by Lily Cahill
Valid point. “I’ll put a sock on the door.”
She takes a deep breath. “Can we be serious for a second?”
I reach across the table and take her hand. “What’s up?”
She looks down at our joined hands. “Look, I know there’s a perception that artists are all about free love and open relationships or whatever. But I’m not one of those artists.”
“Okay.”
“The past hour aside, I don’t just jump into bed with people. Or onto chairs with people,” she says with a small smile. “And we don’t have to label this or make some sort of weird commitment, but—”
“Are you saying you want to go steady?” I ask, my voice amused.
“No. I mean … no. I like you, and I’d like to see you again, but …. God, Riley, I wish you weren’t a football player.”
Irritation pricks at my happiness. “We’re still stuck on this?”
“It’s not about Natalie. Or not just about Natalie.” Her hands flutter like birds under mine, but I don’t let go. “I know what the next few months are going to be like for you—what it has to be like for you. If you’re going to get drafted, you have to focus all your energy on being your best. You don’t need the distraction of a … whatever.”
“See, I look at this another way. There’s no way I could play my best unless you were my … whatever. You make me better. I told you that before.”
She looks down at the table, embarrassed. “You were talking about class.”
“No, I was talking about everything. Lilah, I don’t think you understand. At the end of the spring semester, I was ready to go home. I was committed to playing my last year at MSU, but I didn’t have any love for the game, any heart. But over the past few weeks, I feel like I’ve woken up again. On the field, and in the rest of my life. And you are a big part of that.”
“Is football really what you want, though?” she asks, gripping my hand. “I mean, Riley, you are so talented. The piece you created today is one thing, but all your little carvings are wonderful as well. You could sell them. You could have a career as an artist.”
“Nah,” I say, sitting back awkwardly. “That’s just for fun.”
“I know you think football is your future, but just consider it a second. I am certain that you could make a living off of your carvings. You don’t have to go to the NFL—there’s another option.”
The concept is so foreign I immediately reject it. “No way. It’s just something I do. If I told my dad I was going to carve wood for a living instead of play football, he’d laugh his ass off right before he kicked mine.”
“That’s how I make my living,” Lilah says, going a little huffy.
“Yeah, but you’re ….”
Her eyes become sharp in an instant. “I’m what?”
I stare at her for a long moment. “There is literally no way I can end that sentence without putting my foot in my mouth.”
She tugs her hands from mine. “I’m what?”
I purse my lips, then decide to wing it. “You are a creative juggernaut with years of experience and a Pitkin Prize under her belt. And I’m just a country boy who whittles.”
She looks at me narrowly. “You are much more than that. For example, you are an accomplished bullshitter.”
I grin at her, knowing my dimple is winking. “Why, thank you.”
“You know what I’m saying. The piece you carved for your final project is wonderful. That could be the start of a whole new world for you.”
The project is still clear in my mind’s eye. It’s not so different from the hundreds of other carvings I’ve done over the years—it isn’t the biggest, or the most difficult, or the most beautiful. But it was certainly the hardest to create. I feel like I’ve removed a piece of myself in its creation. I’m not sure I want to experience something that intense again. I mean what I said earlier—I never would have been able to create that piece without Lilah. “You can have it.”
“Riley. No. You should keep it.”
“I want it to be yours,” I say, all joking gone from my voice. “You’re the one who helped me see what I’m capable of.”
She would have replied, but the waitress arrives with the food. Ahh, hash browns. There is no situation that can’t be improved by fried potatoes. I dig in happily, then notice that Lilah is poking at her club sandwich. “What?”
She looks up at me, regret and sorrow clear in her face. “I like you, Riley. But my position hasn’t changed. I don’t want to be in a relationship with a football player.”
I chew slowly, giving myself time to think. “Well, your position will have to change, because you’re in a relationship with me, and I’m a football player. And, just to be clear, if I weren’t playing football, I wouldn’t be here. I have a scholarship to play, and I can’t afford school without it.”
