InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Son of the Mob ❯ Enter Kagome ( Chapter 4 )

Disclaimer: I do not own Inu Yasha. There. I said it.

This chapter of `Son of the Mob' is dedicated to Rose Without her, I never would have figured out how to add another chapter. *embarrassed giggle* I know you all would be so disappointed if this story was not contd. So here goes!

When Miroku starts nagging for some reason, it's usually a good idea to just suck it up and do what he wants. You'll save yourself a lot of grief. Because eventually, you're going to end up doing it anyway, just to shut him up.

That's why we go out for football that September-not for the competition or the glory, not for the exercise, not for the love of the game-but because, "Chicks can't resist shoulder pads."

Of all the retarded schemes in search of Miroku's Holy Grail, this is by far the retardest.

Football tryouts are like marines training. Why countless hours of jumping jacks are required to prepare for a game that takes lace in five-second bursts of activity, I'll never know. But when the dust clears after three rounds of cuts, we're still there. I manage to win a spot as the fourth-string halfback. And skinny Miroku turns out to be a pretty fair kicker. We're proud shoulder-pad-wearing members of the Goshinboku Gorillas.

"I hear those football parties are wild!" cheers Miroku.

Either there are no football parties, or bench-warmers aren't invited. Our social lives still consist of each other.

Practice lasts a hundred hours a day. We have double workouts until our first game-an hour in the morning, just to get the blood pumping, and a ninety-minute marathon after school.

"Hang in there," Miroku promises. "The rewards'll come. I know it. I can taste it."

"All I taste is sweat," I say sourly. "We're up at the crack of dawn; we don't get home till dinner, which is a two hour stuffing fest at my house. Then I`ve got homework to worry about. Every girl in Feudal County could be after my aching bod and I wouldn't have time to do anything about it."

Miroku shrugs. "The other guys manage it."

"The other guys are signed up for Basket Weaving 101. We've got real courses, SATs to get ready for. That New Media class--I took it because I thought it was watching television. It's all about the Internet! We're going to have to design Web sites!"

"Yeah, I'm a little worried about that one too," Miroku agrees. "Have you seen the idiots in there? Girls could get the wrong idea about us."

"We'll wear out shoulder pads," I say sarcastically. "That'll fool them.

Our first home game is on Saturday. It's Miroku's first chance to check out the cheerleaders, so he misses the whole warm-up and is benched by Coach Bronski. With me being on the bench anyway, we sit together, watching the other guys living the quintessential American dream. Boy, going out for football has really changed our lives.

Our opponents are the Lions from Central High in Valley Stream. Neither team is very good, and it shows. The game is a huge yawn, destined to go to halftime at 0-0. I mean, even the cheerleaders are pretty listless. I see newspapers opened up in the stands. It's pathetic.

Coach Bronski is trying everything to get a little offense going. Eventually, he scrapes the bottom of the barrel, because I get a tap on one of the shoulder pads that makes me so irresistible to women.

It's a run off the right tackle, and the second I touch the ball, I know the play is going nowhere. My blockers haven't cleared me an inch of space. All I ca do is run into a bunch of fat asses, theirs and ours. So there I am, surrounded by five defenders, and I brace myself for the big hit. It doesn't come. Maybe they don't realize I've got the ball. I push through and still nobody lays a hand on me. Finally, someone grabs the back of my jersey and gives it a gently pull. It's not much of a tackle, but I trip anyway, and down I go. I gain eight yards, which is the biggest offensive play by either team all day.

Coach leaves me in. I take a pass. When I catch it, there's a linebacker right there to hammer me. The face looks kind of familiar, but I can't place it. And when I turn back again, he's gone! I start downfield. I don't know where the other team went, but they're sure not in front of me. Every inch of my forty-yard scamper to pay dirt, I'm expecting to get viciously hauled down from behind. It never happens.

Suddenly, out comatose fans are going nuts. The cheerleaders are craning their necks, trying to read the name on my shirt so they can come up with a cheer for me. Somebody obviously needs glasses, because the cheer comes out, "Here we go Taco! Here we go!" Stomp! Stomp!

As I'm jogging back to the bench, I get a congratulatory slap on the ass. It's the line backer from the other team, the one, who didn't make the tackle.

