User blog:KitCalling/Second Chances - Why?

Dan Wilson's Den, 12:01 A.M. EST

Oh no.

Oh goddammit no.

This can't be happening to me.

Steve Spurlock slumped in a blue sofa in Dan Wilson's den, the dying party around him little more than white noise. He felt like shit. He felt worse than he'd ever felt in his entire damn life. It wasn't from the beer. It wasn't the fact that he had not eaten anything since before the game. ''It wasn't even his fucking diabetes. ''This was unbearable. His life had made so much sense before tonight. Everything felt right, felt fucking perfect before tonight. Now all of that was slipping out of his hands and down the drain.

Why had he liked it?

Casey Harris flopped into the empty slot on the sofa beside him and he felt a twinge of irrational anger. If Casey had kept his damn drunken mouth shut, none of this would be happening to him. Casey buried his face in his hands and started to sob, and despite how fucking annoyed Steve was with Casey at that moment, he felt a twinge of empathy for his teammate. It seemed as though things had either not gone very well with the girl, or the booze was hitting him hard, or both. Steve wished he could fucking knuckle down and cry like that right now.

Why the fuck was this happening?

The party was dying down by now. Most of the girls had left, some of them with Steve's teammates in tow. Dan was on his knees in the den, attempting to scrub a beer stain out of the carpet. Ted took off roughly sixteen minutes ago. Bo headed back home ten minutes after that. Steve didn't want to crash at Dan's. After what had happened, he had no desire to. He didn't want to walk back to Bullworth alone though either. I'll bring Casey with me, he thought. Shit, Casey's the one that got me into this mess anyway.

 Bullworth Football Field, 9:13 P.M. EST

I can't breathe.

'Yes you can. Man up son, this is football.'

Okay.

"GET THE HELL OUT THERE SPURLOCK! GO! GO!"

One could say that he flew rather than ran, his legs pumping a mile a minute as his cleats seemed to lift off the field. He would have cartwheeled across the damn field if Coach Crowquill had asked him to. The football field became a place where freedom was not only feasible, but possible. He wasn't one to disappoint. He wasn't so much breathing as he was gasping for air. You fix this shitshow first, said a reasonable and authoratative voice in his head, a voice that sounded like his pop. Fix this, then you can take your breather.

It was the fourth quarter of their first game of the season, a home game. The Bulls were trailing seventeen to twenty against the McGant Marauders, the same team that Dan Wilson had called "a bunch of candy-asses" just three days ago during practice. Candy-asses or not, they were putting up one hell of a fight and had pushed the Bulls - currently in possession of the ball - back onto their own thirty yard line. They were one field goal shy of forcing the game into a tie, and thus overtime...and only five and a half minutes with which to accomplish such a feat. They were hoping for a chance to tie things up, but it would take a miracle to win the damn game.

The miracle found them.

Thompson had made a pretty ballsy move and decided to throw a long bomb down near McGant's forty and Steve Spurlock took off like a rocket to meet him down there, having spotted an electric look in Thompson's dancing blue eyes as he shuffled around in the pocket. Steve swept the pigskin right out of the air and into his open palms, like a farmer plucking a perfect egg right out of his prized henhouse. He didn't slow his roll by more than a picosecond for the catch before cutting a quick, fatal path towards the end zone. He wasn't called Blue Streak for nothing.

Two or three of McGant's meathead linebackers tried to stop him, but they were big and clumsy. Steve was slender and lithe and he weaved his way around them like an adder. The roadblocks out of his way, he was too far gone for them to play catch-up and he slid into the end zone. The audience screamed as his teammates came to him, some clapping him on the shoulder or slamming into him for a quick embrace. As if that one last push had given the team the confidence they needed, Dan Wilson managed to snag an interception and they let the clock run out. The battle was won.

"Ho-lee shit, that catch!" Ted Thompson roared, pulling Steve into a rough, tight, not entirely unwelcome embrace. Ever since Steve had moved to Bullworth from his small town in Wisconsin last year, he and Thompson formed a deep camaraderie, a sort of kinship. Steve supposed it stemmed from the fact that both boys had effectively been raised to play football. Steve's own pop had been his harshest coach, but Steve knew it was out of love.

"And ho-lee shit, that throw!" Steve cried, returning the embrace to his quarterback, his captain. He respected Ted almost as much as the coaches, maybe even a bit more. It was hard not to respect someone that shared the same sentiments when it came to the football, with the way Steve had been raised. His pop was a devout lifelong Green Bay Packers fan and he had shared this love on with his son. Some of Steve's earlies memories were of watching Packers games from atop his pop's knee, that or practicing with his pop in the backyard with a small foam football.