“I’m not asking you to quit. Look, it’s me, okay? I’m not sure I can deal with it.”
“With what?”
“With being ‘Lotto’ Brulotte’s girlfriend … or whatever,” she adds quickly. “I’m not going to make you banners or go to pep rallies or cheer for you on the sidelines.”
“That’s fine,” I say with a shrug. “We have cheerleaders for that.”
“I don’t even go to football games.”
“You don’t have to,” I say, though it gives me a pang to think of playing without her there.
Clearly she notices, because she asks, “Isn’t that going to bother you?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. What I do know is that your fries are getting cold.”
She looks down at her plate, then back up at me. “Is that some sort of existential commentary on how I should live in the moment instead of worrying about the future?”
“No. It’s a fact,” I say, proving it by stealing a fry off her plate. “Lilah, let me make it easy for you: I’m not going to let you talk your way out of my life. If you really don’t want to be my … whatever, then you should tell me now.”
She says nothing.
“So, should I take that to mean that you want to … whatever with me?”
“Define ‘whatever.’”
I want to say spend every moment together and grow so close that we can’t imagine a life apart, but I figure that would freak her out. “For now … hang out. Make art. Break furniture. Eat hash browns.”
She smiles, and it’s so beautiful it hurts.
“I think I can agree to those terms,” she says, finally picking up her sandwich. Simultaneously, I feel her foot rubbing my leg. “To be honest, I can’t stop thinking about how flimsy all the furniture in this diner is.”
I look around, my imagination suddenly vivid. Erotic images pop into my head: propping Lilah on a stool and burying my face between her legs; laying her out on a booth and fucking her glorious tits; leaning her against the cold case so her hard nipples scrape the glass as I pound into her. When I look back at Lilah, my cock already hard, a sly smile curls on her face.
“Let’s get out of here,” she says, signaling the waitress. “We can pack this up to-go. We’ll probably need the energy later.”
“But where are we going to go?” I ask. “Your place is out, my place is out.”
She chews on her lip for a moment, which is doing nothing to relax my erection.
I try to force some blood back into my brain. “My dorm room is out? I don’t have a roommate.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t …. Don’t ask me to walk through all of those guys.” She looks away. “I’m just getting used to the idea of being with you. I don’t think I can handle being around the whole team.”
“Okay, that makes sense. Um ….” I think back to what I did when I was a randy high schooler. “I have a truck.”
She tilts her head, her foot tracking up to my inner thigh. “We could probably make that work.”
My cock grows even harder at the words. It’s going to be difficult to get out of here without making a scene. But it’s not just my cock that is swelling. Looking at her,
I can feel something expanding in my chest that’s part pleasure, part desire. Something is happening to my heart that neither Lilah nor I are prepared for. If I’m honest, I think I’m ready for it, ready to feel this way. I just have to convince her to feel the same.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Riley
AS THE SUMMER WINDS DOWN, the MSU campus fills with students moving in for the fall semester.
But I barely notice the crowd. It feels like all that exists in this world, besides football, is this thing growing between me and Lilah. My body and Lilah’s body. My heart and Lilah’s heart.
I walk around in a haze, intoxicated by her even when she’s not around. She’s infused my entire life, making everything better. I swear, she’s even affecting the team. In practice, we are finally starting to come together. West is throwing the ball well, and the team is acting like a team once again.
And me? I’m faster and stronger than I’ve ever been. I’ve been bulking up, building muscle mass for years, honing my skills and working myself to the bone, but something is different now. Something has clicked, and I can’t help but think that thing is Lilah. I know it’s silly, but it’s like she’s given me super strength.
And it couldn’t come at a better time. We’re just minutes away from our first game of the season. All eyes are on us, watching to see if we’ll choke or survive. There are still those who want Coach MoFo reinstated, who can’t stop focusing on the past. But walking toward the stadium this morning, surrounded by classmates proudly sporting the Mustang blue and silver, I am so damn excited for the future.
