They say you learn something new everyday. Today, I learned that I really, really, really don't like sitting outside, in the cold, on hard bleachers. But, I had to prove to a certain someone that I don't go back on my word.
Alfred's football practice is at 10:00 in the morning. I have to give them credit for their commitment. You'd have to drag most high schoolers out of bed by their ankles this early in the morning. Some of the guys don't look happy to be out here, and I don't blame them. It's been getting chillier and chillier as the season slowly transitions to fall. It stays pretty nippy out until mid afternoon.
I recognize Alfred on the field immediately. His cowlick pokes out of the front of his helmet. I assume the guy walking next to him is his brother, Matthew, because I can see a long curly hair sticking out of his helmet. I also think I recognize the two "Potato Brothers" as they've been dubbed at school. Gilbert and Ludwig Beilschmidt got their nickname because of the way they eat their potatoes. They mash them up, whether it's french fries, tater tots, or potato wedges. They claim it's traditional where they come from.
The coach blows his whistle, and the players form a huddle around him. Coach Germania and Mr. Rome are actually friends. Well, more like frenemies. Coach Germania thinks Mr. Rome is too eccentric and hyper, while Mr. Rome thinks the coach is too serious and mean. They still spend quite a bit of time together though.
My thoughts are disrupted by the team cheering as they move into position for their first play. Alfred is, of course, the quarterback, and receives the hiked ball smoothly. He manages to connect with Matthew who's open for a 50 yard pass. The offense makes a touchdown within the next down. I've heard rumors that Alfred and his brother are an unstoppable duo. The elder brother is the star quarterback, and the younger brother is an amazing wide receiver who can catch anything Alfred throws his way. It's pretty cool to see them in action.
I'm not a huge football fan like my dad, but I know what's what in a game. It comes naturally after listening to my dad, and watching countless games on tv with him. He used to coach football here a long time ago. I'm pretty sure he's disappointed he doesn't have any sons to play for the school and continue the legacy, but he does his best with what he has, which is me and my younger sister.
The team scrimmages for an hour, then they break up into offense and defense to do different drills. I brought some homework with me to do while they drill. It's not as interesting as the scrimmage. I look up once from my English assignment to see a player waving at me. I wave back when I see the blonde cowlick peeking up out of his helmet. Alfred runs to join the rest of the team.
I finish my homework before practice ends. I check my iPod for the time. It's 12:45, so there's 15 minutes left of their practice. The team spends that time doing running drills. Some players are better than that than others. I notice a smaller offensive player being yelled at by another larger player. The little guy has a long curl poking out of his helmet. He runs much faster after the scolding.
Coach Germania blows his whistle to signal the end of practice. The team gathers in one last huddle. I see Alfred in the middle with his helmet off leading the cheer.
"West on three!" he shouts loud enough for me to hear in the bleachers. All of the players put their hands into the circle. "One! Two! Three!"
"WEST!" the team roars. Everyone begins to walk away to grab their gear. I decide to go down to the field to say bye to Alfred before I leave. If I don't, he'll probably whine to me about it later.
"Hey (y/n)!" Alfred says in greeting. "How'd we do?" His hair is soaked in sweat even though it's not that warm out yet.
"You guys aren't half bad," I say.
"Are you kidding? We're awesome!" a player shouts as he walks by. He takes his helmet off, and I recognize him as a sweaty Gilbert.
"Fine. You guys are good. I'm especially impressed with your left offensive tackle."
Gilbert lets out a low whistle. "You know football," he says impressed. "Hey West! Get over here."
His brother, Ludwig, approaches the three of you. "What is it brother?"
"This is..." he pauses for my name.
"(Y/n)," I tell him.
"Okay. This is (y/n), and she thinks you're awesome at football!"
"Thank you (y/n)," Ludwig says with a small nod of his head.
Alfred leans against him with his elbow on the tall blonde's shoulder. "Well he's gotta be good since he's watching my blind spot," he says. "Plus he's co-captain of the team."
"Sweet," I say impressed.
"Please excuse me and my brother," Ludwig tells me and Alfred. "We need to be going." Then he grabs his brother, and the two walk away.
"I gotta get going too," I tell Alfred. I have stuff I have to do yet before my rehearsal tonight.
"Okay. I'll see you later, dude!" Alfred says with a smile.
I do my best to ignore the fact that he called me a dude. "Don't forget. Rehearsal is tonight at 5:00."
"Where?"
"Here," I answer. I point at the football field, which gets a confused look from Alfred. "Don't be late."
I arrive in the band room at 4:30 later that day. The section leaders and drum majors always arrive early to help set up and get special instructions from Mr. Rome. All he has for us to do is to take signs with the yard numbers on them up to the field and set them up. It's not that complicated of a job, but of course the section leader of the flutes makes a fuss.
"Why do we have to do this now?" Francis complain with a flip of his long blonde hair. "We can just set this up when we get here later."
"The reason we do it now is so we don't have to do it later," Arthur explains in a frustrated voice. He doesn't have much patience for Francis. "Practice runs smoother if we get these chores done now, but I wouldn't expect you to understand, frog."
"You want to challenge the beautiful me to a fight?" Francis threatens Arthur through clenched teeth.
"Bring it on, ugly!"
"Guys, knock it off," Elizabeta chides. The trumpet section leader smacks them both in the head with a sign. "You guys act like brats."
