#hollson

Jackson crouched, body honing the position of a triple threat, as he zoned into the game. Watching the movements of the other players, anticipating the action of the play, his mind processing a thousand different mathematical formulas at once, calculating the physics behind each pivot, lunge, and throw. His weight thrown around, taking out the competition with fierce body checks that were ruthless against the other guys – but this was no serious game. It was just a bunch of local kids with a pig-skin, who’d congregated on weekend, a the Mystic Falls High field. Which meant, it wasn’t only guys.

Take Hollyn, who’d accompanied him here and gotten roped into playing when, upon being asked by the assembled group, he pleaded with large, desperately eager eyes – the infamous puppy-dog face, if you will, until she’d relented and he’d celebrated by wrapping her up in the tightest, spinning hug. But now she had the ball, and something in him snapped when she became the target to get hit, glowering at the challenger who ran up alongside her, trying to take her out. Unacceptable. Without thought, his wolfish instinct taking over, Jackson sprints in her direction, tackling the guy on her ass with a diving body check around the waist, hitting the ground hard and rolling with the fucker who’d been about to take out a girl.

It was one of the first times he actually thought of her as a girl, and not just one of the guys.

He was at a play.

A mother-fucking play.

“I’ve got to re-think this being friends with a freaking girl thing…” Jackson grumbles to himself, just barely under his breath, while stretching to relieve sore muscles, cramped from the position he’d been craning his neck for the past half-hour, attempting to watch the scenes unfold onstage. He often forgot Hollyn was, in fact, of the female persuasion, and not just another one of the guys. Damn girls, and their frivolous feminine whims. He hadn’t expected this, from her. At least Lydia had only ever got him to watch The Notebook, from the comforts of home… where there had always been the potential for a little bonking, or at least heavy petting.

But this?

All he got was stuck with an over-plush theatre chair, with a backing that was far too straight for his slouched and lazy, for-the-love-of-god-don’t-let-anyone-see-me-here posture. “Don’t they like… pause these fairy-dance things so the men can go get wasted?” Jackson said suddenly, referring to the intermission, irritation ringing his tone sharply, completely oblivious to the even sharper looks his ignorance had warrented, from those more pompous play watchers seated around them. He did, however, noticed Hollyn’s elbow shove him fiercely in the gut, and he just gave her a cold stare in response to her don’t-be-a-lout look. “So How much longer is this bloody thing?” He asked, completely unconcerned that again, he was given the dirtiest looks by all those that overheard him.

What?

If they had a problem, they could get up off their stuck-up asses and tell him about it. Hell, it would certainly make this whole… nightmare more bearable. Maybe he’d start throwing little bits of his ripped up program at the middle aged couple in front of him. If he landed enough in her cleavage, Jackson was sure he could get her square-date to do something interesting… Like launch himself backwards at him. Just try it. He thought, a wicked smile finally playing about his lips, for the first time since getting here, but of course, Holly loved to bug him too much to give him that momentary freedom of imagining bloody violence, and quickly brought him back into reality with another not-exactly-gentle shove against the shoulder. “Fine. You win.” Jackson grumbled again, defeated, as he crossed his arms stubbornly and slid even lower in his seat, wishing that the damn thing would just swallow him up and put an end to this.