The boys headed back into the locker room together, like a swarm of deadly fire ants. They had valiantly defended their territory for the first game of the season and although the games would get undoubtedly harder at some point, there was a strong feeling of unity and confidence going that night as they poured into the locker room.

"We're going to kill it at the regionals this year," Thompson exclaimed brashly as he removed his helmet, his sweat forming a halo of steam around his head as the frigid locker room air hit his warm, sweaty skin. Thompson's words were met by fierce applause and jeers from the other guys as they shucked off their uniforms and stampeded right into the showers, leaving only Steve, who glanced into the nearest full-length mirror.

His brown eyes swept over a sixteen year old young man that possessed a build that, while strong, was more lean and slender than some of his beefier teammates. He was somewhat handsome, with unruly brown waves and eyes that were deep, sharp, perhaps even pensive in a way that was uncommonly found in his athletic ilk. He looked like the "All-American Boy" type, if not for the secret he hid that couldn't be seen in a passing glance.

He lifted his shirt, just enough to catch a glimpse of smooth, firm stomach and the thing that was attached to it. The thing was round with an adhesive backing and a thin tube that fed into a brick-like device that was close in size to a deck of playing cards. It was encased in a protective impact-proof sports cover and it had a digital display. The thing was Steve's personal parasite - at least, he considered it as such - even though he was feeding off it.

Steve glanced at the display, checking his blood glucose levels. They seemed stable. Wincing, he disconnected the device, feeling the tiny needle as it slid out of the flesh of his abdomen. Gingerly, he put it in the bottom of his locker and headed into the showers. There was a need to get showered and dressed again in a hurry; Dan Wilson was in the process of arranging a party at his place while his folks were out and it had been the talk of the school since he started hitting people up earlier in the day.

Bullworth Streets, 12:18 A.M. EST

Why?

Why is this happening to me?

This is fucking bullshit, Steve thought viciously as they stumbled down the darkened street, half-supporting Casey as he went. The night air was biting, cold, and he regretted leaving his athletic jacket in his gym locker. He was hoping a dose of cold air and the pressure of Casey half-leaning on him might snap him back into reality or make him feel a bit better, at least. Maybe wake him from the fucking nightmare that tonight had become. God, this was even worse than the prospect of everyone in the school finding out about his insulin pump.

Why had he liked it?

That was a closely-kept team secret that still wasn't out. All it took was a highlights video with the Carney High Kings to win the loyalty of his new Bullworth teammates. They were willing to keep his diabetes a locker room secret. There was still danger that they couldn't save him from. He had been stupid enough to agree to skip out on Slawter's boring ass biology class last week and make out with Christy Martin under the bleachers. Truth be told, he didn't really have feelings for Martin...but making out was a lot better than cutting open a frog or some roadkill cat that Slawter found on his way to school, so he went for it. She almost copped a feel of his insulin pump and that would have been a fucking nightmare.

This had to be a fucking nightmare.

Even that nightmare is worse than this one, Steve thought to himself as he staggered under Casey's weight. It wasn't all bad having type one diabetes (his pop first discovered it after a visit to the doctor one day, when he noticed Steve taking an awful lot of pisses) but not everyone knew what it was or what it meant. His folks treated him normal, but a season of pee-wee football back in Wisconsin had irreparably damaged his concept of it. Those parents used to look at Steve like he was dying, like he was one of those terminally ill Make-A-Wish kids and that he'd drop at any second. There were few things as uniquely miserable or soul-crushing as being looked at like every tiny move you made was some kind of miracle from God himself, letting a "brave little boy" like that play. One dad had even approached Steve and asked if his folks ought to consider putting him in flag football. Fuck flag football, flag was for pansies.

Why had he liked it?

Steve pulled Casey into a small alcove in a nearby wall as a cop passed. The cops would surely come harass them for being out past curfew and judging by Casey's current state, the cops would probably also want to make sure the two hadn't been out drinking. Neither of them were of age and Steve really didn't want to add jail to tonight's shit list.

Dan Wilson's Den, 10:28 P.M. EST

"Let's play spin the bottle!'

"Are you fucking serious?"

"Why not? Sounds like fun."

Steve Spurlock sat on the coarse sand-colored carpet of the Wilson family's den, running his finger idly through the rough fabric as they formed a loose circle on the floor. He had a few reasons to keep his attention averted from the game that was starting up, most of them crucial...though he was also keeping an eye on his beer, swiped from the Wilson's fridge, afraid someone might knock it over.

Firstly (and perhaps most importantly) was that Christy Martin was sitting in the circle too, and she kept glancing at Steve as though she expected him to say something to her, like she wanted more from him. Steve, his face growing warm, kept his gaze averted. He really didn't want to go there. How do you tell a chick that she doesn't really interest you after practically sucking her face? Fuck, he had really gotten himself in deep with this one.

