Here goes...
He stood in the dark corridor, shivering as the crisp October air blew in from the open end of the concrete tunnel, wafting in the amazing and distinct scent of stadium brats and hotdogs. It brought with it the low hum of the chattering crowd waiting excitedly in the stands with their cardboard signs and foam fingers. Edward's helmet was balanced on his hip, fingers looped through the green face mask. The yellow paint was scratched and chipped with streaks of blue, purple, and red, all coming from the many tough hits he had suffered in his NFL career, each telling a separate story about a yardage gain or touchdown, each as unique as the next. He refused to allow them to scrub off his paint. He'd earned them and he wore the streaks proudly.
Through the random splotches of other team's colors, the large encircled "G" was prominent on the side, telling the world that he served the Green Bay Packers, and only the Packers. He leaned against the cool gray wall, energy radiating through him as steady and constant as his own pulse, a part of him that has always been there. He lived for the adrenalin, for the rush of excitement that bombarded him the moment he stepped onto the field, the field where so many of his great heroes had stood, shedding their blood sweat and tears, tackling their way into five Superbowl wins. This was the field where Vince Lombardi, Bart Star, and Aaron Rodgers had staked claim to the coveted spots in the hearts and souls of the many devoted fans that cheered in the stadium, rain or shine, snow or hail. This was Lambeau Field, home of great names and devout fans.
He couldn't wait to sprint through the tunnel of cheerleaders, waving their pompoms around in a shine of green and gold, bouncing on their toes as their bubbly and excited voices cheered his name. He couldn't wait to feel the familiar pull of his cleats sticking into the perfectly trimmed green grass, couldn't wait to hear the thunderous roar of the crowd as they began chanting his name in unison, screaming out his number. He glanced downward at the white number 21 stitched perfectly onto his deep green mesh jersey pulled tightly over his shoulder pads. He ran his hand through his tangled auburn locks, trying to calm his nerves before the big game, centering himself, using his alone time to prep, to think. Edward needed this time, needed it to get everything else off his mind, and focus on just one thing: football.
Today, if he didn't leave one hundred and thirty percent on the field, the Packers would lose, and losing was worse than injury. They would be a laughingstock, something they hadn't been in over twenty years, especially not in the four years Edward had been on the team. He was twenty-two as of yesterday. He had been drafted straight from high school and was now the envy of every other team's wide receivers.
Today, the Packers played their arch enemies, the Minnesota Vikings. Clad in purple and gold, the Vikings were ready to pummel the Packers, kick butt and take names. He blinked his green eyes, squinting as he looked down the tunnel at the world outside, seeing the lush green grass awaiting the poking and prodding of cleats, awaiting the harsh impact of tackles and falls. He saw the cheerleaders stretching their long, glorious limbs before they began twisting and twirling their bodies in unimaginable ways, ways that Edward would dream about that night. He saw then new head security guard, brown-haired, brown-eyed Charlie Swan, standing at the mouth, lips pressed into a thin line beneath his shaggy mustache, arms crossed tightly across his chest, feet planted firmly in the ground, ready to stop intruders. Edward wiped his hand across his face.
"Edward!" he heard the coach, Billy Black, chastise him from inside the locker room. He was once again late, but what was Coach Black going to do, bench him? Edward smiled to himself, pulling on his form-fitted, personalized gloves—the best wide receiver in the NFL could only have the best of the best. The coach wasn't going to sit him. Edward was their best asset, the playmaker, the leader. There was no way he was going to sit on the bench.
His cleats clacked against the tiled floor, echoing loudly throughout the silent locker room, everybody's eyes on Edward. He smiled brilliantly, feeling Billy's menacing black eyes staring him down as he plopped backwards on the wooden bench next to Emmett Swan, his best friend on the football team. Emmett clapped him on the back, laughing at something in that hearty and throaty laugh of his. Edward dropped his gaze to his toes, slightly ashamed of his arrogant acts, but not ashamed enough to stop. He was better. Edward Cullen was better than all the other players, or at least, that was how he saw it. "Alright, men," Coach Black began, "this is it." Edward braced himself for the pep talk, the kind of pep talk that left the team more worried and frightened than pepped. "All your training comes into play here and now. If you don't leave a hundred and ten percent on that field today, the Vikings will have bragging rights. Do we want that?" A chorus of no sir's rang out among the players, sitting on the bench with their elbows on their knees, faces staring toward the coach whether they were listening or not.
