by S. E. Harmon
After a few more seconds, Vaughn sent one deep for Warner, and it went right over his head. To his credit, Warner dove after it anyway, rolled out of bounds, and nearly took out a cameraman.
“Fuck,” I muttered.
“More where that came from,” Bausch promised as we headed back to our respective huddles.
Even though that kind of shit-talking was usual—and weak—my temper flared. I was tempted to push him, penalties be damned, especially since he got away with that bullshit coverage. I stepped forward in his face and almost just as quickly, Diesel yanked me back.
Diesel made sure to get between us and gave Bausch his back, probably to cut off the sight lines between me and that fuckwit, and luckily Diesel was tall enough to make the move effective.
“Not now,” he said around his mouth guard. “Empty cans make the most noise.”
I gave him the stink eye. “Seriously?”
“Something my grandma used to say.” He shrugged. “Do what you want. But if you get ejected, this game is over.”
I made an irritated noise to indicate I understood as he pushed/walked me away from Bausch, who was still jawing off.
The next down, I was pumped and ready. For whatever reason, the Steers’ coach preferred one-on-one coverage to zone defense, so I had to deal with Bausch again. I gave him a quick stutter step that made him freeze for a split second and gave me enough time to put a little distance between us. I turned just in time to make eye contact with Vaughn, who fired off a bullet my way.
It was a perfect throw, and I jumped high and caught the ball securely in my glove. I tucked the ball close to my body even as Bausch tried to tackle me. Tried. He was too small to make that work, and with little effort, I spun out of his grip and sprinted downfield. Bausch cursed and took off after me, and with a feeling of satisfaction, I turned on the jets. I had a feeling his coach would rethink having Bausch cover me the next time we got the ball.
Probably realizing he was running out of time and opportunity, Bausch leaped forward to close the distance between us and gave me a push just as I reached the one-yard line—a move that pushed me headfirst into the end zone. Fine by me. A touchdown was a touchdown, and it didn’t have to be pretty. We went for the two-point conversion instead of the field goal and got that too.
Even as I jogged off the field to butt- and backslapping, I was well aware we were still behind, and we didn’t have much time left. Our defensive line stopped the Steers from scoring, and when they turned the ball over, Webber caught the return and took a knee so we’d start on our twenty-yard line.
As we headed back onto the field, I felt a new surge of energy. That was the part I loved the most—when the ball was first turned over to our team. It was like a fresh start, another chance to make something happen, and I got swept up in it every time.
I had to give him credit—Vaughn was cool under pressure. He tried to move the ball down the field, but the Steers weren’t making it easy. Twice a defender broke through our line before Vaughn could set up in the pocket, and he had to scramble, flustered. The second time, he had the presence of mind to run for the first down. Even when he got the yardage we needed for the down, he didn’t slide. I don’t know whether it was frustration or sheer pigheadedness, but he kept running. A few yards later, he got clobbered and went down like a sack of potatoes.
I extended a hand to help him up, and he took it. As I pulled him off the ground, he groaned. “Fuck, it never gets any easier.”
I made a noncommittal noise as I clapped him on the back. “You all right?”
“Yeah, I’m good.” He winced and rotated his shoulder. “Just a little banged up.”
I resisted the urge to ask him what the hell he thought he was doing, mostly because the answer was obvious—he was trying to get yardage. There were some teams that you could pull that shit with, but the Steers was not one of them. They hit hard, and they liked to hit dirty, which amped up our defensive line in return. Four guys had already been carted off the field.
The right kind of hit could’ve fucked up Vaughn’s arm and, in quick succession, our season as well. Our second-string quarterback was nowhere near ready to take over. I bit my tongue because I could see the knowledge of all of that in his defensive glare. There was nothing else to do but get back in position.
On the next play, he was under pressure again and winged the ball out of bounds to avoid the sack. I knew he was going to get flagged before I even heard the whistle, and we listened as the ref called out a foul for intentional grounding. He’d thrown the ball where there was no receiver even in the vicinity.
That call further rallied the Steers, and they made it their goal to make sure we didn’t get one more fucking yard. Hell, on the third down, we lost six yards. Our last chance to score was for our kicker, Garcia, to nail a forty-five-yard field goal. We had whittled away the Steers’ lead to only three points. If he could get the score, the game would be tied, and that would send us into OT.
Anyone with eyes could tell Garcia was pretty nervous. He had a tough role to play. We did our damnedest to score, but if we couldn’t and had to go for the field goal, we expected him to get it. Period. The situation couldn’t get more pressured than that.
Hut. Hut. They snapped the ball, and I could hardly watch as it sailed toward the goalposts and then into the left goalpost, and it bounced off. Two referees held up their hands and shook their heads in the “no good” motion, and the crowd went wild. Just like that, our undefeated status for the season was over.
It was just one game, but it always felt like so much more. We trudged across the field and made nice with the other players. And if our niceties were a little lackluster, no one commented. We played well, but sometimes your best just wasn’t enough. That lesson never got any easier.
