“Applejack?” boomed Iron Will’s voice as he began taking attendance.
“Here,” drawled the farmgirl.
“Brindle?”
“Here,” called out another voice, this time male.
“Bulk Biceps?”
“YEAAHHHHH!” roared an excited voice. The echo reverberating around the gym’s walls made Stoutheart wince slightly.
“A simple ‘here’ is enough,” groaned Iron Will. “Chance-a-Lot?”
“Here.”
As the names were read out and the chorus of “here” and “present” answered, Stoutheart folded his arms and killed time by looking about the gym. His eyes traced over the lines forming the basketball court, the hoops, the cages that protected the bell and clock from errant balls, and the bleachers. As usual for the class, the first three rows had been unfolded from the wall.
When that got boring, he began stealing glances at some of his classmates. He, along with Flash, Thunderlane, Soarin, and the other boys in the class stood around in a loose group, their faces and body language a mix of boredom and impatience. Off to his left, he could see that the girls, standing only a few feet away, looked and acted the same way. To the absolute surprise of no-one, Pinkie looked like she was about to burst, while Rainbow and Fleetfoot fidgeted, and Rarity inspected one of her fingernails. Derpy appeared jittery, but seemed to calm a bit once Sunset Shimmer laid a comforting hand on her shoulder.
The only one who didn’t seem bored or impatient was Spitfire. With her golden yellow skin and hair resembling a burning matchstick, she stood out in the crowd. She had adopted the same stance as Stoutheart, but instead looked absolutely stone-faced. It reminded him of a general reviewing their troops during a march past. Given her position as captain of the Wondercolts soccer team, the comparison wasn’t far off the mark.
Stoutheart’s eyes then focused on something else—or rather someone else. Standing just behind Spitfire was Flitter. As usual, she stood near Cloudchaser, the older, spiky-haired girl muttering something to her sibling that Stoutheart’s ears could not pick up. She was garbed in the same Wondercolts T-shirt he wore and her shorts matched the color of her bow, which was absent. Since the beginning of the year, Stoutheart had noticed that, for whatever reason, she had taken it off before gym. But the lack of that bow did not detract from her lithe form in the slightest.
“Stoutheart?”
His mind began conjurning that vision again. Of them dancing…
“Stoutheart?”
Of them embracing…
“STOUTHEART!” barked Iron Will.
“Huh?” gasped the startled teen. From his field of vision he could see the coach staring at him with a mask of annoyance. Both in front of him and behind him the sounds of half a dozen voices snickering filled his ears.
“P-present!” he stammered. Stoutheart could almost feel his cheeks warming up with the embarrassment and decided that looking down at the gym’s polished wooden floor was a better alternative than meeting the amused gazes of his peers. Stupid brain.
Eventually, the last name of the roll call was read out. “All right then, now that that’s out of the way,” said Iron Will, “all of you delinquents form up for stretches. Lets get those muscles ready for what’s to come!” He emphasized his order with a short blast from his whistle.
Instantly, the floor of the gym was alive with the thumping and squeaking of two dozen pairs of shoes, as the students formed into a series of lines—four of them each had five students spaced apart, one behind the other. The fifth line was similar, but only bore four students. Stoutheart found himself in the middle of the third line. A glance to either side showed the forms of Applejack and Rarity next to him.
Another blast from Iron Will’s whistle told them to begin. The easier stretches were tackled first; arm rotations, followed by stretches to the quads, calves, and hamstrings. As he had been taught, Stoutheart held each stretch in three intervals of 15 seconds. His still fatigued muscles ached in protest, but he ignored them. In his right ear, he could hear the groans of Rarity’s exertion but nothing from Applejack. Compared to that farm of hers, this is probably a cakewalk, surmised Stoutheart.
