The Player

Chapter 12

Brielle

12:47 PM

"Would you rather go to jail for five years or get punched hard in the face every hour of every day for five years?"

I scratched my head, trying to decide. Each had their own pros and cons.

"I think I would rather get punched every hour," I responded, dipping my fry into ketchup.

Christopher and I were currently in his car, on the way to my house. Since I hurt my ankle, my plan of walking home was a no go. He must have felt really bad, because he insisted on giving me a ride instead of me just waiting for Sam to pick me up. I was surprised when we walked up to a cherry red convertible, instead of his usual black sedan. The car was looked like an antique. I could imagine riding in it to a drive-in movie in the 60s.

He had insisted that we played a game of would you rather as we drove to get my mind off the pain I was feeling. Right as I was about to protest, a sharp pain ran up my leg, reminding me that a distraction might not be so bad after all. He had stopped at the Chick-Fil-a by the school and bought me food as a way of apologizing. After I took one bite into my chicken sandwich, all was forgiven.

"According to my calculations that would be a total of 43,801 punches," he slurped loudly from his now empty drink. "You're going to be brain dead after that."

"Settle down Einstein," I mocked, throwing my crumpled-up napkin at him.

My mind wandered to what happened in the Athletic trainer's office, how close his face was to mine, and how in that brief moment, I was hoping that he would do something. In the back of my mind, I think that I wanted him to kiss me, but I keep that idea as repressed as possible. Even if that was what I wanted, it was probably just injury-induced craziness. Nothing more.

"You're just dodging what I said because you know I'm right," I snapped out of my thoughts, looking up to see a smug look on his face. I refocused myself, brushing off what I was thinking beforehand.

"I know myself. I wouldn't last a single day in jail. I have no clue how to make a shank and the only fight I've been in was in a bouncy house when I was nine."

He smiled in amusement. "What in the world were you fighting about?"

"Don't ask."

In the fourth grade, I punched my classmate Jason during Sam's fourth grade birthday party for saying that I looked like a Christmas tree without a star. I wasn't exactly sure what that meant, but it seemed worthy of a fight to me.

"Ok my turn!" I clapped my hands together in excitement. "Would you rather swim in poop or eat dead bodies?"

green color. I decided that maybe right

I laughed, finding humor in Christopher's nausea. "Would you rather be handsome

handsome and rich." I rolled my eyes at

nerve of

I whined," Seriously, you have to

rather be ugly and rich. Then you can get

nodded my head. "Exactly! It's much easier to make yourself pretty with money than to make yourself rich with looks."

had a lot more in common than I thought. Besides having extreme passions for dance and football, we also both liked English, hated math, and had a minor

front of my house and I quickly

probably leave before

afraid of your brother."

ever since he looked like he could play Thor in

teased, turning around and

not!" he yelled, before driving

my backpack. Right as I was about to insert it into the lock, the door swung open. Sam

groaned, walking into my living room as I trailed behind her. "I was starving and was waiting for you so that we could order

in on the crumpled-up Chick-Fil-A bag in my

"You sneaky wrench!"

seconds. When I gained my composure, I

a wrench?"

would take my phone away." She squinted at me.

my foot on the table. Sam's eyes

happened?" She questioned, concern evident in

me and Christopher shared in the trainer's office. After hearing all of it, she stayed silent for a little,

you feel

she'd ask. "I feel like he's somewhat a friend..." I trailed off. "What is the point of

my face. "After seven years of knowing you I

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