I woke up in the middle of a football field, mid-sprint across the length of it. It was a lovely sunny afternoon, with packed stands and deafening cheers. Apparently, the entire NFL came to watch the high school team practice their drills. Sure, let’s go with that.

I didn’t have the ball, thank God, but my luck wouldn’t hold for long if my experience with the plot was correct. I tried to slow my pace and jog; no need to exhaust myself before the real struggle started.

Then, I saw Hunter, literally three times as large as some of the other players, making his way towards me with intent. We had the same coloured jerseys, even though some of the players were wearing hockey helmets, so I assumed we were on the same team.

Looking down at my hands, I noticed that I was, in fact, in possession of the ball through some nasty twist of fate. By reflex, and dreading the torpedo on its collision course with me, I chucked it at him.

The world froze. In slow motion, the ball glided through the air in a perfect arc I haven’t bothered throwing, and ended up in Hunter’s outstretched hands as he landed at the enemy base. The announcer shouted, “Touchdown!” and the stadium erupted in cheers.

Never mind that he was nowhere near the line, or that several of the players he bulldozed on the way here were lying face down in puddles of mud. On a clear fucking sunny day.

The team rushed to the middle to get their trophy. Confetti was flying through the air as uplifting music accompanied this ridiculous scene. Hunter walked towards me, taking off his helmet and throwing it to the side. He gripped the front of my jersey and yanked me toward him.

“Why did you do that!?”

I took my helmet off, exhausted and a little nauseous from all that whiplash. At least no one tackled me; I didn’t think I could survive that.

“Do what?”

He hesitated, his eyes roaming my face, changing expressions.

“Throw the ball to me? You didn’t have to do that!”

“Yeah, well. We won, didn’t we?”

Hunter froze, staring at me, the reel having its way with the background music shifting between uplifting and melodramatic.

At last, he landed on an emotional profile. “You bastard! I don’t need your charity!”

Bro, make up your mind. One second you hate me and want me off the team. Next, you are in a possessive alpha mode, choking your girlfriend for giving me juice and trying to ravage me in the showers. Now you are playing the angsty victim?

Nah.

Hell to the nah.

“You think you’re so tough! Think you are better than me! You don’t deserve to be on this team!” he punctuated each sentence with a shake that rattled whatever rapidly dying brain cells still remained in my head.

“Alright, I quit.”

That last one was a fluke. I jumped on the opportunity and tossed my helmet into his stunned hands as I sprinted into what I thought was the locker room. So far the engine allowed my audacity, and I was going to take every chance I could get to break out of this mess and go home. Hopefully.

I blinked and was now seated in a chair in front of an easel. I was back in my uniform, paint-stained apron tied around my waist and a paintbrush in my hands.

I decided to pursue my passion for art.

“I did WHAT?”

The sudden appearance of first-person narration took me by surprise, but knowing what I knew about this particular reel, this wasn’t so bad.

I looked curiously at the canvas before me and found a photograph-quality painting with an unfinished edge.

Apparently Liam was an artistic maestro. And a football prodigy. And naturally pale, pretty, well-groomed, feminine, powerful, weak, dainty and all the possible contradictions known to man.

But you know what Liam wasn’t? A man who could catch a break.

Before I even had the chance to truly savour the art piece, a random guy grabbed it off the easel and tore it in half with his bare hands.

Wow. Guess everyone in this reel had the upper body strength of a Greek god.

“Painting your little pictures, sissy boy.”

Here we go again.