Then he—together with a few others around him—moved on to the floor stretches; toe touches, sit and reaches, and push-ups. He hated the latter, but gritted his teeth and pressed on. By the 20th—and last—push-up, His face was red and his arms felt like stretched rubber bands. Beads of sweat tickled the skin of his temple and cheeks. He could feel more of it forming beneath his shirt. He let out a slight groan as he got to his feet, put his hands on his hips, closed his eyes and began breathing slowly—in his nose and out his mouth—to slow his jack hammering heart.
Inhale…count to five…exhale, he repeated in his head. Inhale…count to five…exhale. For some time—Stoutheart wasn’t keeping track—he repeated the process until Iron Will’s whistle again ended the respite and forced open his eyes. A look around revealed that his classmates, stragglers included, were also back on their feet.
“Very good delinquents!” crowed Iron Will. His lips then curved into a grin. “Now, let’s try for our first heart attack shall we? Twenty laps around the gym!” The whistle blew again.
A scattering of groans and sighs erupted as the students began fanning out to the perimeter of the gym. Stoutheart took a deep breath. If he was asked to sum up his physique or stamina in one word, “average” would probably that word of choice. Take it easy, warned his brain. It’s Phys Ed, not the Olympics. Don’t wear yourself out.
He took up a jog, as did many of the others to his front and back. He was not surprised in the least to see most of the athletes up at the front of the formation. Rainbow and Spitfire were leading, appearing so close as to be neck and neck. Soarin and Fleetfoot were in single file hot pursuit, while Thunderlane and Cloudchaser appeared to be side-by-side.
Stoutheart on the other hand was firmly in the middle, jogging briskly behind Applejack and Sunset Shimmer, sometimes slowing so as not to bump them, but increasing his speed lest he bump someone behind him. While rounding the corners, he sometimes stole a look back at his pursuers; Flash, Pinkie, Derpy—and Flitter.
Focus, commanded his brain. Last thing you need right now is a distraction. Stoutheart grimaced as he forged on. The walls and bleachers seemed to rush by him in a blur. Once again his heart pounded furiously. The rushing of blood filled his ears as did the heavy panting emerging from his mouth. The sweat was flowing more freely now; he could feel his forehead, cheeks and neck slick with it. At times, beads of the stuff invaded his eyes, forcing them shut against the sting. When this happened, Stoutheart used the back of his right hand to furiously clear the offending drops and regain his vision.
On his fifteenth lap, he could feel himself lagging. Applejack and Sunset were still ahead, but pulling away rapidly. The squeaking, thumping footsteps of those behind him grew nearer.
“C’mon, Rarity, get the lead out!” hollered Iron Will.
“I’m moving as fast as I can!” whined a voice far behind Stoutheart.
Though not directed at him, the exhortation seemed to spur the boy onward. As if to help, his mind began painting another image; him, clad in the outfit of The Wraith, sprinting and leaping effortlessly across the concrete and gravel rooftops of Bridleton as he spent another night delivering his own brand of justice to the wicked and protecting those they would prey on.
The short daydream proved a useful incentive. Eventually, with great relief, Stoutheart completed his final lap, slowed and stomped over to the middle of the gym, where those who had already completed their run and waited for the stragglers to finish. Stoutheart bent over and rested his hands on his knees. His breathing came in gasps at first, but soon the same breathing exercise he had performed after his push-ups took over, interrupted sometimes by a short cough as his lungs greedily sucked in the cool, gym air.
“Nice hustle back there,” huffed a girl’s voice off to his left. Turning his head, Stoutheart met Flitter’s gaze.
“Uh…thanks,” acknowledged Stoutheart with a nervous smile. “For someone who doesn’t do sports, you didn’t do too bad either.”
Flitter returned the compliment with a smile of her own. “Well, I may not be a jock like my sister but I manage.”
“Not bad delinquents!” yelled Iron Will. Stoutheart and Flitter looked in the direction his voice came from; one of the bleachers. At the gym teacher’s feet, a gunny sack lay beside him. “Now we’re really gonna’ have some fun!”
“Dodgeball?” exclaimed Rainbow. Her face lit up like she had just got her hands on the latest Daring Do Book, signed by A.K. Yearling herself.
