Sky's View

Karma

Rahul

Thursday morning started out well- while the seating sun is turning me into burnt toast bread - as I touch down the ball in the end zone, scoring an additional 6 points.

I seeus winning this upcoming league at the end of the semester. I see it already.

When practice is over, Harry, Andrew and Shane heft me off the ground, cheering, like we do to each other when we win a real league.

"Guys, come on, put me down, and save the energy for the league," I pant as I feel my arms leisurely dislocate from my sockets. As a quarterback player, I don't have time to brace for an impact so having no arms by the time I'm thirty is a part of the package.

They lower me, and I hop off, removing my head gear. "Yo, I wanna host a beach house party  this Saturday, what do you think?" Harry blurts, moving his waist in a circular motion like a bar stripper. "And with all the hot baes." He says "all" in an uncanny high pitch voice, like I'm going to drop all my plans to attend a party because all the "hot baes" will show up.

To be frank, that only depends on my schedule. The undeniable fact is I really like girls.

Girls like Emily Rose?

I swallow hard. My own conscious is starting to haunt me.

Instead, I say, "Dude, we're only in the first week of first semester in senior year. We actually have a lot on our plates right now. Football, grades, graduation- a party is the last thing on my mind."

Harry breaks into a bray of laughter. "What the f**k, man?"

Andrew nudges Harry, and heads towards the end of the pitch with Shane. Probably to pick up some cheap weed from a dealer.

"Don't be a p***y. Where are you balls, tough guy? And anyway, are you not interested in scoring it with that super got chick from bio?"

Till we learn her name, she will always be super hot girl from biology.

Suddenly, hordes of cheerleaders stride past us, swishing their ponytails, and casting us flirtatious glances.

I try not to stare too hard. In case one of their skirts fly up from the intensity.

Harry jostles me out of the trance by playfully punching my padded shoulders. "And you're telling me you want to turn down that?"

"Rahul!" Coach's piercing tone echoing across the field interrupts the moment. "In my office, now."

Harry and I exchange glances.

"What's up with him?"

"No idea," I utter, shoving my head gear against his chest. "One way to find out. I'll check you later, bro. Take my helmet to the gym."

"Later, bru."

                                        ***

Coach's office smells like burnt coffee and cigarette. It reminds me of that time I sat till late in the police station, terrified to death.

He eels behind his mahogany desk, and hovers, clutching his hand on a drawer, and then withdraws a thick black file, thumping it down in front of him.

"Rahul, your skills on the field is outrageous. So outrageous, that I am adamant." He pauses, while holding his ocean blue eyes with mine. "I am adamant, without a doubt, you are the best Quarterback to have ever existed in Westbridge's football history."

I release a prolonged breath. I don't know what to feel, but the route his speech is heading towards feels a bit out of place.

"However." He chews the bottom of his lip, and opens the thick file. "It says here, that players who pick fights on the ground more often than three times, must be cut off with immediate effect."

He flickers his gaze at me; I shake my head, and ruffle my disheveled hair at the same time.

"Have I not gone through the code of conduct with you before, Mr. Singh?"

"Coach, those guys started it!" I holler.  "That asshole picked on my mother!"

"Language."

"Sorry, coach."

He clears his throat. "Son, clearly you intimidated them, and they used a sensitive approach as bait, and you let them win."

I want to say, how would you feel if someone made an insinuating remark about your mother?  Instead I shut my eyes, and nod my head.

"Did all the fights consist of remarks made about your mother?"

Absolutely not, because someone would have been dead by now. Last summer, in the league, the boy who picked on my mom had his face smashed against the wall eight times. The other reasons why I fought before this remains obliterated in my mind.

"No, coach," I murmur, pinching the bridge of my nose. "I can't remember."

His eyes drops from me to the book in front of him, again.

"But I give you my word, coach. I'll keep my temper at bay from now on. Football is all I know."

It's all I can speak; it's all I breathe.

I take a shaky breath in. I smell like deodorant and sweat. Not the nicest combination, but better than smelling of just sweat.

Coach heaves up from his chair, and crouch's over the desk, with his hands pressing the corners of the tiny square wooden table for balance.

"I've spoken with the principle and the football directors, and we've all came to a decision of putting you on probation for this semester, " he pauses; I blink hard.

"Which means you are obliged to attend Wednesday's and Friday's group therapy sessions. Skipping any of sessions will result in facing serious consequences. Do you understand?"

For every action, there's an equal, and opposite reaction. There's another word for Newton's discovery. My mother calls it karma. The universe is making me pay for what happened to Emily Rose. I know it.

Flushed with rage, the world disappears around me. My eyes sting with tears, my muscles are fighting back.

I barely cry. It's been years since I cried, but I cry. I know I can, because I want to now.

I groan, and punch the table, releasing a fraction of my anger, and then storm out of the office.