Words could not describe how much you hate losing bets. No amount of literary masterpieces could even so much as fathom this anger.
Yet again, linebacker Kirby Olsen ran the least amount of yards during the previous game. Your statistics were falling, and once more, you're doomed to the usual punishment. Cringeworthy.

Coach Burton wasn't vague with his demands. You were to pull a cart of reeking jerseys to the laundromat in town, and wash them all– down to the last fucking jockstrap. Humiliating, stressful labor, only to condone for his lack of effort. Nobody could just skip out on practices, as coach had said, 'Practice is mandatory, broken bones are no excuse,' and he definitely meant it.

Typically on friday afternoons, the place was quiet, maybe a few people coming in to pick up their pressed suits, or a large quilt. You didn't mind doing the laundry itself, no. And you knew how to wash clothes, it wasn't rocket science. You'd typically do those kinds of chores at home anyways. What you hated, were persistent visitors.

May I borrow some detergent? Yeah, sure.

Got a spare quarter? No problem.

"You know, if you wanted to touch this much underwear, all you had to do was ask."

A slight pang of irritation would go through your mind, raised shoulders as if you were a frightened cat, red ears. The works. And of course, you could only ignore such an irritating voice for so long.

Trent Northwick was an absolute douchebag, of this you were certain. You managed to bite your tongue and finish loading in the last of the gear, and upon starting the machine, finally turn to face him.

Of course, 'face him' means 'tilt your head up just so you can look him in the eye'. You've never been short, but the blonde boy likes to make a point of his extra inches, claiming he's closer to the sky because he's a bigger star than you'll ever be.

"What do you want," Is your first reaction, but he's holding flowers and grinning widely, and how can you resist such a smile when– No, no. You'd been caught with this asshole once before, and it wouldn't be happening again. He gave you some kind of pathetic apology before, 'Babe, don't worry about it! It's not that big of a deal,' but to you it is a big deal, and you're positive he was only worried that you'd slug him in the face.

"I'm not taking those." You'd turn your nose, shove your remaining quarters in your pocket, and spend friday watching soiled jockstraps spin in a washing machine. A good plan, absolutely brilliant.

Although, flowers were a nice gesture. Typically he'd be the one demanding presents. Gifts of admiration for the star himself. Sometimes even Jimmy would bring you flowers, and how could you say no when someone did something so kind–

The washer beeped, and you'd work your way around this moron to lug the sopping clothes across the aisle to the dryers. He would continue to complain, and never bother once to see if you wanted any help, which was typical…


With the cart full of the entire team's moderately-fresh gear, you found yourself sitting on top, holding onto a few hastily picked flowers, and being pushed back uphill by someone you've brought yourself to forgive for the six-millionth time.

If Trent had any good qualities in his entire being, persuasiveness was the only one. And you were a sucker for a bright smile, anyways.