“CORRECTAMUNDO!” cried Iron Will triumphantly. From where he stood, Stoutheart swore he heard a squee come from Pinkie Pie’s lips. Some of the other students groaned while a few hisses of “yes” floated about the gym.
All Stoutheart could give was a flat “Huzzah.”
Flitter must have heard him because the next thing his ears picked up was a giggle—a rather cute giggle. “Not a fan?” she teased.
“They might as well tie me to a post and offer me a blindfold,” he groaned out. Flitter snorted with laughter.
“Aw c’mon, it can’t be that bad,” she assured him. As far as he could tell, the sympathy in her tone seemed real.
Stoutheart cracked another smile. “I’ve have my good days for sure, but they’ve been few and far between.”
“Alright then,” announced Iron Will. “The leaders for each team will be Rainbow Dash-”
“AW YEAH!” hollered the teen as she pumped her fist in the air.
“-and Spitfire,” he finished with an annoyed voice.
“Got it!” the Wondercolts captain replied. The two athletes stood side by side while Iron Will approached them and fished a coin from his pocket. “Call it.”
“Heads,” said Spitfire.
“Tails,” replied Rainbow.
Iron Will then flipped the coin into the air and caught it deftly with his right palm. “Heads,” he announced. “You get first pick of your troops Spit.”
The fiery-haired student nodded and scanned the crowd. “Fleetfoot! You’re with me!”
“Got it!” came a raspy voice. Stoutheart saw the girl behind that voice—with light grey hair and skin like an arctic ice floe—dart over and stand next to Spitfire.
“I pick Soarin!” announced Dash.
“Sweet!” exclaimed the Wondercolt.
Spitfire made her next choice. “Thunderlane!”
Followed by Rainbow: “Applejack!”
And so it went on. One by one, the loose group of students thinned as they took position behind their “captains”. When Flitter was called, Stoutheart watched as she headed over to Rainbow’s team. More seconds ticked by in his head. Team mates or opponents? he wondered.
The answer was not long in coming. “Stoutheart!” called Spitfire. Well, that settles that. Stoutheart jogged over to where Fleetfoot and Soarin stood.
“Welcome to the winning side Professor,” said Fleetfoot, her smugness on full display.
“Don’t count your chickens, Flatfoot.” retorted Stoutheart, who got a raspberry blown at him in response.
Each side soon had their order of battle. Reaching into the sack, Iron Will produced some large rubber balls. He tossed two to Rainbow and Applejack and two more to Spitfire and Soarin.
“Alright then, GO TO WAR!” At the sound of his whistle blast, both factions spread out, keeping their eyes peeled for a target. Stoutheart paced about his team’s side of the court, never staying in one spot for more than a second. At times he would bump into another player but there was no time for apologies.
The first salvos came from Applejack and Rainbow, who launched their balls simultaneously. A knot of students jumped or ran out the path of one, but the other ball thudded into Bulk Biceps’s left shoulder while he was distracted, sending him off to the bleachers with a grumble.
Soarin and Fleetfoot quickly got their revenge, hurling their own balls at Brindle, who tried for a catch but fumbled, and Chance-a-Lot, who took his ball to the knee. Meanwhile Stoutheart sprinted over to one of the balls left from Rainbow and Applejack’s assault, snatched it up and threw as hard as his arm muscles would allow. It made no contact and bounced harmlessly off the far wall. His shoes squeaked as he hurried to another position.
Keep at it, he thought to himself. Don’t let them get a bead on you! Wait, what the hell am I saying? This is dodgeball, not friggin’ D-Day!
Glancing to the right, he spied Thunderlane chucking a ball that connected hard with Rarity’s buttocks. She remained standing, but her eyes smoldered with fury.
“Thunderlane!” she screeched. “How dare you hit me in that area!”
“Sorry!” the boy called back sheepishly.
