Athlete!AmericaXBand Geek!Reader - Following the Music Part 2
Oh, good grief, what have I done? you sudden muttered to yourself as you got to the school the next afternoon. You just told the most obnoxious football player (which also happened to be the quarterback) in the entire school about the competition at Polks Liberty.
"Whatever," you sighed. "Maybe he forgot about it. After all, he probably went to a major party after the game."
You uniform was already on, but you still needed to wait to get onto the bus.
Your friend Matthew Williams, who was also in the band, noticed your troubled look. He wanted to know what was wrong.
"Hey, [name], are you okay?" he asked quietly.
"Oh, yeah," you insisted. "Just that I made the mistake of inviting your brother to watch the competition tonight."
"Seriously?" he sighed. "Why?"
"I don't know. One minute I was talking to him, and then the next moment I was on my way home and thought that it was just a daydream."
Matthew shrugged. "I've been in band for four years, and not once has he gone to a single competition to support me. I say that you've probably just made it through the social barrier."
You breathed out a laugh as he picked up his tenor sax case.
"That thing is heavy as lard," you commented stupidly as you went on the bus. "How can you carry that around like it weighs nothing?"
"I don't know. I've just been playing this for so long," he admitted. "It doesn't make a difference."
Meanwhile Alfred was getting into his car.
That was when his father finally noticed him outside.
"Jones!" he called, not using his own son's first name. "Where are you going?"
"Out," Alfred muttered. "I'm gonna support Matt, okay?"
"You have your own problems to sort out, Jones. Half of the plays at last night's game were atrocious!"
"Who cares?" he retorted. "We won anyways."
He closed his car door, but his father was blocking him from leaving.
"You're going to stay home and train again. You're starting to eat all of those obese-ridden foods again."
"It's called a burger, Dad," Alfred exclaimed. "Listen, I'm going to go out, and there's nothing you can do to stop me!"
He floored the gas petal, not caring if he ran over his father's feet or not--which he didn't.
"He's such a control freak!" he muttered to himself as he drove. "I can't believe how obsessed with training he is. He's always like that."
The bus had just arrived, and the band was supposed to do their field show in fifteen minutes. It was just enough time to do a quick warm-up, pep talk, and a long-ass march to the field.
You shifted uncomfortably in the chafing jacket of your uniform. You had the oddest feeling forming in your chest, like something really embarrassing was about to happen.
Attention was called. You hypnotically followed the movements. Even as the cadences played, you still followed the movements of your peers. Matthew was all the way in the back of the entrance line, and you really wanted to let out the fact that you really didn't want to be here.
But, too late. You were marching to your spot on the turf field.
"Next up is the Dover High Marching Eagles," the announcer bellowed.
As you marched, you heard an applause. After talking about your accomplishments in the competition season, which were a second place title in the first one, the Air Grams were read out. By now, you were marking time in your spot.
There were only a couple that the announcer read aloud. "To Mattie, Hey dude! I can like totally see you from the stands! Usually I have no idea where the hell you are, but look at you with that giant ass saxophone! This is so freaking weird because I'm used to seeing you in the stands and I'm out on the field, but good luck! I'm proud of you buddy! -Alfred."
You tried to stifle back your laughter, but at the same time you were disappointed. He really was here.
But why am I also happy?
"'To [name], Hey, I see you too! Check that out! Best of luck to you, babe! From...the Hero...?' Okay, then...."
Your face was red. How were you going to even play your first note, now?
You couldn't lower your head because of the massive six-inch plume on top of your Shako. (A/N: I know, not all of them are like this, but I'm one of the unlucky ones that has to wear one of those lol)
The show started. You were marching in time, your left foot first, rolling your feet, like your band advisers ranted about since July of freshman year. While also trying not to bump into anyone, you made the drill marks of what the people in the stands were supposed to see and what the judges were looking for.
Alfred was surprised by how interesting the movements were.
Man, he thought. I used to complain all the time about how their practices were much easier than our intense training. But damn, they must have had their asses whipped and their arms chained to their heads to get them to look like that!
The music was amazing as well as the visuals. But occasionally, Alfred looked up at the press box. There were the three judges up there, recording what they thought of the performing band.
"They'd better be saying good things," he muttered.
He was mostly staring at you and Matthew. He surprised at how his younger brother managed to play, march and hold that heavy instrument while still keeping in balance, at the same time. While you had a smaller instrument, he was having different thoughts about you. Even though you were sweating inside-out in the Sauna of your uniform, he thought you looked terrific. Not just performing, but your looks as well. He was able to point you out by your hypnotic [e/c] eyes. Stray [h/c] strands of hair from your Shako also blew your cover a little bit.
He continued watching for eight minutes, hearing and seeing all the awesome techniques. He was actually kind of sad when the drum major gave the final salute, and a single, trance-like, monotone beat of a bass drum kept the entire band on the left foot to exit the field. He wanted to see more.
"I can't believe that's all!" Alfred gasped.
The next band came on, but they weren't nearly as good as the one from his own school.
I should be able to see them...right?
Well, he got to, an hour later. That was when they all came back to eat and watch the other bands. They were sitting all the way in the away stands on the other side.
"Jesus, I didn't know so many people went to these things!" Alfred muttered as they got out of the home stands and tried maneuvering to the away ones.
Finally, he saw you. You were by the concession stands with Matthew, your hair up in a high pony tail and your forehead still beading with sweat.
"Hey, dudes!" he called.
You hid your face. "Oh, brother...."
"Mattie, you did awesome!" Alfred laughed, slapping his brother on the back.
"T-thanks...I guess," Matthew stammered.
"Hey, [name], nice marching action, huh?"
You refused to make any eye contact. After his Air Gram, he nearly humiliated you in front of the judges, other bands, and audience.
"Why the long face?" he repeated, like last night.
"None of your business, jock," you spat.
"Whoa-ho-ho, kitty know how to fight!" Alfred gasped, making hissing noises.
You rolled your eyes. "Let's get food somewhere else, Matt."
"Sounds good to me," he agreed. "This line is way too long."
Alfred was in front of them, blocking their way.
"Why are you two avoiding me? We're friends and family after all."
Matthew hesitated. "Uh, Al, you don't really talk to us. You don't even talk to me at home."
"Yeah," you nodded. "It's only natural to be avoiding you."
"But I'm here, aren't I?" he insisted, his glasses now giving off a glare. "Anyways, I think that the entire football team should come next time. We can support the band and--"
"NO!" you both shouted.
Matthew cleared his throat. "The last thing we need is having the roles reversed."
"Yeah, I guess you're right," Alfred mumbled. "Well, at least I tried to think of something. Dad wants me home now. See you around, I guess."
Matthew turned around and headed to find another line. "Go home, you hoser."
Alfred was still looking at you.
"What?" you muttered. "It's called exercise."
He smirked at you, leaning in a little. Your face got really red when his lips briefly brushed against your cheek.
"It's fine," he murmured with a smile still plastered to his face. "Cya!"
You shuddered as he left, wiping your cheek roughly to get the "cooties" off your skin. Even though your secret attraction to the quarterback made your heart soar at the contact, you knew that boys should be the last thing on your mind: academics must go first...then band...and THEN boys.
TO BE CONTINUED maybe.