Micah Johnson Goes West (Get Out, #2)(20)

“I can still play, right?” Sam asked. “Just strap it up, she’ll be right.”

By now the coach was over, watching his player with an eagle eye. Micah knew they wouldn’t risk putting Sam back in if there was the possibility he could do any further damage to it.

“Well, what’s the verdict?” the coach demanded.

“We can strap it up. But we’ll monitor it. Bring him off every ten minutes.”

“Nah, you don’t have to do that!” Sam protested. “I’ll be fine!”

“Do you still want to play next week?”

Sam wilted under the coach’s “this is serious, don’t fuck with me” face.

“Good. Johnson, you’ll alternate with Mitchell.”

Micah tried to not look so ecstatic. After all, he was getting back on because Sam wasn’t playing at full capacity.

“It’s okay,” Sam groaned as the tape started to tighten his foot and support it. “You can celebrate. I would, if I was you.”

His nerves disrupted again, Micah stared out onto the ground and waited for the halftime siren to sound.




THIS TIME, when the ball flew towards him, Micah was ready. He leapt into the air, and successfully took a mark. The ball was now his to dispose of. He looked around for a teammate who was closer to the goal, but the only one was Ryan, and he had two Collingwood players flanking him. It would be nearly impossible for him to get a clear shot at the ball, and they couldn’t risk it falling into enemy hands yet again.

And then he heard it. Some bright spark yelling out from their seat, obviously close to the front for him to even be able to hear it, “Just kick it, you pansy!”

It could have gone either way. Micah could have felt all will leave him, and fumbled the ball.

But righteous anger took over instead. It always seemed the way for him. He did things not for himself, but to prove others wrong or for somebody else. It was never really for him, even though he benefited from it. He had come to the conclusion that as long as it was done, did it really matter why he did it?

A short run, the dropping of the ball, and the satisfying thud as it connected with his boot. He was still running as it flew into the air, and as he slowed he watched it soar into the centre goal (although a little bit to the left).

His first goal.

That sense of being underwater came back to him again as he was swooped upon by his teammates. He could hear the dull roar of the crowd, and dizziness struck as he realised he was off his feet, being swung around by the rest of the guys in congratulations. He caught a quick blur of Daril’s glee in his fellow rookie now being on the board, and Sam standing on the edge of the field whistling with his fingers in his mouth. As soon as Micah’s feet hit the ground all sensation returned, and the team dispersed for the return of the ball into play. It was all business again.

But the fear had been broken. He was a true AFL player now.

He turned back towards where the sledge had come from. There was no way he could tell, or even hazard a guess, who the culprit was, but Micah grinned broadly and raised his arms in the air in victory.

“This pansy just scored!” he yelled. He didn’t know if they could actually hear him, but they would know by his stance that he felt as if he had just proved a point.

But he couldn’t dwell on it. As the ball came his way again, Micah sprang into action.




IT WAS his only goal of the night, but it still felt as if he had kicked ten. All he wanted was to get that barrier behind him, and he was happy he had achieved it. The fact they won was the icing on the cake. Standing in the centre of his team as they sang the club song, Micah was a Cheshire cat as they doused him in sports drink and gave him the true welcome to the big leagues.

Afterwards, as TV camera crews mulled around getting interviews, Micah was approached by Nate. All he wanted to do was get into the showers. Sports drinks turned sticky pretty quickly, and as they had mostly been raspberry he looked like Carrie at the prom.

“Can I talk to you for a sec?”

That didn’t at all sound foreboding.

“What’s up?” Micah asked as they found a quiet corner.

“You had some kind of trouble on the field?”

“What?” Micah rewound the game, play by play, in his head. “Not really.”

“It’s already on social media.”

Had Micah received a knock to his head, or something? He couldn’t remember any tussles on the field where he might have inadvertently injured someone.

“You had an altercation with the crowd?”

It all became clear. “Oh, that? Some guy called me a pansy, and when I kicked my goal I just yelled back at him.”

“He called you a what?” Nate was aghast.

“A pansy.”

“That’s not on!” Nate spluttered.

Micah would have almost laughed, if he hadn’t seen how seriously Nate was taking it. The truth was, he had almost entirely forgotten the whole thing happened. That was how little it had really mattered to him, at least in the afterglow of playing in his first (and winning) game and actually kicking a goal in it. “It’s nothing. Just a bit of sledging. And I gave back as good as I got.”

“I’m going to have to go and tell the others.”

“No, don’t!” Micah grabbed his arm before he escaped. “I don’t want a big deal made out of this. Especially for the other guys to find out. I don’t want them to think I can’t handle this.”