He says, "Hey, Yash, remember me from Enza's wedding?"

That's how I know the guy! Johnny Somebody. His dad is Rafael, a member of Uncle Uncle's crew, out by Shikon Airport. Sure we were at his cousin's wedding. Being the top dog (he he! Pun intended!), my father gets invited to every baptism, sweet sixteen, and yes, bar mitzvah. These days the vending-machine business crosses all ethnic boundaries.

On the bench, Miroku looks almost resentful.

"You didn't tell me you were good."

I defend myself. "It was a fluke. Honest."

Pretty soon we get the ball back, and guess who gets sent back to rack up some more yardage? As I take my place in the backfield, the Lions' defense is looking at me with fear in there eyes. I'm a little confused, but it feels god. This is what it's like to be a star athlete. And I'm just getting started. Maybe I'm a natural.

Hen I hear it, just a whisper from somewhere behind the line: "That's him. Taisho's kid."

The wind comes out of my sails so fast that I'm dead in the water. Superstar. Natural. Yeah, right. These guys won't lay a hand on me because Johnny blabbed about who my dad is. They think if they tackle me, and somehow I get hurt, Dad'll send Uncle Carmine over to pay them a visit.

I get the ball on every snap. A lot of arms reach for me, but nobody makes contact. It's embarrassing! Eventually, I start falling down when I think someone should have made a tackle. But I can't play offense and defense at the same time. Pretty soon I've got another touchdown.

Back on the bench, I'm fuming. Of all the ways my dad's business screws up my life, this is the most insidious. I mean, Dad's not here. I made it a point to tell no one at home abut the game. But he's here as surely as if he was sitting in the front row, threatening everybody.

It's crazy! Dad wouldn't care if someone tackled me. If I got hurt, he wouldn't blame it on anybody. It's like his absence speaks louder than his presence. It's not his fault, but in a way it is. If he was a lawyer, or a cop, or a teacher, like the other fathers-I'll bet their kids get tackled.

I turn to Coach Bronski when we take possession again. "I don't want to go in on the next series."

He gapes at me, astonished. "You're eatin' them alive, Taisho!"

"I can't explain right now Coach," I plead, "but you've got to bench me!"

"Fat chance!" he roars. "Get out there!"

What can I do? I quit the team.

Miroku shoots me a look, as if I just folded a royal flush in the World Poker Championships.

"I'll tell you about it later," I mutter and head for the locker room.

"Hey, wait up! Hey. Inu Yasha!"

I turn around. "It's Yash."

I've seen this girl at school. Bluish-black hair, petite. Pretty hot.

"I'm Kagome. Kagome Bightly. I'm covering the game for the Goshinboku Gazette."

"You can guess that, in my house, reporters are almost as popular as cops. Secrecy is very important in the vending-machine business. On the other hand, I'm not sure that extends to out school newspaper because nobody actually reads it.

"You're missing the game," I point out.

"I'm gambling that you quitting the team is the real story," she says seriously. "Want to talk about it?"

"God no."

She doesn't go away. "You had a fight with Coach Bronski."

"Not really."

"Well, that's what I saw, so that's what I have to print. Unless," she adds, "you want to tell your side of the story."

I trudge into the locker room. She doesn't stop at the door. "Who wants to read about a fourth-string halfback?" I ask her.

Her face is so completely clueless that I realize she doesn't know what a fourth-string halfback is. She probably doesn't know a football from a third base. Back in sophomore year, Miroku tried to write for the Gazette. His first assignment was to cover a dog show-the guy's so allergic he couldn't even breathe in the building. It must be come kind of hazing thing they do for the new reporters-sending them on a story they don't have a prayer pulling off.

"You don't know anything about football," I accuse her. "So you've decided to write about the guy who quit the team."

Her expression remains tough, but a slight flush starts from under her collar and works its way up her neck to hr cheeks. I'm not sure why, but something my mother told me pops into my head; The problem with the young girls these days-they don't blush anymore. I make a mental note to tell her she's wrong.

Then I say "I'm supposed to get changed now."

Part of me just wants to watch her face turn from pink to crimson. But she's out of the before I get a chance to see it.