𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐓+𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐒 ✭ 𝐏𝐇𝐀𝐍

ḟїḟ†ẙ †ℏԻ∊ḙ

The rush of a touchdown, the spirit of the game.

Feet kissing the grassy field, sprinting like the speed of light. Sweat rolled down his skin in thick, salty beads as he forced his body to continue. Frustration, sorrow and irritation sustained in him, boiling behind his in his eyes teary eyes. He kept it down, allowing the crowd's scream to keep him up to speed.

The roar of the crowd is better than any drug, but without Dan cheering—emptiness was unveiled within him.

You could feel the adrenaline from Phil's pitch to the stands and flowing right around the stadium like an ocean wave. Like a tiny string triumphantly slipping through the eye of a sewing needle; his ball coiled through the field goal and with the buzzer shaking the bleachers, the game ended.

The flood of shrieks from Rydell's side of the field made Phil suddenly flinch. It finally knocked him back into reality. For the passed hour nothing managed to cross his mind besides Dan's words. The recollection of him winning cascaded over him with Clearwater's loud boos. He was a slave to the game as his body focused on fighting for triumph his mind cried in helplessness.

He didn't clench his hands above his head. His football buddies raced towards him at full speed and on a normal occasion they would hoist him up closer to God's heaven. He slowly dodged his companions, leaving them all perplexed in their action. He jogged back towards the locker rooms, making his way off the field as fast as possible. Students took notice, but the high of the win of their team blinded them from caring.

They won playoffs—but at what cost?

His mind was entirely occupied, gravity-drawn shoulders he slumped down on the bench near his locker. Sadness sits inside him like the germ seed of depression, just waiting for the right conditions to grow, to send out roots to choke the hope out of his heart. There was no hope, Dan was gone.

He didn't even realize he was standing in the showers till he used the sound of the crashing water to mask his sobs. Leisurely, Phil tucked his hands under the harsh spewing water that pounded into the top of his head. A wince in pain was portrayed in his eyes when he reached up to tangle his hands with his dark hair. He brought his hands down to look at them, his fingers brushing over the traditional bleeding cuts. The water bounced off of his frail skin sending tiny droplets to send in random directions; as if they consumed the feeling of wanderlust whole. It caused a burning sensation as it hit the wounds but in a way, the temperature of the liquid made him numb.

When the loud hustle of his teammates hit his ears he hurried his shower, washed the dirt from the crevices of his face and made his way back to his locker to change. Before he could make it out of his towel, the sheep of players settled in next to him chanting beside him. Phil tried to ignore his mates surrounding him, holding down every emotion. He pulled on a pair of sweats and began to stand up when a trophy was dropped onto his lap.

"We all decided that you get to keep it for the few weeks before Rydell cases it," Felix murmured, letting the metal slip from his fingers.

Phil's hands gripped around the metallic rods that led up to a golden football and in one movement, he leaned down into his bag.

Felix held in air, the ultimate guilt making him shake his head. "Oh—Phil."

Held with a firm grip was five hundred crumbled together. Phil looked up through sore eyes; lids tinting a dark red. He began ignoring Felix's brutal decline. "You won." He stood up from the bench as his voice went raspy, shoving the cash into Felix.

Time had slipped passed and his emotion eventually died with it. His hands gripping the steering wheel portraying his white knuckles; he managed to clear his head before he arrived home.