THE LOCKER room was nothing but stony silence, and the atmosphere on the plane wasn’t much better. That suited my mood just fine. I looked out the window as the airport employees went about their business. Several guys drove carts full of luggage toward the plane while another loaded the luggage at the bottom. Another guy in a reflective vest sprayed the tarmac with a hose until it gleamed like wet paint. When my eyes ghosted over my face in the glass, my expression was dark and unapproachable.
I’d never been a very good loser, and losing in front of a couple million people only made it that much worse. And I could’ve certainly done without the jeering from the fans—both theirs and ours—about the end of our winning streak. I sighed and tried to think about something else, anything other than the shit show we’d put on.
Halfway through the flight, someone dropped into the seat neat to me. I lifted my head from the window to scowl at the offender and found Dane settling down in the seat.
“You’re sitting on my jacket,” I said, hoping he’d take the hint.
“Sorry, bro.” He pulled my jacket out from underneath him, and I made a sound of irritation. I was tempted to tell him to keep it, but it was one of my favorites.
I took the jacket and balled it into a pillow for my head. “What’s wrong with your old seat?”
“McAdams is talking in his sleep.”
“Tell him to stop.”
“I did. C’mon, just let me sit here. I’m going to be sleeping anyway.”
“Whatever.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re worse than Vaughn. He’s back there compiling a list of everything he did wrong to discuss with Coach on Monday. He said this was our game to lose.”
It was. “We could’ve played better,” I said diplomatically.
He shrugged, clearly unperturbed. “We’ll get them next time. If anybody’s going to be upset, it should be Garcia. Don’t be such a fucking sore loser, bro.” Then he closed his eyes, folded his arms, and settled back in his seat.
My scowl returned.
I didn’t take our losses well, but I was far from a sore loser. If I wanted an example of poor sportsmanship, I had to look no further than my dear boyfriend, who was banned from th
e game of Scrabble in his mother’s home for reasons we all agreed not to talk about. I’ll just say someone threw tiles and leave it at that.
So while I admit I was competitive, I wasn’t a sore loser. I just felt as though I’d let the team down. A lot of people counted on us to do well. A lot of jobs depended on it, in fact. The reporters who shoved mics in our faces after the game and demanded to know why we lost didn’t help. I wanted to snap, “Why do you think? You were watching the fucking game, weren’t you?”
But that wasn’t “Media Blue.” Media Blue hadn’t gotten to be a media darling by telling his critics how hard they should fuck off. Media Blue had to address the points of the game calmly, talk briefly about the faults in our gameplay, and assure the world that we’d go at it stronger and harder the next game. And when that reporter who thought thick eyeglasses and tweed was a good look trotted out my list of injuries and asked if I thought any of that contributed to our loss, I swallowed my ire and assured him that it didn’t. I smiled and told him smoothly that we didn’t lose or win on the merits of one man, but as a team.
I could spout that PC bullshit in my sleep.
My phone buzzed, and I glanced at the screen. You sucked bro. When r u going to stop sucking so hard?
I grinned at Ian’s text and thumbed back a reply quickly. Like u guys did any better.
Won by three, motherfucker.
God knows u needed it.
U think fruit by arrangement does an I’m sorry u suck basket??
I rolled my eyes, but his text really did make me feel better. I loved it when Ian won. Call me a sappy big brother, but it made me proud—not that I’d ever tell him that. Besides, his text was eons better than the ominous one I’d gotten from my father instructing me to call him immediately. I hadn’t, of course. My ass chewing could wait until later.
My phone vibrated again a few seconds later. U guys were robbed. U rocked it, bro. Refs missed so many calls it was ridick. Call me later.
Will do, I texted back. We gave each other a hard time, but when it came to me and Ian, it was nothing but love—for now. I looked at the phone again and scrolled up through our texts, almost nostalgic about it all. Would he still talk to me if he knew about me and Kelly? We didn’t get to see each other all that much because of our busy schedules, but we texted all the time. Would he still send me stupid good-morning memes? Text me after my games and let me know he’d been watching?
I swallowed. He was the only blood relative I had left whom I really gave a damn about. My father was all but a lost cause, and my mother… well, she lost any claim to family when she took off like she did. And our extended family was exactly that—extended.
I ran down the list in my head—it didn’t take very long. I had an uncle and a grandmother, both of whom had their own problems. I kept Uncle Brian at arm’s length, a fact that pained me but was very necessary. He was an addict and a user who showed up every blue moon to ask for money and then disappeared again.
I usually gave it to him, feeling equal parts exhausted and guilty. I knew how he was probably going to spend it, but he was still my uncle, the guy who bought me my first football. Somewhere in there, crammed in with the addict, was the guy who tossed that ball around with me in the backyard. I always offered him food and a place to stay, and like clockwork, he always refused both and insisted he needed money. When I gave in, he smiled a gap-toothed broken smile that belied the fact that he was still on the shy side of middle age.
Then there was my grandmother, who was in a nursing home in Boca Raton. She didn’t remember who I was, and frankly, even when she did, she didn’t like me all that much. Her flighty daughter, Savannah, was always a sore topic for her. In my grandmother’s more lucid moments, sometimes she would interrupt our small talk to tell me flatly that I reminded her of Savannah a little too much.
