Down, But Not Out
By Snare-chan
Pairings: None
Ratings: K+
Category(ies): Humor/Slight AU
Warning(s): None
Status: One-shot, complete
Summary: (2007 Movie verse) Sam wasn't the only one who tried out for football practice.
Notes: A surprise gift for Devilish Kurumi that started as a very slashy, very Miles/Trent fic because of tight football uniforms, body contact in the form of tackling from behind and the like, and then none of that ended up happening. There's still Miles, and there's still Trent, with added Sam for a bonus since this is based on the flashback we see in the 2007 movie. XD But there's really no ship-ness to it at all. I think I can get away with this if I reason that Miles had his helmet on, so Trent never really saw his face, and also…well, you'll see why when you get to the end. ;3
Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers; wish I did like everybody else. They should put TF in stock, then I'd buy it all!
Miles wasn't quite sure what they were doing here.
Well, no, back up, he did know. It was another one of Sam's get-popular-real-quick schemes that he'd been stewing up ever since he'd entered high school. Puberty had hit his friend like a tank at full ramming speed and the desire to nab a hot girl was strong, so it was predictable that he would end up resorting to this plan at some point.
Why he was here was the real question.
Okay, so maybe he knew that reason, too. Sam and he had been friends since the brunet moved into town at the tender age of six and wandered around the local city park to find Miles trying to catch birds with his hair. They were close, brothers in a sense, and no man leaves his friends to proverbially walk the plank. No matter how many lapses in sanity they might be experiencing.
Then, perhaps, that was just it: they were finally ready to die. What other reason would there be for them to try out for the football team? The field was like a gladiator stadium, the "pro" players – who had been attending tryouts since sixth grade due to overbearing fathers – akin to starving lions, while they were the unfortunate souls sentenced to a bloody, miserable, and utterly painful demise.
"Sam, I'm not so sure about this. I mean, aren't there easier ways to pick up chicks? Ones where we don't risk breaking our bones? My arm was taken out of its cast last week and I'd kind of like to keep it that way," he felt like pointing out as they suited up for the first time. Hopefully, it wouldn't be the last thing they ever did, either.
His friend scoffed, tossing him a confident smile.
"No way. This time, the plan is solid. All we have to do is make it through a couple of simple tryouts and that's it. With the players from last year coming back in, we'll probably be benched the entire season, but we'll still be a part of the team," the other reassured, strapping on his helmet, which was easily two sizes too big on him. "Jerseys are babe magnets; there's no quicker way to attract a girl than this."
"What about chocolate? Or flowers? Girls always love chocolate and flowers. No one has ever gone wrong with those."
Sam tsked and looped an arm around his shoulders, tugging him towards the exit as he said, "Miles, that's the thing. Little girls prefer sweets and all that other traditional crap. You're not thinking big enough; what we're aiming for are full-bodied women."
At Miles' incredulous look, he elaborated with, "You know, cheerleaders? Seniors? Ladies that work at American Eagle?"
"In four years, we'll be seniors. I think it'd be cooler if we waited until then," he kept trying to persuade, though the chance of fleeing was growing slimmer with every footstep they took.
"Miles, you're worrying too much. Not everything is as complicated as you make it out to be. Trust me on this: we'll be done here and having dates for homecoming in a couple hours, just wait and see."
There were two problems with Sam's plan that he could figure out, aside from the obvious fact that neither of them knew how to play the sport. They were of the running around Nerf-ing and water-gunning among friends variety of athletes; competitive, but not at the risk of eating through a tube the next morning. Having to watch what he ate was bad enough when he had to wear braces; he'd prefer not to consume rice pudding until his fiftieth birthday.
No, the first real issue presented itself in the form of Trent DeMarco, star quarterback and lead player from middle school. He was a shoo-in for this year's tryouts and had friends backing him up in the range of sumo wrestlers, the entire group of them easily reminding him of shark week on the Discovery Channel. At the first scent of blood they would pounce and rip apart their prey, and from a distance, it looked like they were already picking straws to see who was going to attack the newcomers.