“Clear the court Rarity! You’re out!” ordered Rainbow. The fashionista gave a sharp “humpf!” as she stomped over to the bench.
Amidst this the battle continued. Around Stoutheart the thwack of the rubber balls hitting something—or someone—rung in his ears as did the cries of his squad:
“I’m open!”
“Nail that sucker!”
“Get some!”
“Nice save Sunset!”
“Wheee! Run run, as fast as you can, you can’t catch me, I’m the Pinkie Pie Man!”
The attrition was beginning to show. Thunderlane took a ball to the side. So did Sandalwood. Fleetfoot, for all her agility, also got nailed in the posterior courtesy of Rainbow Dash. Unlike Rarity however, the grey-haired girl took the knockout it in stride.
The onslaught wasn’t completely one sided however. Pinkie’s bouncing and skipping about the court couldn’t save her from a hit to the back courtesy of Sunset Shimmer. High Winds took out Soarin’ and, in what must have been the highlight of the game, Derpy made a belly slide towards a vacant ball, grabbed it, and caught Rainbow—of all people—in a lucky hit to her right thigh.
“AW COME ON!” raged the soccer star. The absurdity of the strike—and who inflicted it—caused Stoutheart to sputter with laughter. Rainbow must have heard him because he turned and met his eyes with a glare.
Stoutheart merely shrugged, re-focused on the battle, and kept up his erratic movements. His hands were empty so he kept his eyes peeled for a loose ball. Soon, a flash of red bouncing on the ground caught his attention. Running toward it, he scooped the ball in his hands before someone else could. As he did this, a human shape appeared out of the corner of his left eye.
Turning, he was just in time to see Flash Sentry fire off his own ball. His mind screamed at him to duck, but instead he held the ball out in front of him. His gamble worked. As soon as Flash’s ball struck his own, Stoutheart, with a slight turn of his body, bounced the ball behind him, hoping someone would catch it.
Spitfire did. “Thanks Professor!” He heard her call out.
Stoutheart didn’t reply. His focus was solely on Flash, who began to turn and run away the second his shot failed. Ball in hand, Stoutheart cocked his right arm. For whatever reason, a scene from some Sci-Fi movie played out in his mind: Eagle One, Fox Two! He flung the ball with a grunt…
…and gave a slight smile as it bounced off Flash’s right shoulder and hit the floor. No time to celebrate. Stoutheart began to move, his head on a swivel and looking for a new target. He heard Spitfire’s voice again, still behind him. This time, it sounded frantic.
“Watch it Stou—” His head shifted back to the front, just in time to see another bright-red blur coming toward him.
THWACK!
The jab of pain to Stoutheart’s face came with the speed of a lightning bolt and seemed centered around his nose and upper lip. His eyes closed on reflex, and for what seemed like a nanosecond he thought he could see firecrackers exploding behind his eyelids. A watery sensation followed. On reflex, he brought his right hand up to massage away the tears and discomfort.
“Uuugh,” he grunted. He still had his eyes closed, but clearly heard Iron Will’s whistle chirp. “Time out!” he barked. More squeaks and footsteps followed.
Opening his eyes, Stoutheart used his free hand to clear the tears blurring his vision. Spitfire and Sunset Shimmer stood before him as did some of his opponents. Their faces were a mix of shock and bewilderment. He noticed that Flitter had a hand cupped over her mouth; her eyes bore a horrified look.
Stoutheart felt a hand on one of his shoulders. “Oh my gosh!” gasped Sunset Shimmer. “Are you alright Stout?”
Stoutheart looked at the girl and nodded. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I think so.” He pulled his right hand away. Tiny gobs of deep crimson stained his fingers and palms. He could also feel liquid trickling past his lips. “Ah son-of-a—”
Sunset never let him finished the sentence. “Somebody get something for the blood!”
“Okie-dokie-lokie!” shouted Pinkie Pie. In a matter of seconds, she had appeared at Stoutheart’s side with sheets of paper towels. How exactly Stoutheart didn’t care; he stopped thinking about Pinkie’s quirks long ago. With a grateful nod, he took them and began mopping up the trickle of blood that had by now moved to his chin. He kept his mouth closed so as not to ingest any of the liquid.