One response was significantly louder than the others, in a deeper, more conceited voice. Edward forced himself to glance upwards, his eyes meeting the deep brown ones of the quarterback, Jacob Black. Jacob Black was the coach's son and the ultimate quarterback. He was quick and lean, able to shoot like an arrow whenever he was forced to run, yet he was built and able to throw Hail Mary passes down the field all day without any sort of strain on his arm. He was menacing, the anger flashing in his eyes during a game making him look like a tiger, and the other team's defense feel like pray. There was only one problem with Jake: He wouldn't throw Edward the ball unless he had to, which, to Edward's pleasure, was quite often, since Edward was the quickest, nimblest one on the team, able to juke his defenders left and right and fly into the end zone, usually without being touched. Usually. Jake's eyes were narrowed in his direction, undoubtedly angry at Edward for his absence, for holding the team up. Edward snorted quietly, knowing that if he had to, he could take Jacob down easily, one punch to the nose, and Jake would be begging for mercy, tan arms covering his face, catching the blood that oozed from his crooked and broken nose. One side of Edward's mouth pulled up into a smirk. He sickly pleased with that image running through his mind.
"Take it away, Jake," Billy concluded, and Edward realized he hadn't heard any of the pep talk. The team got up and gathered around Coach Black. Our faces were looking down in his direction. Billy was in a wheelchair, due to a football accident that had cut his career short and left him paralyzed, but he didn't let that stop him from living his dream of having a career in the NFL. Coach Black had become one of the top coaches in the NFL, rising to the top quickly and effectively. His team was his pride and joy, more so than his son was. Edward only knew that because it was something Jacob would often complain about. Coach Black spent hours upon hours watching game film and making up trick plays. Edward didn't think it was such devotion since Billy lived at home alone, his wife having died when Billy's children, Jake, Rebecca, and Rachel, were young. To Edward, Billy was just the living reminder of the danger they put themselves in every day. The risks may have scared some, but to Edward, the benefits of this far outweighed the hazards.
Football was his passion, his one true love. Sure, Edward had been with girls, lots of girls to be exact, but none of them even compared to the feeling he had when he was on the feel, ball in hand, sprinting headlong down the field toward the end zone, the roar of the crowd filling his ears as he crossed the line and continued, leaping into the stands, preferably next to cute girls, and felt their hands touching him, hearing them scream his name. Yep, for Edward, that was life, as close to living as it could come. He joined the huddle at the center of the locker room.
"Intensity on three!" Jacob yelled, the sweat already condensing on his forehead.
"One, two, three, INTENSITY!" the team called, following Jake's lead. They slapped each other on the back as they fastened their chin straps of their green and gold helmets, pounding each other's just to make sure they were on securely. Edward held his on his hip, waiting to feel the cool air breeze against his flushed face before putting it into the sauna that football teams called helmets. Emmett punched Edward on the shoulder.
"Good luck, bud," he said, grinning through his facemask. Edward touched his fist to the side of his friend's helmet.
"Just make sure you block for me this time, not accidentally tackle me," Edward chuckled as Emmett sighed and rolled his eyes.
"One time, man. One time," he complained. "You're never going to let me live that down, are you?" They walked into the dark tunnel, the air blowing in from the far end, which was open for the team to run out of.
"Nope," Edward grinned as he pulled his helmet onto his head, not bothering to hook the chinstrap like the rest of the team because he knew they would be taking them off soon after for the Star Spangled Banner. He jogged up to the front by Jacob, looking straight ahead as the cheerleader's green and gold pompoms swirled in unison, making a tunnel for them to run through and then onto the glory of Lambeau Field. They halted just before exiting the tunnel, the cheer from the crowds nearly drowning out all sound, the helmets not helping with the problem
"Good luck, Jake," Edward called over the roar, sticking out his fist to the quarterback. Jake touched his against it lightly.