Today should be a cake walk. Literally, that’s what these games are called—cupcake games—because the athletic department purposely chooses an out-of-conference team with lesser ability to come and make us start the season with confidence. Lobbing up a nice and easy first game to kick the season off right. Sometimes I wonder about how those teams feel. Flying all the way in to be sacrificial lambs. Today, for instance, we’re playing the University of Hawaii, the Rainbow Warriors. I guess with a mascot like that, they’ve got bigger problems than knowing they’re going to lose a game.
In the locker room, Reggie sits next to me with his leg bouncing up and down. He punches a fist into his hand repeatedly, his energy spilling out of him anyway it can. As I pad up, I can’t help but notice that some of the guys are holding my figurines, rubbing them like mini-Buddhas for good luck. As soon as Reggie showed off the one he found in my room, all the guys wanted one. Over the past couple of weeks, it seems like every guy on the team has come by my room and casually poked through my collection of wooden figurines. I don’t believe in good luck charms, but if the other guys do, who am I to talk them out of it?
Even Ben Mayhew, the arrogant new wide receiver, came sniffing around looking for a carving. No surprise—he picked a little Aston Martin I carved when the last 007 movie came out. He’s got it in his hand right now as he sits in the corner, not talking to anybody. When he looks up and catches me staring, he scoffs and stuffs the figurine away. I can’t help but shake my head. That guy makes no sense to me. Maybe I’m too country to understand him.
Instead, I focus on Coach Prescott. He’s holding his clipboard and looking over us, chewing the inside of his lip, but not saying anything. Finally, he puts a hand up and ends the idle chatter.
“Men,” he says. The locker room goes silent and nervous energy pings through the room. “We’ve busted our asses practicing for this moment. This is the moment where we prove that we’re more than a hashtag. We’re more than a scandal. We’re a strong tradition of excellence on the field. There’s been a lot of talk during the off-season, but now the time for talk is over. Now is the time for action.”
He holds his hand out toward us and we stand up together, putting our hands in the center as one unit. All together, our hands dip down and we all yell from the bottom of our stomachs, “Can’t stop the stampede!” Anticipation and adrenaline flood through me, so much I’m bouncing up and down, barely holding back from sprinting out of the locker room and onto the field.
With Coach in the lead, he leads us out of the locker room and toward our fate. Following a tradition started generations before us, we each slap a hand for good luck against the words painted over the door leaving the locker room: “Can’t stop the stampede.” The words are aged and the paint starting to chip from so many hands touching it year after year, but I swear I can feel all those other players imbuing me with strength. I’m a Mustang, dammit, and I cannot wait to show the world what that really means out on the field.
The stands are already bursting with throngs of fans. It’s hot as hell, but the student section is going nuts as we take the field. As I look up and around the full stadium, I see fans swathed in blue and silver, with half-coconut shells strung around their necks, holding signs, cheering for us. Nearly all the students are wearing their Mustang hats, a giant thing shaped like a horse’s head with a long, blue manes flowing down their necks.
In this moment, there’s no doubt this is where I’m meant to be. For the first time since the scandal, I feel truly at home. The green turf, the blue sky, the rowdy fans—it fills me with the simplest pleasure. I’ve been coming to this stadium since I was a kid, watching the games and playing with a miniature football. There is nothing, nothing, like college football.
I search the crowd for Lilah, even though I told her she didn’t need to come. But I can’t quell the hope to see her anyway. I want to share this moment with her. The buzz in the air is irrepressible, and I know if she could just experience this for a second, she might see another side to football. The side I love. The camaraderie and raw energy, the anticipation and elation.
Before I know it, special teams is lined up on the field and the coconuts are clapping, slowly at first and then gaining momentum, clattering faster and faster as our kicker, Trent Richards, approaches the ball. Hawaii won the coin toss and chose to receive, so I’m on the sidelines for the first play, and I’m beside myself with jitters.