Secondly (scratch that first aside, this was perhaps the more crucial reason) was that Steve wasn't entirely pleased with their victory against McGant. They won, sure, but it had been a narrow victory. He was almost glad that his pop hadn't been able to make it to the game...he felt completely dissatisfied with his own performance. Shit, I know I can do so much better than that.

He was picking up on the little micro-conversations around him as he kept his eyes on the carpet.

"Dude, I bet I can score with that blond chick over there?"

"You fuckin' kidding me, Harris? She's a cheerleader from McGant!"

"I know."

Luis took his turn and the bottle landed on Christy Martin. Thank fuck, Steve thought to himself as Luis, who had always admired Martin, perked up. Maybe she'll forget about me now.

"...listening to me, Ted? Do you know how screwed up this is?"

"Relax baby, it's not like I'm going to kiss one of the chicks."

"There's more girls than guys here, you asshole. What do you think will happen?"

Mandy Wiles wasn't too pleased by Ted's decision to hop into the game of spin the bottle. Worse yet, Ted forbade Mandy from playing with them, perhaps afraid that one of the guys would try to swipe her out from under him. The two had been bickering like an old married couple on and off for almost the entire party, as Mandy also hadn't been too cool with Ted's alcohol consumption either. Steve picked at the carpet, trying to drown their voices out as one of the McGant girls landed on Juri and he moved in for the kiss. He was hoping the game would end soon so he could go back to playing War of the Monsters with some of the guys on the Playstation set-up that Dan had down there.

"Dude, your little brother's such a fucking weirdo. I saw him hanging out with that smelly fat kid yesterday and they were talking about that shitty board game they like."

"I know r-right? I came down here to grab one of my dad's beers out of the fridge last week while they were playing that game and they had that Cornelius kid dressed up as a chick, dude. Said he was their elf princess or some shit."

"What the fuck? Are you fuckin' serious, man?"

"Dead serious. He was wearing my mom's dress, dude."

"Your turn, Thompson!" Bo announced as he finished up his own turn, having kissed a pretty girl with dark hair that Steve was only vaguely familiar with. "Have a good roll, captain."

Ted grinned brashly up at his teammate and reached for the bottle, but this was apparently the wrong move. As the bottle made several rapid revolutions around the circle, Mandy wrenched herself out of Ted's embrace and stormed out of the room in a huff, slamming the den's door behind her. Ted, now looking annoyed, excused himself and went after her. There was a tense silence then as Steve and Bo shared a look from across the circle. They had seen Ted and Mandy get on each other's nerves before, but it was rarely ever this bad or this public.

"Oh shit!" Casey suddenly laughed as the bottle stopped moving. "Mandy didn't even need to get pissed. Look who the bottle landed on!"

Steve looked down at the center of the circle to find the bottle's neck pointing right at him and he immediately started to laugh along with some of the other guys. Oh shit, he thought, that is'' kind of funny. Poor Ted's probably getting the chewing-out of his life right now, but holy shit, that's hilarious.''

"Goddammit," Dan swore under his breath, his face flushed from laughter. "He would have had to kiss you instead of a chick, Blue Streak. What an unlucky bastard."

"Check yourself in the mirror before you say I'm not a good time," Steve retorted. "Cause you look like the fuckin' kid from that Problem Child movie we saw at Bo's house last weekend."

"Bah!" Casey gasped, spluttering cheap beer all over his front and the laughter picked up once again. "He does!​​​​​"

Some of the chicks weren't too impressed with the ribbing or how the game of spin the bottle had evaporated, but Steve was laughing too hard to care, his sides tensing up with pain as he rolled on the carpet beside Bo, tears of mirth streaming down his cheeks as they guys continued to playfully insult one another.

Bullworth Gates, 12:42 A.M. EST

<p style="text-align:center;">My fucking life is over.

<p style="text-align:center;">None of this makes any sense.

<p style="text-align:center;">But at the same time...

Bullworth Academy was quiet, bathed in the light of a fading full moon as it continually peered out from behind thick, gray cloud cover that overtook the darkened New England town. Steve and Casey arrived at the wrought-iron gates and gently pried them open, slipping inside. The last thing they needed was to get caught sneaking in by one of the prefects, or Peabody, or anyone else that might be prowling around at this hour.

As if that could make anything worse.

Steve jumped as he picked up on movement in the dark, then felt a wave of relief sweep over him. Only Russell and two of his guys, enjoying a smoke. He felt a twinge of envy; they looked calm and collected, like they were enjoying themselves, enjoying the night, enjoying eachothers' company. At this moment, Steve wanted to be anybody in the world, anybody but Steve Spurlock.

