deserve a little retribution for what they did to Johnny five years ago. Everybody forgot, forgave, moved on... except me. I'll never forgive those old, lying bastards for what they did to my brother. Never.
Reassured by my newfound sense of purpose, I started my truck and my drunk friends piled in the flatbed. As team captain, I obviously wasn't going to get hammered two hours before kickoff. Being second string, Steve had no such reservations. After, though, would be a whole different ballgame for me.
Speeding down Route 32, we arrived at Washington High School in mere minutes. Ronnie sloppily kissed me on the mouth before heading to the fan section. My teammates rallied and headed down to the locker room to change. A few of them were buzzed so I made them drink some Monsters to try to counteract the alcohol's effects. I split off into Coach's office to do my private pregame ritual.
I did four jumping jacks, recited four Hail Mary's, took four shots of Five Hour Energy and read Johnny's eulogy. The caffeine and the anger intertwined in a virulent and potent mix of rage-filled energy. It was go time.
The game was a breeze. I don't know where they found the dwarves on the other team—they might've been middle schoolers—and they sucked. Ten seconds before halftime, we led 49-3. I said I would streak during halftime, and at that point we'd have won even if I got caught. I was getting pretty pumped up for my impending legend status.
As the rest of the team jogged into the locker room, I snuck off behind the track equipment and under the bleachers. Ronnie was waiting to undress me, sparing only my cleats. Once I was naked, she handed me a half-empty bottle of tequila and a red thong.
"Booze for nerves. My undies for luck," she giggled, swaying slightly back and forth. I hesitated slightly at the booze, always having abstained from drinking until after games.
Noticing my pause, Ronnie grabbed me and pulled me tight against her, purring, "Come on Wes, it'll take the edge off." Grabbing the bottle, I slipped on her thong with a wink and strode proudly into the dense woods surrounding the field.
This was it. No turning back now. I took a swig from the bottle and threw it aside. There’d be more where that came from at the after party. Taking a few deep breaths, I scanned the stadium as I waited for the cheerleaders to saunter off the field. Practically the entire town was there dressed in red and gold to support our team. The lights flooded the field with artificial light that made me feel uncomfortably warm, despite my nakedness on the cool October night. The mottled clouds that cached the moon also hid the stars—even Johnny's star.
Nothing but open green grass stood between my team’s end zone and me. For a second, I considered backing out and finishing off the bottle in the woods. Then Johnny's blue eyes and sandy hair flashed in my mind's eye, and all my courage (liquid and otherwise) came flooding back.
The incessant buzzing of the crowd quieted to a whisper as Johnny stood on the opposite end of the turf, fist raised triumphantly to the sky. "Come to me," he mouthed. In that moment, there was no one but Johnny and I in that stadium.
I inhaled sharply and tensed my muscles before taking off at a dead sprint, my sandy dreadlocks flapping in the wind behind me. In my peripheral vision, I saw the crowd roar to their feet, jumping and waving their arms frantically in celebration. I heard no sound.
As I neared the end zone, Johnny opened his arms in preparation for a bear hug. My heart thudded in my chest and tears sprung to my eyes. My hero, Johnny. Just as I reached him, my arms clasped around air and I collapsed to the ground. Still wearing their gear, my teammates appeared out of nowhere and mobbed me.
I suppose it should have been painful, all of that weight pinning me to the ground. But all I felt was crushing emptiness as I was forced back to reality, where there were no visions of dead brothers. Seeing him again instantly triggered my memory of the night five years ago when I saw the light peering under the door of Johnny's closet. The moment I swung the door open to find Johnny, clad in his jersey, hanging from a rope, twisting back and forth.
There is not enough alcohol in the world to erase that image from my mind.
Eventually the cops showed up to tear my teammates off of me. One cop threw a blanket over me as another kneeled on my back and handcuffed me. They dragged me away and stuck me in the back of a locked cop car while they went back to watch the second half. Asshats.
I jumped when glass shattered around me. "Come on, Wes, I'm bailing you outta here!" I looked up at the voice.
"Ronnie! Are you insane?" I spat. "They're gonna arrest you too!"
"Let's go, those pigs have nothing on my drunk driving skills," she hiccuped, fumbling with the wires near the ignition.
"The hell are you doing, Ronnie?" I questioned. There was no way Ronnie of all people knew how to hotwire a car... or so I thought. The engine revved and a look of surprise transitioned into an evil grin on Ronnie's face. "Ready, baby?"
The combination of caffeine, adrenaline, and alcohol in my system must have impaired my judgment, because I didn't object to Ronnie commandeering the cop car. After all, the morons left it unattended. They should have anticipated my crazy ass friends would make a move.
"Any chance you've got the key to my handcuffs?" I deadpanned. Ronnie laughed and turned up the stereo to full volume, blasting "Midnight Show" by The Killers. She threw her head back laughing and shouted along with the song, "Drive faster, boy!"
As she floored the gas, I braced myself for the inevitable roller coaster ride from hell. She was a terrible sober driver, so careening down the interstate at 70 m.p.h. with a drunk Ronnie at the wheel was like being on a plane in a nosedive. You're screwed in the end, so why not enjoy the ride?
I hollered at the top of my lungs as Ronnie flipped on the police sirens. Even from the confinement of the backseat, having that much power was a rush. Ronnie glanced in the rearview mirror with a huge smile plastered on her face.
"Am I the s*** or am I the s***?" She screamed above the sirens.
I smirked back at her, "What could possibly go wrong?" Ronnie, for all her flaws, knew how to have a good time.
I jinxed that so hard.
That is the only explanation for my current situation sandwiched between Ronnie's unconscious body and the tree that the cop car is now wrapped around.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The analog clock on the dash signals the passing seconds, eagerly counting down to my demise.
How fitting that both my brother and I would die after public humiliation on the football field. I swear it's fucking cursed.
Of course nothing could be worse than the night of the state championship five years ago. Captain and M.V.P, Johnny celebrated victory on the field with his teammates until those bigoted, old bastard school board members crudely halted the revelry. They stepped onto Johnny's sacred turf with a megaphone to declare publicly that because Johnny was gay they were retroactively kicking him off the team. The mere thought of that night is enough to send me over the edge, even on a good night.
The acrid smell of burning rubber fills my nostrils. Smoke is seeping in through the vents, and I know it won't be long before the engine catches fire. Fleetingly I wonder if Ronnie is already dead or just passed out from the alcohol. It won't matter in a moment.
I'm violently coughing as my lungs try to reject the foul smoke. With my hands still locked behind me, I am helpless to escape the car before it explodes. Would it even be worth it to try to bust open the gated window with my cleats? To die crawling away on the ground like a worm or to stick it to them with one last act of youthful defiance: to stand my ground in the cop car? I know what Johnny chose. Let the bastard cops take the blame for my death.
At least I'm going out with a—bang.