That was it. That was the sum total of my family.
My phone rang in my hand, and I didn’t have to look to know who it was. I swear Kelly had a sixth sense about when I needed to talk… or he had me microchipped. I didn’t want or need to know all the details.
I glanced over at Dane, whose eyes were firmly shut. A little snore escaped from his lax mouth. My first instinct was to be glad, which frustrated me. I shouldn’t need to go into the cone of silence to have a conversation with my boyfriend. That cloak-and-dagger shit was just one more thing in my life that needed to go.
I answered just before the call went to voicemail. “Hey,” I said quietly. “Can you hear me?”
“Yeah. Let me just turn it up a little.” There was a little muffled scuffling, and then he came back on the line. “I just wanted to call and see how you’re doing.”
“I assume you saw the game.”
“Of course.”
“Then you know how I’m doing,” I said darkly.
His heartfelt “I’m sorry” could’ve probably healed broken ribs. It defied logic, but I couldn’t deny the evidence. A few minutes talking to him was like watching the little streaks of sun break through a sky heavy with storm clouds. I shook my head sadly. A year together, and he’d turned my mental landscape into the worst kind of romantic poetry.
“I also saw the interviews afterwards. You handled that jerk Radisson like a pro.” He sounded indignant. “Can you believe his nerve, asking you if they should’ve started McAdams instead? What the fuck kind of question is that?”
I half smiled. “Yeah, well. Part of me wonders if he was right. I’m pretty sure Coach will certainly have something to say about it when we watch game film on Monday.”
“You’re not invincible, Blue, no matter what the team seems to think. You can’t win them all.” He paused. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but how’s Garcia?”
I grimaced. That poor fuck. Yeah, he missed a kick at the worst possible moment, but that was just something that happened. Sometimes receivers dropped crucial catches and quarterbacks threw interceptions. As long as you didn’t make a habit of it, it was just part of the game. But some of the guys weren’t quite as logical about it… or as forgiving.
“Let’s just say he’s lucky they didn’t make him ride on the wing of the plane and leave it at that.”
“Bet he’s going to get an earful on Monday.”
“We all are.”
He made a sympathetic noise. “So Monday morning is gonna suck. I’ll cheer you up in the afternoon. You going to be home early or late?”
I decided not to call him out on absently referring to his house as our home. One of these days, that stubborn fucker would admit he wanted us to live together. Until then I’d try to be patient and push only when I had to.
“You still there?”
“Yeah.” I squinted as I tried to think about my schedule. “I think Penny has me down for a photo shoot.”
“For what?”
“Umm.” I scratched my head. “I don’t remember, and I don’t feel like looking at my calendar. Yogurt, maybe.”
“You don’t know? Are you just one of those celebrity whores who endorse anything?”
I sputtered with laughter and then glanced over at Dane to make sure he was still sleeping. “Did you just call me a fucking whore?”
“I did.” He sounded mischievous. “Whore.”
“I don’t endorse anything I don’t use. You know that.” I yawned so hard my jaw popped a little. The rigors of the day were catching up with me.
“But you can’t remember.”
“Well, at some point, I must’ve tried it and liked it.” I cut him off because I knew what he was going to say before he even uttered a sound. “And don’t say ‘that’s what he said.’”
He huffed a laugh. “As long as one of us does, I can sleep peacefully.” I yawned again, and he tsked. “I’m going to let you get some rest. I’ll pick you up from the airport. Okay?”
“Sounds good.”
I knew I should hang up, but I wasn’t ready to let him go. I wished I’d called him as soon as I got on the plane. I was feeling better alrea
dy. He just had a knack of reminding me that the world was bigger than football.
I wished we were already home in bed—nothing sexual, because I was way too tired for that. But I liked being tangled up together, feeling his warm, smooth skin next to mine. I liked to watch him sleep, liked to listen to him breathe.
God, what a creeper you’ve turned out to be.
“She called me again,” I blurted before I even realized I was going to.
He didn’t ask who I meant. We both knew Savannah wasn’t going to give up anytime soon. His sigh was barely audible, but I didn’t know whether it was directed at me for being obtuse, or her for being stubborn. “Ignoring things doesn’t work. Take it from an expert. Maybe you should see what she wants before she forces the issue.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
But I wasn’t going to, and we both knew that.
“I’ll see you soon. Okay?”
I murmured my agreement and hung up the phone.
“Was that Kelly?”
When I glanced over, one of Dane’s dark brown eyes was trained on my face, the other still firmly closed. I took a second to run through all the things I’d said and wonder if any of it was incriminating. I couldn’t remember. “Yes,” I finally said when the pause had gone on way too long.
It was his turn for a pregnant pause. “Oh.”
Just go back to staring at the window. There’s no need to take him up on that oh. Even though everything in me told me not to, I raised an eyebrow. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means….” He let that hang there as he thought better of whatever he was going to say.
At some point during training camp, he’d gotten rid of his trademark dreads. His barber gave him what Dane called a warrior haircut, but it was really just a faux-hawk. He still reached for his dreads sometimes, especially when he was struggling to express himself. I watched as he did that briefly, and then he dropped his hands into his lap.