"Luck," he replied, "who needs luck?" With that, he sprinted out of the tunnel, tearing through the banner at the end, the crowd going crazy when they saw the number ten on his green jersey, calling out cheers for their quarterback. Edward laughed once, though it was more like a heavy exhale through his nose. Tapping against the top of his helmet out of ritual, he followed his suitor, earning an even louder howl from the crowd.
"Cullen, Cullen!" the fans chanted in unison, the thunderous impact reverberating through the whole stadium. Yup, this is what he lived for. He loved the glory, the fame, the reliance, and the responsibility. He loved it all, even the risks, the trials and tribulations, and the infamy. Everything.
He looked up into the stands of Lambeau field, seeing the mix of green, white, and gold covering two thirds of the stadium, and purple covering the rest. He smiled to himself, loving the back-country, Wisconsin hicks that always seemed to be in the front row, shirtless with their beer bellies painted, spelling out words. That day, they spelled "Cullen." Though in their drunken haze, they had switched some letters, spelling "Clueln." Edward pointed to them, and they cheered holding up their cups, sloshing smelly brown-yellow liquid all over themselves. He motioned to his stomach, watching as they looked downward, laughing when they realized they were mixed up. He watched them drunkenly stumble around each other, falling over their seats and their friends as they tried to squeeze their bellies around each other. They continued to guffaw at each other and trip until they spelled Cullen correctly.
He flashed them a double thumbs-up, knowing the whole ruckus had been played on the Jumbotron judging by the laughs emanating from the stands. He waited for the rest of his team to run out, before walking over to their bench with them.
As they lined up for the National Anthem, Edward felt Emmett's hot breath on his neck. "Eddie," Emmett sang from behind him. Edward jabbed his elbow backwards.
"Shut up, Em. I hate that name."
"I'm getting you ANGRY!" he bellowed, curling his fingers up like a mad scientist. "I'm helping your game."
"The only thing that could help my game would be you shutting up and listening to our countries song." Emmett laughed, and he and Edward removed their helmets, putting their hands over their hearts, one of Coach's rules. Edward's head faced forward, but in his peripherals, he eyed Christina Aguilera, who was singing that day. He'd probably get with her, if she wasn't married. As rule of thumb, Edward never broke up relationships, having experienced his father's failed marriage firsthand, though Carlisle Cullen was once again happily married to a pretty brown-haired lady named Esme Hale. Edward wiped a drip of sweat from his forehead as the song came to a close.
"Are you ready to rumble?" the announcer called the famous phrase over the loud speaker. The crowd roared. Edward's twin sister, Alice waved enthusiastically at him from across the field, decked out in her green and gold cheering uniform. Her normally short, dark hair had extensions in it so she could meet the ponytail tied up in a sparkly ribbon standard among the cheerleaders. Next to her, his step-sister Rosalie Hale, who was a year older than him, smiled up at the stadium seats, probably thinking they had come to see her. Edward rolled his green eyes, offering Alice a slight wave, more of a hand twitch, in return. She pouted, but quickly wiped away the frown, cheering wildly with the rest of the group, figures she'd be the captain. No one could be peppier than Alice, not even with five energy drinks and seventeen cups of coffee. Alice wasn't even allowed to drink coffee, not as long as she was in the apartment below me. Edward would sometimes hear strange knocks sounding from the floor of his penthouse apartment, only to find out Alice decided she need to change her entire décor of her own apartment at three in the morning. He pulled his helmet back on as Jake gathered them into the huddle. "Alright guys, they kick off." He turned to the special teams players, "Start us out strong, boys. We'll bring it home."
The team clapped, saying, "Break," in perfect synchronization. Edward sat back onto the bench next to Emmett, waiting until it was his turn to be on the field. The refs handed the ball to the other team. "God," Emmett said quietly beside him, "everything is so different this year."