Why had he fucking liked it?

He and Casey crashed through the door to the bedroom that Steve shared with Juri and Bo. Juri disappeared earlier in the night with the McGant girl and Bo, who lived only a half-mile away from Dan, took off for his own house. Casey was dead to the world in about two minutes, but Steve paced around the cramped bedroom. Cold air surged into the shared bedroom as he did, unable to sleep after what had happened.

Maybe I was drunk, maybe it was the booze.

But he hadn't been drunk. In fact, apart from Bo, Steve was the only guy that hadn't left the party completely faded out of his mind. He'd made a discreet trip to the upstairs bathroom in the middle of the party to check out his blood glucose levels and, after wincing at the results, decided to lay off the alcohol a bit. He was a bit tipsy, maybe, and perhaps he could even argue that he was drunk on the atmosphere of the party, but the beer hadn't been coursing through him like it had been for many of the others.

Steve wanted to cry. It felt like someone had driven their hand into his chest and started squeezing his heart. It was the most shitty feeling he had ever felt. It was sucky. It hurt.

Thoughts flooded into his mind then, a rapid-fire burst of invasive, unwanted memories. He was recalling Seo-yun, a girl that he had "dated" back in the fifth grade. It was mostly a lot of hand-holding and cute kiddie shit like that, but he had also had his first kiss with that girl, on the schoolbus. It hadn't been anything, hadn't felt like anything and he was sure that it was just because they were kids and he was too young...too young to feel that shit.

Then there was that girl he met at Damon's party last year, Vanessa. She was beautiful, he'd thought, and the two of them grew closer over the course of that night and a single trip to the carnival that year...but they'd lost contact soon after. It just hadn't worked quite like Steve thought it would.

Christy Martin, who had been ogling him the entire duration of the party, was another case where he just didn't feel anything from it. When they were out sucking face behind the bleachers that day, it just kind of felt like Steve had a glossy pair of lips on his...but nothing ''else. Nothing special''. He didn't feel sparks, didn't feel fireworks, could not feel even a hint of the shit that others talked about. He could not, had never, hadn't even remotely felt it.

Until now.

<p style="text-align:center;">Dan Wilson's Den, 11:14 P.M. EST

<p style="text-align:center;">"Is this alright with you, bro?"

<p style="text-align:center;">"Yeah, it's no problem, man."

<p style="text-align:center;">"Alright. Let's do it, Blue Streak."

They stood near the television set, colors and sounds blaring as Bo Jackson versed Casey in a round of War of the Monsters, which the two of them had just been playing before Casey opened his trap. Most of the guys were drunk. Thompson's face was red like Galloway's on a bad - or was it, for him, a good - Thursday afternoon. His breath had that alcohol smell to it, the smell that had become synonymous with English class for Steve.

It had seemed like a pretty good idea, pretty fucking hilarious, even. The two of them were so sure, so secure in who they were that a little thing like this wouldn't matter. Might as well entertain the guests and finish the game of spin the bottle once and for all, right? Put the damn thing to rest, so Casey couldn't bring it up again. Couldn't get them to drop their Playstation controllers so he could steal them.

Ted Thompson leaned in. Putting on a good show, Steve did too.

The first thing Steve thought was admittedly pretty fruity. How are Thompson's lips that soft? he wondered. It seemed so antithetical to the Thompson he knew, the guy that would play in the rain until he was splattered with mud, the guy that would take or give a tackle to secure a first down. It was almost kind of hilarious. He figured he had to have been almost as close to Thompson as Damon was, but he had never seen this side of his captain, his quarterback. True, a good part of it came from the beer, but it was kind of....kind of nice?

And then...something else.

Oh no.

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck no.

He felt it.

That feeling that other people spoke about, the one he didn't - and he'd thought perhaps couldn't - experience. The sudden wave of warmth that went through his body like a shockwave. The way it felt like there was a tiny psycho in his heart, hammering away with a jackhammer. That feeling that he'd liked so much whenever he went on a kickass rollercoaster - if this wasn't a rollercoaster, he didn't know what was - and it went upside-down or corkscrewed.

That feeling. The feeling he'd waited his entire life to feel when he met the right chick. The feeling he had started to think might not exist...that maybe he would have to visit some shrink and figure out what inside him was broken that made it so he couldn't ​​​​​​feel that feeling. He was feeling it...but not how he'd hoped.

He was feeling that feeling...with Ted fucking Thompson, of all people. Ted didn't seem to notice anything unusual. Not as they kissed, not as they broke apart, not as they chilled for a few minutes and played a final round of War of the Monsters before he bounced. But Steve's mind was swimming somewhere else now.

Why had he liked it?

Why?