Hey! Okay, there’s a very big chance that you might just want to throw something at your computer screen once I get to the point why I’m writing the post, but I still will have to continue, all things considered. I know you love me way too much to do anything of that sort 😉
Lately, all that I’ve been thinking about is how most people I’ve been in the last year have changed me in so many ways, and all I wanted to do was to dedicate something to them. So I wrote something for them, and it is called The Color of Awesome. Too vague? I know, but I swear it gets better.
The prospectus said that Illyria Academy has a girls’ football team. But judging by the crowd—where the girls look like they tend to scream bloody murder over a broken nail—I’m convinced that all the hubbub about ‘we are the first school in California with a women’s football team to nurture and encourage the talent of our pupils’ was only to lure the naïve applicants in.
‘It’s perfect for you, Ellie’ Luke, my elder brother had said, ‘you’ll finally be able to play outside the living room, and people would know how good you are at it.’ He’d done everything within his power to convince me that my enormous passion for football was the only reason why he pulled me out of the public school I used to go to earlier and dump me in this fancy high-end Illyria Academy, but I know it was all a play.
The real thing was that he wanted me to stay away from the Juvies—juvenile delinquents—who went there too after someone filled him in.
And I’m not proud to say that I am the biggest idiot to have believed the crows from Illyria and the stupid reason Luke gave me for this sudden school-change deal.
‘So, you are Elizabeth Turner?’ Coach Martin—this bogus school who claims to ‘nurture and encourage the talent of its pupils’ only has one teacher for sports—a fairly good-looking man in his thirties, inspected me from head to toe.
‘Ellie, sir,’ I corrected him, and he nodded weakly, still busy feasting his eyes over me. I had dressed with extra-special care in the morning—black capris and light pink tee from Bebe (modish at best) coupled with Converse All-Stars is a deadly combination, both stylish and athletic, like Luke would say—and I could say the efforts had paid off well, if Coach Martin’s poorly disguised astonishment was any indication.
I mean, really, in a school like this, how often does a nice-looking girl show up to sign up for the football team? I’m guessing zero.
It took a little throat clearing on my part to get Coach Martin talking again. Poor man was in absolute shock.
‘Oh, sorry,’ he smiled apologetically as all the blood within a ten-mile radius rushed up to his cheeks, ‘Um, so are you sure you can play? Aren’t girls supposed to be more into, I don’t know, drama club or something?’
That one cracked me up all right, because had he seen me play, or even taken in the damage I’ve done to the stuff in the living room of my house, he wouldn’t have asked me this question. Natalie—the annoying but friendly neighbor whose house is separated to ours by a single fence—believes that God made a colossal mistake and stuffed me in a girl’s body, because I’m everything but girly, except for the fashion awareness. I think she might be right, but for the time being, I think I’ll make do.
So I squared my shoulders and went, in my grandest voice, ‘Absolutely, sir.’
He didn’t buy it, though. He smiled at me in this weird way–the way villains do in movies when they’re about to pull out a gun from their pockets or make bomb explode somewhere—and called out to a bunch of boys standing just a few steps behind us, all of them doing exactly what Coach Martin had been doing just a little while ago—relishing my undeniable and inescapable charm.
‘Walker! Gregory! Get here, boys.’ The coach shouted, and two boys, both fair-haired and roughly six feet tall with agonizing amount of muscle mass, came shuffling forward. A big, goofy smile was plastered to both of their faces, which was identical to the coach’s, and nearly every male in the room.
‘Okay, Turner,’ Coach Martin turned to me, ‘let’s see what you got. You score even one goal, and you can play with us.’
‘But shouldn’t I be playing with the girls?’ I enquired just for the sake of it, because I was one hundred percent sure that there wasn’t any girls’ team at all.
‘Why, are you scared?’ One of the boys sneered at me, and I rolled my eyes at him. ‘All right big boy, let’s do this.’
That’s the total amount of time it took me to get past those six-foot tall guys and score—a mere ten minutes. It’s one of the perks of being a girl—I’m way smarter than they’d ever be, and it just goes to show that guys, especially those who are in any sort of organized sports, are not the shiniest rocks in the garden, if you know what I mean.