The second problem, which didn't occur to him until later, was that they had been jinxed. Those famous last words uttered in the locker room were going to come back and haunt the both of them.
After warm-ups, everyone who had shown up for tryouts was divided into two teams. The coach had separated the players by numbers, at least making for semi-equal teams of experienced and new candidates, and the two friends managed to end up on the same team as offensive linemen. A quick huddle was issued, where the captains defined formations – the plan sounded simple, easy for even novices like them to accomplish without much difficulty, provided they stayed out of the way.
In under seven seconds, the first play was over and done with.
Miles didn't realize it was finished because it happened so quickly. He remembered getting in line with his other teammates, Sam a little ways to his right, the whistle was blown, and then…simultaneously he and Sam were run over by a bus. Or maybe it was an elephant. Yeah, a stampede of elephants had run onto the field and trampled them as they made a mad dash to the concession stand for peanuts.
"Dude, you alive?"
"Did anyone get the license plate number of those elephants?"
"Yeah, he's alive, Jimmy."
Two guys helped him back to his feet, one taking each of his arms, just in time to see Sam getting escorted off the field. If he was lucky, he'd only have a concussion. If he wasn't, Miles would be seeing his name in the obituaries tomorrow. Biting his lip in worry, he started to remove his helmet and tail him, honestly worried about his friend's condition, when he was suddenly cut off.
"Where do you think you're going, rookie? The game's just getting started."
Trent was blocking his path, tossing the ball in the air as his posse flanked either side. Gulping, Miles slowly lowered his helmet back on, not wanting to make any sudden movements that might provoke the other players into a frenzy. He'd read somewhere in National Geographic that certain species could smell fear. If that was true, then people like Trent must get off on it, because he was looking a bit too excited about the violence that was undoubtedly going to be taking place.
"Alright boys, enough lollygagging! Get back into your places," the coach roared, returning from calling Sam's parents to pick him up, the lucky jerk. If he survived this, then his friend owed him a dozen banana splits and a cherry snow cone – no, a mixed orange-pineapple and cherry snow cone. Favors of this magnitude, when abandoned on, called for the big dues.
Hesitantly going back to his position, he waited for the whistle to blow again.
On the plus side, this time he wasn't tackled to the ground. A student about two feet taller and three times as heavy as him – which was a lot in both accounts, since he was no shorty and the other guy could pick him up and toss him in place of the ball – howled and charged. He was easy to see coming, Miles yelping in alarm and dodging to the side. His larger opponent couldn't change directions that hastily and ended up grabbing at the air and falling face-first into the dirt.
On the not-so-plus side, Miles somehow ended up with the ball. Like before, he didn't understand how matters had transpired. A brown object went hurdling towards his face, so impulsively he reached out and caught it, a cursory glance down at his hands revealing it to be a football.
"Don't just stand there, idiot! Do something with it!"
He turned his head up at the shout in time to see both sides running towards him, Trent seeming to head the charge. His eyes widened at the sight and survival mode kicked in. If there was one talent that Miles possessed, it was his ability to outrun bullies and his neighbor's Rottweiler whenever it got loose. Right now, it was coming in handy, too.
Miles turned on his heel and sprinted, unwittingly heading in the wrong direction towards one of the goal posts, and never looked back. People were shouting at him, their yelling congealing into a single outcry as he made it from the middle of that field to the end zone in two minutes flat. But he didn't stop there; with the ball still tucked under his arm he leapt at the goal post, shimmying up it and not resting until he'd reached the bar at the top.
Below, there was the harsh sound of a human body connecting with the metal base, Trent unable to mimic his actions accurately and climb up like him. Instead, he ran head first into it, knocking himself unconscious, and accidentally getting dog-piled by his teammates when they couldn't break fast enough.
From the sidelines, the bemused voice of the coach shouted, "Hey, kid, have you ever considered joining the track team?"
-Fin-