The clattering from the coconut shells—our “stampede”—reaches a deafening roar as Trent winds up and kicks. We’re off, the ball soaring through the air to the end zone. Hawaii catches the ball, and it’s a rush of blue and silver colliding with green and white.
Except the Hawaii player who catches the ball slips through the collision, finding space on the field to break through. My stomach drops. Blood drains from my face. There’s nothing but open field in front of him, and he’s off like a shot. All around, the crowd groans and screams in frustration. This can’t be happening, but it is. Our men scramble to catch back up with him, but it’s too late. Far too late. He’s out of reach, and just like that, within the first ten seconds of the game, we’re down 7-0.
“What the fuck!” Reggie bursts out at my side. His fists are clenched and a tendon in his neck is bulging. The energy he had in the locker room needs to get onto the field now, before he explodes, standing here on the sidelines. I look down the sidelines to the rest of the team. West is white as a ghost and sweating, even though we haven’t even run a play yet.
With a whistle, we jog onto the field and line up. Reggie, at center, eyes the Rainbow Warriors.
“Mike 22!” he yells out, informing West and the rest of the line that Number 22 is aiming to blitz. The player is off my right shoulder. Reggie snaps the ball and I bulldoze into the guy, stopping him on his cut toward West. I’ve given our quarterback ample time to make a decision—throw or run—but West just holds the ball. He’s scrambling backward, searching for somewhere to throw the ball, and even though I’m holding off brute of a man, I can see Ben cutting up the field. He’s tied up with a defender, but he’s faster, and if West could just let the ball fly right now—right now—we’d have a chance to retaliate with our own touchdown.
But he sees Ben a moment too late and under-throws the ball. It drops to the field with a disappointing thud, but at least it’s not intercepted. Yet all around us, I can feel the energy in the stadium waning.
We’re losing our fans, and that makes my heart twist. I steel my spine and jog back to the line. We can pull this off. We can show everyone what we’re capable of.
Second down, and we’re back on the line. The play call is for me to act like I’m going to block, then roll out and sprint in a straight line down the field—it’s one of my secret talents as one of the best tight ends in college football. Reggie snaps the ball and barrels into the defenders coming for West, but as I juke and roll, the tackle to my left, who’s supposed to pick up my defender, has gotten distracted. I don’t know if he missed the play call or saw a butterfly, but he’s nowhere in sight, leaving a gaping hole in our line. West, left completely vulnerable, stutters and trips over his own feet, just barely catching himself before the defense hits him hard, sending him flying backward in a brutal take down. He hits the ground hard, but at least he doesn’t drop the ball.
Groans fill the stadium, echoing within my helmet and mixing with the sound of my own labored breathing. What the fuck is happening to us? I jog over to extend a hand to West, but he shakes his head and pushes himself to his feet. His eyes look a little bleary, and I honestly don’t know if it’s from the hit or the total breakdown of the team he is ostensibly captaining.
“You okay, West?” I shout, grabbing hold of both sides of his helmet.
“Yeah,” he says distantly. He shakes his head again. “Yeah.”
But he’s not okay. None of us are okay. We’re a damned mess on the field, and it’s a mercy when the clock ticks down to the half and we’re allowed to escape back to the locker room. As I trudge into the room, I spy my own figurine—a blooming rose I’ve been carving for Lilah—laying on the bench in front of my locker. Even though I don’t believe in this sort of thing, a chill comes over me. I can’t help but wonder if these lucky charms, without Lilah nearby to give them her essence, have become hexes.
The locker room is downright depressing. No one speaks, no one even looks at each other. Heads hang, like the weight of the scoreboard is a weight on our shoulders. We’re losing 21-3. How is that even possible? This was supposed to be the cupcake game. It was supposed to be a blow out. And it is. Only it’s happening in the wrong direction.