The bronze haired boy looked at him, "Like what?" Emmett gave Edward a sidelong glance.
"You blind, bro?" he asked. His voice was surprisingly serious. Edward shrugged. "Well, for starters, Jake." Jake was a rookie quarterback, straight from Ole Miss, though everybody knew he'd be high in the draft, top ten, only because Coach Black was his father. Edward nodded, not seeing how that was different. "Then, Chuck's missing," he continued. Chuck was the head security guard last year, but he was replaced by Emmett's dad, Charlie, after he was killed saving a player from a bullet a crazy Vikings' fan was trying to put in his head.
"Good-for-nothing, psycho fans," Edward muttered.
"Amen, brother." Emmett said, raising his arms to the heavens. "Then, there's my sister, who's the new—" He was cut off by the coach screaming for them to go in. Edward looked out at the situation on the field, sort of mad at himself that he hadn't been paying attention and had to be reminded to go in. Special teams had returned it to the fifty yard line. Piece of cake. Mentally shunning himself, Edward jogged onto the field next to Emmett, stopping in his position. Emmett nodded and went to his position on the line, smiling menacingly at the Viking stationed across from him. The team had decided they'd go no huddle this game, to spice it up. They lined up, the linemen's hands out in front of them, heads bowed, ready to protect their quarterback from whatever came at him. Edward had one foot forward, waiting for the snap, ready to sprint, already calculating where the defense would be covering. And where they wouldn't. "Left, fifty-two," Jake called, or at least, that's what Edward thought he called. His voice was nearly inaudible, the fans far too noisy for any sense to be made of his words. "Left, fifty-two," he heard again.
The ball was snapped, placed firmly in Jake's hands, laces line up with his fingers, ready for the throw. Edward waited long enough for Jake to drop back into the pocket, eye scanning the field in the spot the play should have opened up. The play had failed miserably, the Vikings' defense covering every opening. Time was running short, but Edward was already off, shooting down the field like a flaming arrow, untouchable by the defense. He saw Jacob see him, think for a split second, and then send the ball flying toward him. This is what usually happened. The play wouldn't work, and Edward would sprint down the field, getting the ball, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was the distance between Edward and the end zone. Edward caught the pigskin, cradling it to his chest as if it were a delicate baby as he ran down the field, the end zone becoming nearer and nearer.
He was the only one down the field, nearing the ten yard line as he ran with the wind whipping into his face and through his hair, stinging his eyes and whooshing in his ears. He didn't stop though. He picked up speed, not content with this mediocre pace. The first play of the game was going to end in a touchdown, whether it was going to be an easy one or not. Edward tucked the ball securely under his arm, ducking his head so he could run faster, be in the end zone quicker. He crossed the line, dropping the ball and throwing his arms up in the air as the refs blew their whistles, signaling the touchdown. As the rest of his team shuffled into position for the extra point field gola, Edward prepared for the traditional Lambeau Leap, scouting out the cutest girls in the crowd, hoping the Bikini Girls were back. Ah, there they were. He'd spotted them and began running toward them, when smack! He was suddenly on the ground on his side, grass scratching his face, cleats in his groin, shoulder screaming in agonizing pain. He felt loopy, disoriented. He blinked his eyes, trying to remember what had happened. The blue sky loomed above him with whimsical, wispy clouds floating in the breeze. Wait, hadn't the girls just been there? His head was throbbing, heart hammering in his chest, leaping up into his throat. Something shifted atop him, and Edward cringed away, squeezing his eyes shut.
Regaining his composure, he opened them, gasping quietly. Hovering above him was a smiling Vikings player, his lips forming words that Edward couldn't hear, his white teeth glowing brightly, singeing Edward's eyes. Edward flinched, wanting nothing more than to jump into the stands and allow those girls to touch him, wanting the pain in his head to disappear, the ach in his shoulder to feel better. Emmett came quickly and pulled the football player wearing purple off of him. Edward's vision was so swirly and blurry that he didn't even catch a number. He tried to roll onto his back, but his shoulder protested.
