There you see Mark's lean built, 6'3", long limbed, broad shouldered, headless body running suicides up and down the field. There he goes, blindly running passes with a few other players who are just hanging out on the field after practice. His dimpled face watches from the bleachers. Mark's strong jaw rests on a bench above his duffle bag and expensive sneakers, his body still wearing his cleats on the field.
You move closer and see his smartphone resting on the bench, near his face. It vibrates, briefly, between you. He glances towards you then back at the field where you can see the sweat dripping down his lower back, where his structured sweatpants have pulled down just enough to reveal the elastic waistband of his jockstrap.
"It's easier for me to run passes if I can watch myself, you know?" Mark says. Not directly to you but his tone makes it sound like he's apologizing. "Plus without my head on my shoulders, I don't have to breathe so hard!" He laughs loud, reverberating with the bench supporting his freestanding skull.
"What talent.." You offer.
"Let's me keep an eye on my shit. Make sure my sneaks stay clean."
This makes your eyes roll. Even headless, Mark is a douchebag.
"I could just take them. Swipe them out from under your nose." You move your hand towards them in an obvious way and his lips purse up like he's going to whine. You laugh and just pick up his head, sitting down on the bench with him.
You turn him around in your hands. His head is heavy, twice the size of yours. He's got a mess of sandy hair that obnoxiously parts and waves in the wind like a fucking Calvin Klein advertisement. A strong brow, button nose, and thin lips. He's a ladykiller and you've got his head in your little hands.
"What're you doing freak! Put me down!" He snaps. The worst he can do to you is furrow his brow.
"You're aware that you are a disembodied head, yeah?"
"Obviously. Put me down! My girlfriend will be back any second!" He seems genuinely panicked, if not annoyed. His body comes lumbering up the field towards where you're sitting. "I've got to hit the shower. Put me down! Or put me back, nerd!"
His body pays you no attention. It gracefully peels off it's sweaty tshirt revealing a treasure chest of muscles. His large hands brush beads of sweat from the meat packs of his chest. He plops his huge frame down on the bench in front of you and starts untying his cleats, removing his gear.
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