Coach Martin, along with the rest of his team, was visibly taken aback, and when I walked up to him, and asked, ‘So, am I in or what?’ it took him a minute or two to stutter, ‘I’ll have to think about it.’
It wasn’t what I wanted to hear, but the awe-struck expressions were enough to assure me that I’d knocked him out, full and complete.
The boys I’d trodden, I later found out when the coach introduced me to them, were Nick Walker and Travis Gregory.
‘You’re good.’ Travis complimented me, not attempting at all to hide his dismay. I somewhat felt sorry for him, but I’ve learned one thing ever since I started playing—in sports, there is no place for feelings.
I smiled a little and said, ‘You’re not so bad yourself, Travis.’ When I said this, I could see he wanted to smile, but couldn’t do that as there were others watching him, his so-called teammates, who would definitely tease him for ages to come, all because he lost to a girl.
Nick, on the other hand, wasn’t half as gracious about the whole thing. When Coach Martin said, ‘Here, this is Nicholas Walker, the star goalkeeper of the team. The star that you put down so easily’ he stormed out of the room yelling some pretty colorful stuff that included a very liberal use of the F-word.
‘Um, sorry about that.’ The coach explained, ‘he doesn’t take defeat gracefully. He’s the captain of the team, and well, that’s just how he is.’
‘I’ll bet.’ I muttered, mostly to myself, but the others heard if okay, because my comment was followed my uproarious laughter. Dear Nicholas might be the star, but he wasn’t that popular among his co-players, it seemed.
I was still looking toward the door through which Nick had just departed when another boy came to stand in front of us.
‘Turner,’ Coach Martin said, and he sounded delighted, ‘meet Tyler Carlson, the center forward of and the best player of the team. He’s a beginner like you, just joined a few days ago.’
I looked up, expecting another Nick-like guy with blonde hair and a hefty ego, but boy, was I ever wrong.
First, this guy didn’t have blonde hair. His hair was sort of shaggy and caramel-colored, the kind that Cindy—short for Cinderella, can you believe it?—my best friend would faint just by looking at. Second, his eyes were a sparkling blue, and he was way good-looking than that bohunk Nick Walker.
‘Nice to meet you, Ellie Turner.’ He said, and I noticed that his voice was exactly like his face—freaking hot. Thank God, I’d dressed properly.
One thing here—besides John Mayer, I doubt whether I’ve even paid any amount of attention whatsoever to any member of the male persuasion. Yeah, okay, I pay attention to the occasional hotties, but only because Cindy is an A-grade boy stalker, and being her best friend, it becomes one of my fundamental duties to accompany her when she’s on the prowl. For her, it always seemed to work out, if the million boyfriends she’d had so far is any indication, but me?
Nada. It’s all words and no action for poor old moi.
But this freaking unbelievably stunning guy standing right in front of me? Now this is what I’d dare categorize as the ‘oh my God’ variety. I’m not even kidding.
‘Turner? You okay?’ Coach Martin’s voice, which sounded like a crow’s caw-caw when compared to Tyler’s soothing and incredibly charming one, pulled me out of the reverie and back to the present. I guess I must have zoned out.
‘Yes, I am.’ I said, and then turned to the Carlson boy, ‘and it’s nice to meet you too, Tyler.’ He smiled at me as if it was the most normal thing for a girl to swoon over the center forward just minutes after crushing the captain of the team she’s not yet a part of.
But on him, even bizarre looked good.
How is it? Good? Bad? Too weird? Let me know whatever you feel. Be honest.
And the most important thing, this story is dedicated to Tyler Johnson (the character of Tyler Carlson is entirely based on him, and if he were here, he would probably call me stupid oo laugh at me, because of my obsession with him), and Ashley Lewis (who is the major inspiration behind Ellie Turner, the one person who knows exactly what I’m going through when I have no one to talk to).
Don’t forget to leave your comments for me. I’ll be waiting! 😀