"We're supposed to work together," I add. "We're family." That's one of the band's philosophies.
"I guess you're right," Arthur mumbles.
We walk back to the band room once the signs are put up. People have started to arrive, so we quickly get our instruments out. At 4:55, Mr. Rome dismisses us for the field, and the frenzy begins. Each section runs out the door as fast as they can for the football field. Every year the sections compete for section of the year, and one of the best ways to show commitment is to hustle.
The entire band is out on the field and ready to go by 5:00. The drum majors do last minute checks on the sound system they set up before giving the okay to start. Mr. Rome has us walk through the routine for our three show pieces. We have the movements written into our music, so we follow along to the drum majors counting beats over the speakers. We walk through the whole show once, and then focus on the first song.
We start slow, then work our way up to the actual speed of the song. It doesn't take the band long to get a hold of it. One of the drum majors gets up on a stepladder at the 50 yard line. We're instructed to start from the beginning of the show, but this time we're going to play as we move. A nervous murmuring goes through the underclassmen. The section leaders help calm people down and get everyone in place.
The first run doesn't go so well. We manage to end up where we're supposed to go, for the most part. We're split into four person squads consisting of members from our section. Each squad is led by the person in A position, who is usually an upperclassmen. Some of the squads don't move the right way, or at the right time, so our formations are sloppy. The music is also messy because we're trying to look for our cues on the paper while we move.
"Well, we know what we need to work on now, don't we?" Mr. Rome says to us over the speakers. "Let's break up into sectionals for 45 minutes to work stuff out, and then finish as a whole band."
"Saxophones!" I call. "Over to the end zone!"
I look over at bleachers and see Alfred sitting not far from where I was earlier in the day. He gives me a wave, which I return. I quickly switch my focus back to my section that is gathering around me. I don't want him to think I care or something.
"Who's that?" Arthur asks me.
"Your cousin," I tell him.
"Who's his cousin?" one of the sophomores asks.
"Alfred," I answer quickly. "Now I noticed that our-"
"Alfred? As in THE Alfred F. Jones?" the same sophomore asks.
"Yes," I say beginning to lose my patience. "So as I was saying, we need to make sure our timing is spot on when we move to each formation," I say over a group of sophomores squealing.
We work the piece until Arthur and I are satisfied that every member, A through D, of a squad knows when and where to move. We have a few minutes left, so I ask a drum major to conduct while we play the piece from memory. When we finish, it's time to get together as a band. We don't waste any time, and start again from the top. There's a lot of improvement all across the band. We're not ready for Homecoming yet, but we're getting there.
Mr. Rome has each of the drum majors go through things they think we need to work on. The one point the all strongly emphasize is music memorization. Even though we practiced it for all of rehearsal yesterday, we need to keep practicing so we can stop using our music as soon as possible.
"That's all for tonight," Mr. Rome says when the drum majors are done ranting. "Everyone be safe getting home."
"Saxes!" Arthur yells before they all run off. "Don't forget the sectional at my house tomorrow. We start at 2:00, and don't forget your folios," he says and holds up the item indicated. It's a rectangle of plastic a little bigger than a note card with rings to hold plastic sleeves. Music fills some of the sleeves in the folio while others are still empty.
I walk with Arthur and Vash back to the band room. We go over rehearsal and things we need to improve in our sections. I put my instrument away as fast as I can. I turn on my heel, and run smack dab into Alfred.
"Mphfff!" I say into his solid chest. I do my best not to imagine running my hand down his finely toned muscles.
"Woah (y/n)!" Alfred says with a chuckle. "You gotta stop doing that."
"Then stop sneaking up on me!"
"So is this what most of your practices are like?" he asks as he follows me to the doors of the band room.
"Yeah, I guess." I push the double doors open and walk through. "It's still pretty rough though. We have around two weeks yet to make it perfect."
"I thought it wasn't that bad."
I turn to him and raise an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Uh, yeah, I guess," he says, his smile starting to fade.
"Well I'll have you know that we only practiced one song today, and we usually do our three pieces memorized."
"Oh wow," he says surprised. "No kidding." I start to pull out my phone, but Alfred's hand stops me. "I'll give you a ride."
"Okay, thanks," I say. I didn't realize he was such a nice guy. I always thought he was annoying and conceited.
The ride home is silent like last time, but Alfred breaks the silence. "How did you guys all get to the field at 5:00? I have to pull teeth to get the team together on time."
"Well," I begin, "Mr. Rome always says 'Early is on time, and on time is late'. The band lives by that rule."
"That's pretty nifty," Alfred says. "I'm gonna have to use that with the team."
"Good luck with that," I mumble.
"You don't think that highly of us, do you (y/n)?"
"I never said that!" I say embarrassed. It's weird how he can tell what I'm thinking.
"You don't need to. I can read your face like a book dude!" he says in an amused voice. "But seriously, we're not ignorant buffoons." He uses your words against you.
"I'm sorry I called you that," I softly apologize. I'm not so good with admitting I'm wrong.
"Don't worry about it, hun."
I blush when he uses a pet name. I'm not that great with people showing any forms of affection. Alfred's truck comes to a stop in my driveway. "Thanks for the ride," I say as I quickly exit the vehicle. I need to get away from Alfred and his charm as fast as I can. I close the door and head inside. I'm not going to be one of those girls who falls for the star football player. That's way to cliché.