Craig started to have misgivings about the whole football-tossing adventure, as he arrived on the football field with Jake. He was terrible at both throwing and catching and was sure that he'd at least humiliate if not hurt himself, and Jake really wasn't the sort of guy that he would normally hang out with (not that he normally hung out with anyone, but if he did it certainly wouldn't be with a football player like Jake). But it was too late to back out now. He wanted Jake to like him, and even more strangely he had an urge to test his skill, even though he knew it was lacking, so he waited for Jake to pass the ball and got ready to catch it.
Unfortunately, Craig's worst fear was realized. Not only did he fail to catch the ball, but the ball hit him right in the face. It hurt more than he ever thought it could. He was blinded with pain. He felt dazed and disoriented as the world went black and spun around him. He could see, hear, or think of nothing other than the pain. And then the pain and the dizziness suddenly stopped--they didn't just fade as things did with time, they disappeared in an instant, as though he had never felt them. Almost everything seemed to be normal again, though he still felt a bit dazed. He could see again, and looked down to find the football in his hands. It hadn't hit him in the face. He had caught it. Was that right?
Jake called out, "Great catch, bro," confirming his thoughts. It hadn't hit him, of course he had caught it. He knew that he was strong, fast, and coordinated enough to be good enough at this sort of thing--unbeknownst to him, his frame had bulked up with muscle to make that true. And because of that, he was trying out for the football team. Football, wasn't that the sport where you kicked the ball? No, that was what his parents called it. They were British, but he was totally American. Still, that seemed wrong for a moment, like it wasn't the sort of thing that he would do, before he remembered that he had always been a pretty sporty guy. In fact, now that he thought about it, it seemed weird that he hadn't joined the football team earlier, he totally had the right build for it and the guys on the team were his friends. He couldn't think of any reason why he hadn't tried out before, since he was still a little dazed and it was harder to think of anything. But then he realized that, actually, he wasn't dazed, and that the slightly confused feeling in his head was totally normal for him. Sure, he was on the slower side, but it wasn't a big deal. He did well enough in school, and it's not like he was some sort of totally dumb jock like some of the other--like some of the guys on the football team.
Wrapped up in these thought, he had forgotten about continuing the tossing, so Jake called out impatiently, "You planning on keeping that ball? Pass it already, Greg!" Greg? That name hit him like another ball in the face. He knew that was wrong, he knew his name was something else, something that started with a C... what was it? Thinking about it with his slightly dulled mind brought him nothing but more confusion--and then clarity. His name was Greg. He grinned at himself. Shit, he must be dumber than he thought he was, forgetting his own name. Of course he was Greg. He accepted the name and it confirmed everything else he had just learned about himself. He turned that grin on Jake and then threw the ball expertly. Greg and Jake for the rest of the lunch period, tossing and catching with skill, neither of them fumbling, and joking and bantering like the good friends that they were.
Finally, the bell rang, and lunch ended. "Well, see you later, Jake," Greg said in his new American accent that was almost indistinguishable from that of his peers with only a hint of his---of his parent's British accent. "Guess we both have to suffer through another class." They both smiled, neither being the best at academics.
Jake replied, "'Til next time, Greg, glad to have you on the team," and they both went their separate ways. As Greg left the gym premises, it occurred to him that he still hadn't remembered to ask about the stolen uniform. He hadn't noticed, since this uniform felt almost like it could have been his anyway. He had gone a long way to filling up the uniform with his new bulk, his flat torso beginning to grow abs and pecs, and it fit a lot better, even though it was still a little loose. He thought about it slowly for a moment, instinctively pushing the hair away from his face before remembering that his hair wasn't long enough to get in his face, obviously. He barely registered that there was more hair on his hand than before, that it was lighter, or that his skin was tanner. Well, of course, why should he notice something that was exactly the same as he always saw, especially when he was distracted with something else? There was only so much that his brain could hold at once. Finally, Greg decided that the uniform probably wasn't that important, and he pushed the issue of the uniform to the back of his moderately but increasingly foggy mind.