The next thing Stoutheart saw was the barrel-chested form of his gym teacher towering above him. “Let Iron Will take a look,” he said. “Lift your head up son.” The drill instructor voice he had been using moments before was gone. Replacing it was quiet professionalism with a hint of concern. Stoutheart did as he was told.
“It’s alright coach,” the boy said softly. “I don’t think it’s serious.”
Iron Will hummed as he looked over Stoutheart’s face. “You’re probably right. Those balls don’t have the heft to break bone. Looks like a run of the mill nosebleed.”
“I know what to do,” Stoutheart responded.
For a moment or two, the athletic coach gave him a look before nodding. “Alright, have a seat over there,” Iron Will jerked a thumb to the bench Thunderlane and Fleetfoot occupied. As Stoutheart walked over, his mother’s voice rang in his head as if she was lecturing him.
If you get a nosebleed, sit down, lean your head and body forward a bit and pinch the soft part of your nose up against the bony part. Breathe through your mouth and keep up the pinching thing for ten minutes. Don’t let up. Looking at his watch, Stoutheart set a 10 minute timer before using his right thumb and index finger to pinch the cartilage of his nose shut.
Behind him, he heard Iron Will address the class. “Alright, who’s responsible for that?” The sternness in his voice made Stoutheart pause and look back.
For a few moments, the gym was as quiet as a cemetery, but then a girl’s voice broke it. “It…it was me coach,” squeaked Flitter. She had taken her hands away from her mouth and now used one of them to nervously rub an arm. “I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t mean to!” The worry in her eyes was evident to Stoutheart’s own.
Iron Will eyed the girl for a second or two before he took a breath. “Iron Will believes you kid,” he nodded with a sigh. He then turned to the rest of the class. “Folks, watch it with your aim from now on! Iron Will knows some of you really like this game, but the last thing we need is the nurse’s office looking like a field hospital.” He scooped up some balls and tossed them toward each team. “Alright, back to it!”
As soon as the coach’s whistle blew, Stoutheart turned and moved quickly to the bench, plopped down with a sigh and leaned forward just as his mother advised. Thunderlane and Fleetfoot sat off to his left. “You okay dude?” asked the boy.
Stoutheart looked at him and gave a thumbs up with his free hand. “About ten minutes of this, and I should be good to go.”
“Should’ve zigged instead of zagged Professor”, said Fleetfoot cheekily. Stoutheart did not answer. Instead he gave his best stink eye to the smirking Wondercolt.
“Okay, I gotta ask,” said Thunderlane with an arched eyebrow. “How’d you land a nickname like that anyway? I know I and all of the other soccer players have nicknames so…”
Stoutheart opened his mouth to answer, but Fleetfoot beat him to the punch. “You can thank Spitfire for it. She and Stout share the same history class. Earlier this year, Time Turner gave them a test. Because of soccer, Spits didn’t study much so—”
“I offered to help her,” finished Stoutheart, his eyes focused on the dodgeball game. He then looked at his two classmates. “History’s my best subject so thanks to me, Spitfire was able to ace the test.” He chuckled. “After class ended, she came to my locker and said, ‘Thanks for the help Professor.’” He shrugged. “So there you go.”
“Ah,” said Thunderlane with a nod. After that, the three benched players sat watching the rest of the game, cheering their team mates and offering support. Spitfire and Sunset seemed to be having the most success out of anyone; barring a few exceptions, their aim looked as impressive as their agility. Their fusillade weeded out Applejack, the opposing side’s last heavy hitter, Frost Glow, and Cloudchaser.
To her credit, Flitter seemed to put up a valiant fight, taking out Derpy and Foggy Blue before she too succumbed to a ball. Stoutheart saw her head toward the benches on her team’s side of the court only to pause, say something to Cloudchaser, and turn right.
