The game is attention grabbing, distracting the teacher from the rest of the class sitting out. One boy stood in the middle of the gym with his arms arched back, bearing the weight of both the ball and of being the quarterback.

“Stay on three, stay on three!”
Words were shouted across the wood floor to hold position while they silently counted the seconds for the ball to either fly or run. Turns in the air seemed to defy gravity in height as if they would remain gracefully sweaty in the air. It was like watching a ballet, the moves planned and yet utterly improvised.

I couldn’t help but be captured by this sport, by watching their energetic dances and runs. My eyes would occasionally wonder to the form of an angel; mouth opened to reveal a pink tongue making loops and twirls, arms bowed around the air with legs lifting as if by magic. From catching the ball mid air, to just walking around the hard floor, he held masculine grace that rivaled Apollo’s. His beauty would even tempt if not anger Venus; lightly tanned skin with not a freckle or blemish in site, strong jaw line making his face regal in looks, and his ocean blue eyes that held the power of Neptune in their watery depths. I admired his aesthetics, but off the game I barely gave him a glance. He was fairly good looking, probably sought after, but he didn’t hold his warrior like appeal in everyday life. His looks always made me think of Greek or Roman mythology when he was charged with competition – but without it he was simply a country boy.
The ball landed and the boy evacuated the court with their pig skin, almost ostracizing the warrior on the floor. The game was over, the sport was gone and the normalcy seemed to be taking over in just a blink, leaving him as his team mates had on the court in between goals. Shoulders fell and his chest sunk in, he looked defeated and lost, and his eyes dulled from their sharp color- as if to emphasize him being done. My attention wavered as the warrior disappeared from the room, replacing with a teenage boy. But I returned my gaze as he moved his eyes from goal to goal on both sides of him; as if trying to decide. His name was called, interrupting his decision, and he followed where he was beckoned. A smile replaced his contemplative look, but I knew it was as fake as the floor. A pat on his back sent him tumbling forward, falling clumsily to the floor. I could see in his eyes that he hadn’t decided, but I could not see any trace of what he was deciding. On closer glance one would see he still watched the goals.