Free Sidelined by Emma Hart

up all prim and proper and sip from a real glass.
    God knows how Leah copes at Corey’s.
    “Okay.” I narrow my eyes and point at the screen. “So, where’s Jack?”
    Leah giggles. “On the sideline. We’re playing defense.”
    “Oh. Shit.”
    Ryann laughs. “Seriously, I fucking love the fact you’re banging a football player and you don’t know a single thing about the game.”
    “Oh yeah?” I turn to her and wave my sippy cup indignantly. “What do you know about football?”
    “INTERCEPTED!” Both Leah and Ryann shout. “Go, Wilson, you fuckwit!” Leah screams, sitting up and waving her arms. “Ruuuuun!”
    “What the fuck just happened?” I whisper, looking between the TV and my friends.
    “Bastards!” Ryann swigs her wine.
    “We intercepted the ball,” Leah explains. “One of our defense caught it instead of their offense and made a run up the field.”
    “Ohhhh.” I don’t get it.
    “Jack is on now,” she tells me with a smirk.
    “Where?”
    She sighs at Ryann’s laughter and moves toward the television. “Okay, this guy here in the offensive line.” She points at some dude. “He’s the snapper. When Corey calls the play, he’ll throw it back to him, and Corey”—she taps the screen—“will either throw to one of the wide receivers, like Reid”—she taps some guy at the far right—“or pass it back to Jack.” She points now and looks at me. “This guy is Jack. Number twenty.”
    “Right.” I frown. Seems simple enough, doesn’t it? Snapper passes to Corey. Corey throws to Reid or passes to Jack. Okay.
    “Watch—run, you bitch!” she screams at, presumably, Jack.
    “Wait! What are the lines for?” What the hell is the yellow line on the field? Why are they on the field? More importantly, they’re not actually on the field, are they? Wait, did they just move?
    “If they get the ball over the yellow line, they’ve made a first down. Okay?”
    “But what if they don’t get to the yellow line?”
    “Then they’re going for it the next time,” Ryann adds. “The yellow line always dictates how many yards are left to the next down. Look—it’s one yard. So as soon as they hit the yellow line, they’re on first down—RUN!—and if they do, like—GO! YES!—like that, then they’re back to the first down.”
    I frown and sit back. “Right. But it isn’t fair, is it? Because they throw the ball back, and when it goes to Jack, he’s like, what, fifteen yards from the yellow line? So he has to run farther. Why don’t they just run it from the offensive line thing?”
    “I don’t know!” Leah frowns too. “It’s just…how it works.”
    “It doesn’t make sense.”
    “So ask Jack next time he comes over for some booty.” She winks.
    I briefly close my eyes. Between football and the mention of Jack calling for booty…I need more wine.

    The Vipers won. Apparently, they smashed the Patriots. I don’t know what the score was. I tried to watch another quarter, but for some reason, my brain couldn’t get past snapper-Corey-Jack-run/Reid-pass. There are a whole bunch of other terms Leah used, like sacking and incomplete passes, and don’t get me started on the flag business.
    They seriously need to offer college courses to teach people this stuff. It’s complicated.
    Now, though, it’s twenty-four hours post wine and nachos and three hours post early work shift. Note to self: No fucking wine the night before an eight-a.m. start on a Monday morning. Ever again. I dragged my ass into work slower than it takes a sloth to crawl an inch across a goddamn branch.
    Nonetheless, here I am, hangover killed by several pills through the day, work done, and grocery shopping done. And now …I’m staring at a blank page on my laptop for an essay I need to complete.
    Hell, fuck completing it. I need to start the fucking thing first. Wait. I need to know what the essay is on first. And I kind of have until nine a.m. tomorrow to write five thousand words, so I’m