Crap, she’s coming toward me. Stoutheart tried refocusing on the game, but his eyes refused; they kept shifting toward Flitter’s approach. Crap, crap, crap. He heard some shuffling and saw that Thunderlane and Fleetfoot had scooched farther down. Glancing down, he saw that he was only a few inches from the end so he followed suit.
“Hey,” came Flitter’s voice as she sat down. “Are you alright Stoutheart?”
Stoutheart gulped and looked at her. The concern was still etched on her face. He gave a quick nod. “Yeah,” he croaked. “Nothing serious.” Put her at ease, he thought. He gave a sly smile. “Nice shot by the way.”
The remark seemed to work. Flitter reciprocated with her own smile as she sat down. “For someone who thought he was facing a firing squad, you didn’t do too bad. It’s also nice to see a ball to face hasn’t soured your sense of humor.” Her face morphed into regret and she gave a sigh. “Sorry by the way. I don’t know what happened. I just had the ball and…”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Stoutheart as he reached out a hand and gave her a pat on the shoulder. Flitter eyes registered surprise at the touch and in that instant Stoutheart’s brain flooded with regret of his own.
Idiot! Idiot! IDIOT! His cheeks blushed and he pulled the hand away as if an alligator nearly bit it off.
At best, he expected Flitter to give him a disapproving glare at the touch. At worst, she would verbally rip him a new one for the bold move. But to Stoutheart’s own surprise she didn’t. She just smiled and gave a nod before curiosity took hold.
“What’s with the nose holding thing anyway?”
Stoutheart pointed at his nose again. “Oh this? It’s something my mom taught me. She’s a Registered Nurse.”
“Oh that’s right too!” said Flitter. “I see her dropping you off and picking you up sometimes outside the school.”
The comment caused Stoutheart to give the girl a quizzical stare. Then it contorted into a smile, followed by a snort of laughter.
“What? Was it something I said?” Flitter asked.
Stoutheart’s laughter ceased and he met her gaze again. Try as it might, all of the sweat and exertion of Phys Ed could not tarnish her attractiveness. That bang of opal grey flopped down in front of her eye, causing her to push it up and out of the way.
“Nurse Redheart isn’t my mom. She’s my aunt,” Stoutheart clarified.
A tinge of red crossed Flitter’s cheeks. “Oh. I-I thought…” she never finished the sentence. Instead Flitter gave a groan and facepalmed. “God, I’m such a dope.”
“No you’re not,” said Stoutheart with a grin. “If it’s any consolation, you’re not the first person to assume that. Both Aunt Redheart and my mom are RN’s. My mom however works over at Canterlot General. She’s the Director of Nursing there.”
“That’s pretty impressive.”
Stoutheart nodded. “Yep. Hours can be long though, and there have been days where she’s dog tired, but it’s something she’s wanted to do her whole life.”
Suddenly, a series of whoops and cheers erupted from the court. The two students looked towards the source of the noise and saw Spitfire, Sunset, High Winds and a few others doing some fist pumps and high fiving each other. A glance to the other side showed that the court was vacant. Rainbow Dash’s team either cooled their heels on a bench or was walking over to it.
“Well, looks like victory is ours, I guess,” he looked at her and said with a grin.
Flitter’s response was to lean closer to him stick her tongue out at him in mock defiance. “Enjoy it while it lasts Stout.” The remark caused Stoutheart’s cheeks to warm up. He had a hard time pinning down the tone. It seemed almost…seductive.
Don’t be ridiculous, he thought. She’s just being playful. There’s nothing between the lines there. Then Stoutheart’s attention was drawn to the beeping of his watch. He glanced down at it and saw that the timer he set had reached zero. He carefully let go of his nose and looked back at Flitter.
“See any more blood coming out?”
Flitter eyed him cautiously. “Hmm…Nope! Looks like you’re mom’s advice paid off. I’ll have to tell Cloudy about that next time she has a soccer game.”