"Argh!" he cried, clamping the hand of his uninjured arm around his shoulder, trying to brace it so he could at least get up. Emmett crouched down beside him a look of sympathy crossing his familiar face.
"Don't force yourself, man," he said, his amber eyes tinged with sadness. "Can't have our best receiver too hurt for the rest of the season." Hurt for the season? Edward couldn't comprehend not playing football. He couldn't fathom life without the brown ball, the field goals and end zones, or even his team. What would he do? How would he live? He tried again to sit up, realizing his shoulder wasn't going to allow him. Emmett stood up swiftly, turning around and cupping his hands around his mouth. "Bells!" he called loudly across the field. The fans had hushed into a nervous chatter. A few Get up, Edward's could be heard being yelled from the stands. He could imagine the people gawking at him, staring at him in sympathy. Edward hated sympathy about as much as he currently hated the Vikings. Edward tried to lift his head just enough to see who Emmett was talking to, but that put too much pressure on his shoulders, too much to bear.
"Argh!" he groaned again in frustration. He heard footsteps near him, saw delicate feet sprinting toward him. He heard the soft whoosh of grass as the foot was lifted and then the nearly inaudible thud as it was set down again. He saw green sweatpants with the Packer's emblem on them.
Then, a head leaning over him filled his vision. He saw a delicate heart-shaped face. It was framed with milky brown hair that was pulled back into a tight ballet bun at the nape of her neck. Her doe-like eyes were chocolate brown, her thin pink lips turned into a frown of concentration. Edward wanted to look away, wanted to forget about the injury, tell her to get away, but he couldn't. Her face had him in a trance. His eyes were frozen as they stared into hers, which were focused on his shoulder. Her cold hand smoothly pulled the chinstrap of his helmet loose and gently lifted his head, sliding the suffocating helmet off. Edward blinked again, the slight movement making him woozy.
She looked over her shoulder, barking a few orders at people behind her. Well, barking wasn't exactly the right word. She more told people to do things in a firm, angelic voice. It reminded him slightly of music. A strand of her long brown hair fell loose and tickled Edward's angular, white nose. He wanted so badly to push it away, but he feared that if he moved either arm, he might fall apart. She turned back to him. "Can you move?" she asked, her voice turning worried. She quickly disguised it with a small, girly cough. Edward nodded, determined to stand up and get off the field, before becoming completely humiliated by his injury. Before, he had thought that losing was worse than injury, but now, he wasn't so sure.
The girl reached down a small, frail hand to help him up, but he brushed it away with his own pale hand. "I'm fine," he protested, grunting as he painfully stumbled to his feet, only to be overcome with dizziness. "Dang equilibrium," Edward cursed quietly, as Emmett caught him by the armpits. The trainer had a bemused look on her face. "What?" Edward asked, hand still gripping his shoulder. Emmett set him back up, poised and ready in case he fell again.
"Dang?" she snorted. Edward realized she was a few inches shorter than him with a petite frame and a creamy, white complexion. She had on Packer's sweats, white tennis shoes, and a t-shirt that had "Assistant Trainer" written on it.
"I don't cuss," he replied through gritted teeth, taking the anger of his injury out on the poor trainer.
"Whatever you say, big scary football player," she cooed in a baby voice, undeterred by his tone of voice. Edward felt as if he was having his cheeks pinched by his great-aunt Lucille by the way she was talking to him. Edward took a step forward, but it turned into another drunken stumble. Emmett caught him again.
"Dude, you look pretty banged up," he said, steadying Edward. "Go with my sister. She'll fix you up real good."
"Yeah? Maybe you should go with her and get your English fixed." Edward looked at Emmett, seeing his dark black hair and amber eyes. "Wait, did you say, 'sister'?" Emmett nodded solemnly, gesturing toward each of them with his big, calloused hands.
"Bella, meet Edward. Edward, meet Bella."
You like? If so...Review? {For Vikings fans and Packer haters...just did the Packers so I could have the Lambeau Leap reference...sure do love me some Driver diving into the stands :)} Check out my Mortal Instruments Fanfic! (: All my Love~
