Blood. There was blood. His eyes widened. A hand came down on his shoulder, shaking at him. "Rolan, the field!"
"Shit," he cursed, which was totally unlike Rolan. He did not curse. He lowered the field immediately and was rushing over to Mao, ignoring the exclamation as he tore off the flannel that he had been wearing over a plain tee. "Shit," he said again, on his knees, aware someone was calling for a teacher. He wadded it up a bit in his hand and held it up to Mao's nose. "I'm sorry, it wasn't suppose to..." his words trailed off, at a loss for what to say about it. He felt like shit.
"Lean forward a bit, do not tilt back your head. Can you pinch the bridge of your nose?" Yes, Rolan knew how to care for a bleeding nose. He'd had his own busted up a couple times in horsing around in the past with football and friends. So he knew that tilting your head back was not the way to do it.
"Come on Rolan, it's not like its your fault the twink is a klutz." Rolan turned and glared at the one who said it, and he held his hands up and backed away.