“It’s pretty easy to learn. You can even find it online,” explained Stoutheart. “The most important thing is to press your cartilage, that’s the soft squishy part of the nose, hard up against the bony portion for ten minutes and keep it there. No matter what.”
“Wish the two of us knew that this summer. During a match with Crystal Prep, Cloudy got beaned pretty good.”
“Damn. Was she alright?”
“Aside from a bloody nose like yours, she was fine.” Flitter’s lips then shifted into grimace. Her voice darkened. “Knowing those Crystal Prep jerks, I wouldn’t be surprised if it they did it on purpose.”
“I don’t think they’re all bad," countered Stoutheart with a shrug. “Take that new girl for instance, Twilight Sparkle. She’s from CP and while I’ve talked to her only a few times, she seems nice to me. Shy, but nice.”
Flitter opened her mouth for a reply but the tweet of Iron Will’s whistle silenced her. “Okay delinquents, that’s all for today. Hit the showers and I’ll see you tomorrow!” Stoutheart and Flitter stood up at the same time.
“Guess I’ll see you in history class later!” she said with a smile.
Stoutheart gave a nod of acknowledgement. “Prench Revolution. Can’t wait,” he shot back dryly. “Good thing we got Time Turner this year. He’s got a knack for making any lecture sound exciting.” He sighed. “Still, I wish we’d hurry up and get to the two world wars.”
“Oh? You an expert?” ventured Flitter, her voice full of curiosity.
“Well,” began Stoutheart as he scratched the back of his head, “I wouldn’t really call myself an expert by any stretch, but I do have a big interest. Particularly the maritime aspects of them; you know, naval battles, ships and all that. Sea disasters too.”
Flitter rolled her eyes playfully. “My Dad would like talking to you. He’s got a thing for military history. Seems every time Cloudy and I see him, he got his nose in a book about some battle or a famous general. Given his time in the Army, I’m not surprised.”
“Really?” asked Stoutheart, his voice an octave higher.
“Mmm, hmm,” nodded Flitter. “He’s retired though.”
“Hey Flit!” shouted a voice far behind them. Looking back, the two students saw Cloudchaser by the girl’s shower room. Her arm was making a beckoning motion. “Hurry up! Harshwhinny will kill you if you’re late again!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Flitter muttered. “Sorry Stout, gotta’ go. See you later!” As she turned around, Flitter waved her goodbye, which Stoutheart weakly returned with one of his own.
Well, he thought. You blew it. Again.
He stood there watching her go, but that did not last long. The thought of looking at her like some lecherous creep sent a jab of shame through him. He made a quick turn and walked with a purpose toward the boys shower room, his eyes looking down at the gym floor ahead of him.
From the corner of his right eye, a shadow loomed into view. “You okay?” rasped Fleetfoot.
Stoutheart stopped, looked up and nodded wearily.
“Man, I thought for sure you were going to wear her handprint across your face when you gave her that pat,” the soccer player said with a smile.
“You saw?” asked Stoutheart. When Fleetfoot nodded, he gave a scoff before looking up to the gym ceiling. “Somebody up there must like me,” he replied.
“So,” prodded Fleetfoot. “Profess your love yet?” She emphasized the question with a wink.
Stoutheart gave his classmate a look, but there was no anger behind the eyes. His feelings for Flitter were known to not only her, but Spitfire and Soarin too. The quick, surreptitious looks Stoutheart had sometimes shot Flitter at lunch had eventually given him away. However he was confident that the three students would keep his secret. Nobody in Canterlot High took a Pinkie Promise lightly. If they did, they only had themselves to blame for what happened next.
“Nah,” grunted Stoutheart, his tone laced with resignation. He looked at his watch. If I don’t dawdle anymore, I’ve got just enough time to get cleaned up and changed.
“I better get going Fleet,” he muttered softly before giving a wave. “See ya later.”
Then he hurried off, leaving Fleetfoot to shrug and make her way to the girls shower room.