I was out, officially.

Kids from the rival cross-town high school whispered it like a rumor that was too good to be said out loud for fear that if it were spoken aloud, someone would strike it down, prove it untrue.

Three years I’d stalked the nightmares of d-linemen, linebackers and safeties. Haunting them during sleep, in film, and most importantly on the field. In a matter of seconds my reign of terror ended, I began the inevitable journey towards becoming nothing more than a sweet memory for alumni and coaches to savor while reminiscing about the football legends who’d faded from glory back to nonentities.

I suppose the satisfaction of knowing my name would be household at booster club meetings for at least a decade should’ve been comforting, but somehow it was anything but. In fact, it was downright sickening. Not one of those sons of bitches had known me or cared to know me, they’d just watched from a distance, judging every move I made on even the most microscopic level. Every time I fucked up on or off the field, you’d better believe I heard about it for weeks from the stupidest parents on God’s green Earth. Especially from my teammates’ dads. The worst part being that the majority of them weren’t even football players back in the day. They didn’t know shit, but they sure as hell thought they did.

The first day I went back to school was the worst. I’d just been released from the hospital, and it was already Wednesday of the same week I’d fallen on the field.

If they thought I was going to stay home after spending that much time on my back they didn’t know me. No one thought I should’ve been there, and they all told me so. I quickly grew impatient, snapping at people who didn’t deserve it when it started to feel like they were hassling me.

I had more friends than I ever would’ve known what to do with, but I wasn’t stupid enough to let a single one of them inside my defenses. I could play my part better than anyone in the world, I had my act down perfectly. I set myself at a distance, and when people looked at me they never saw me as just another guy. I awed everyone I met, girls wanted me, guys wanted to be me. They would follow me to the ends of the Earth in droves if I told them to, cause I was the one in a million guy that everyone listened to, followed. Why? Because I wasn’t a man, I was an anomaly. I might as well have been a fucking Martian.

No one knew me, what made me tick. I was so off kilter that no one ever felt in control or on balance while they were around me. Yet strangely, my own abundant supply of self-confidence seemed to make them not care that the ball was always, constantly, in my court.

Cause if it wasn’t, I didn’t play. Ever.

My crew was chilling in the cafeteria as always that morning, eating breakfast before class. I set my bag down on the tabletop, startling them into silence. They, the guys (mostly football players), went silent for a second upon looking up and realizing that it was me. I guess they hadn’t planned on me being back for a while longer. Inside I laughed manically, wondering if perhaps that in only a few days they’d already forgotten me. Strange if they had, since we’d mostly all known each other since kindergarten.

Bucky Palmer didn’t fail me with his excessive goofiness. The big center jumped up from his seat, and with much show and fanfare very briefly pulled me into a joke of a bone crushing hug.

“I have someone to block for again!” he yelled, breaking the ice and cracking us all up.

“Hey, what’m I? Nobody?” Travis asked, pretending to be offended.

“With Spaz back, yeah, pretty much,” our buddy Austin quickly countered, smiling wickedly, and Trav gave him a look before finally cracking a smile as well.

Trav ‘Angel’ Johnson is our QB. Sometimes he really doesn’t get enough credit, but since he’s only a sophomore we all knew he’d have his day once our class had moved on. He’s a good guy, especially for a sophomore. He can be pretty funny himself sometimes, a real practical joker.

When Aust turned to get props from the another member of our crew, Cliff Larson, Trav grabbed the left guard’s yet-to-be-touched breakfast sandwich and slipped it in his bag before claiming a mandatory teacher meeting he’d forgotten about, and practically running out the door.

It took Austin a good twenty seconds before he realized his sandwich had just escaped him and he’d have to go back up and get in line if he wanted to eat that morning.

Bucky fell heavily back onto his seat, cracking up as the inevitable cussing fit from the other side of the table began. Like his father, Austin Medlen was known for his hot temper.

I sat down on one of the remaining empty chairs, relaxing a little now that I was back with The Crew. My Crew, if you really want to know. Cause for as long as we’d been together, I’d always been the leader.

“So Spaz, tell me the truth,” Cliff Larson, arguably my best friend (or closest likeness) began. “While you were in the hospital, did you get a sponge bath from any hot nurses?”

The guys laughed once again as the atmosphere around our table began to regulate, return somewhat to normal.

I waved him off, rolling my eyes. “Don’t even go there man, you get put in the hospital for having your heart stop in your chest you don’t ever want to think about it again. You don’t give a damn if Pam Anderson was your freaking nurse. So, about the game. Did we win or what? No one would tell me while I was in, they all claimed they didn’t know.”

All three of them shifted their gaze to anywhere in the room that wasn’t me, I could hear the rustling of their clothes as they shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

I pinched the bridge of my nose between my fingers, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on already. It was not going to be a pleasant day.

“We lost, huh. That’s just great, no wonder you guys looked at me like you didn’t know me when I showed up.” I stood, grabbing my bag. “Listen, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry I let you guys down, the team down. I’m sorry I fucked up.”

Austin shot me a half-pitying look. “Come on Riggs, you know we don’t blame you. We lost, and it wasn’t your fault. We had time for one more play, but after we saw you get taken off the field like that, when they said you might die, not one of us had the energy to run that ball into the end zone. You burned yourself out for us man, almost killed yourself for us. Not one guy on the team doesn’t love you like a brother.”

“I can think of one who doesn’t,” I said stoically, letting my gaze settle on a table in the distance where Amy Medlen was sitting with a former member of my crew. One Josh Lexon, good guy, ex-best friend, lineman. Amy’s boyfriend.

“Shoulda finished what I started,” I concluded before turning and walking quickly from the cafeteria.