by Vanessa Fox
For a split second I wonder if Willow is watching.
But I quickly scratch the thought out of my mind. This is no time to worry about her. I have to focus.
There is no doubt in my mind that I can do this.
I got this.
The first play starts. The center snaps the football and I throw a quick slant to my wide receiver Dylan Black. He's able to take it a few extra yards before being tackled.
The stands rumble with simultaneous cheers and boos. Coach's voice rings in my ears, telling me the next play. I huddle up with my offense and let them know the drill. We settle into our positions and the play starts. This time I hand off to my running back, and he glides easily through a wide open hole, shooting down the field like a bullet and gaining seventeen yards before being tackled.
I pump my fist in the air in celebration. We're off to a great start. This almost feels too easy. But I know I can't let myself become complacent, especially so early on. This game is gonna be anything but a cakewalk.
Scanning the eyes of the opposing team, the Houston Spurs, I can see that they're nervous. As long as I can keep my calm, and as long as my boys on the offensive line do their jobs, I should have this.
One play at a time.
Eyes open, nerves steady.
We spend the next few minutes marching confidently down the field, gaining one first down after the next. Finally we reach the endzone. The center snaps me the football. I'm supposed to pass a slant to my wide receiver Jeremiah Ware, but hold back when I see open field in front of me. Instead of passing, I tuck the ball in the crook of my arm and take advantage of the gaping hole, jogging casually into the endzone.
The stands erupt into a frenzy. My teammates coral around me, slapping me on the back and on the helmet. I spike the football into the ground and point my finger straight in the air.
It's only the first drive of the game, but I've got a very good feeling about this.
Today will be our day.
Willow
Grand orchestral music swells as credits begin to roll on the black screen. I pop the last few remaining popcorn kernels into my mouth before reluctantly standing and making my way to the aisle. I just watched a long film about a Nazi general who falls in love with a Jewish woman he's been ordered to kill. It was pretty good— but the book was a million times better, as is usually the case.
I'm one of only a handful of people in the theater. I'm pretty sure we're all here for the same reason: to give a big F you to "the big game". Though my motivation runs a little more personal than theirs, I imagine.
I exit the theater and toss my popcorn container into the trash before checking my phone. It's just after eight. The game is still on, but I'm hoping by the time I take the subway home, it should be pretty much over.
Katie's at home with her boyfriend Parker and few other friends for a casual Gridiron Bowl party. I had no desire to participate, for obvious reasons. I heard that Kade is playing after all, and yes— I am curious.
But it's not good for me. I know I need to keep my thoughts far away from Kade, at all costs. I don't want to see his green eyes on my television screen. I don't want to hear his name. I just want to be left alone to stew in my own little bubble.
As I head home, I briefly contemplate stopping somewhere to eat first, to kill a little more time. But I'm stuffed with popcorn and Twizzlers, and I'm too tired to stay out for much longer.
I can only hope that the game will be over by the time I make it home, and that Katie and her friends don't bombard me as soon as I walk in the door. I had already warned Katie to leave me out of it, but well, she's Katie, and I know her excitement gets the better of her.
—
I quietly step inside, and cringe when I see the game is still going on, ticking into overtime now. Katie and her friends are huddled around the TV screen, transfixed. They don't appear to even notice me, so I quietly pull off my boots and pad my way across the floor, praying that it doesn't squeak.
Just before I reach my bedroom: "Willow!" Katie squeals.
I groan.
"Willow, come over here!"
"No way."
"Seriously Willow, just come watch this."
"I already told you to leave me out of it!"
She bounces off the couch and gallops over to me, taking me by the arm. "It's right at the end, Willow, and oh my god, it's so tight."
She drags me towards the couch despite the fact I'm shaking my head vehemently. "Katie, I don't care!" I protest.
"The Spurs just got a field goal, now the Alphas have to get one too, but if they get a touchdown they win!"
"Katie!"
"Seriously, don't you want to know what happens? This is the biggest moment of Kade's life. After this, it's over. You can stop thinking about him."
I roll my eyes and cross my arms. On the TV screen I see that they're well into overtime, with the score 27-24 Spurs. The Spurs already kicked their field goal, and now the Alphas need to kick a field goal of their own, or the game is over. But it's fourth and twelve, and they're on their own 45 yard line. They're not even remotely close enough to make a field goal— they're gonna have to go for a long pass. If they don't make it, the Spurs win. My heart automatically speeds up in my chest, and my palms get sweaty.
Fine, I'll watch. But after this— it's over. No more Kade. No more sports. No more TV.
Seeing him there on the field makes my heart seize up and floods my mind with unwanted emotions. The fact that he's here in crystal clear HD doesn't help. I can see his vibrant green eyes as clear as if he's standing right in front of me. Ugh, this is exactly what I don't want.
But despite the high stakes, he looks calm as a cucumber. He calls out a coded play and the center snaps the football as three receivers shoot down the field at superhuman speeds.
"Oh God, I can't watch," Parker groans as he puts his hands over his eyes.
My heart feels like it's about to burst as Kade steps back. He cranes his arm back and rips it forward, sending the football flying in a high arc downfield.
The receivers have just about reached the endzone— but so have a bunch of Spurs defenders. The football glides down and one of the Alpha receivers jumps high into the air. He extends his arm and hauls it in with one hand, but by the time he falls to the ground, it slips out and bounces across the turf.
My blood goes cold. Two referees step forward and make the "no good" signal. The entire stadium erupts, and within seconds the field is flooded with players, coaches, and media, as Spurs-colored black and gold confetti rains down from above.
The room is silent.
The camera cuts to Kade, who has already taken his helmet off. His blond hair is damp with sweat, and his face is red from exertion. He's trying to hold himself together, and it's working. He looks stoic— indifferent, even— as he approaches Grant Underwood, the Spurs quarterback. They shake hands and Kade gives him a congratulatory pat on the back before turning and walking away.
"Oh my God," Katie shakes her head.
"Well, that sucks," Parker says flippantly.
"They were sooooo close!" Katie's friend Deborah wails.
I don't want to stick around for the aftermath. I head to my bedroom and collapse onto my bed, my head swimming.
I can't believe he didn't make it. I know I'm not supposed to care, but I can't help it. I know just how important this is to Kade. He's been working his ass off for this his entire life. He's been dreaming about this moment since he was a little kid. To have it ripped away from him so suddenly, in a split second— he must be reeling.
My heart aches for him. Once again I'm wishing I was there for him to lean on. I know he needs it. I wish I was there to hold him, to kiss him, to tell him everything is gonna be okay. But I can't.
There is no point fantasizing about something that can never happen. It's better to embrace cold, hard reality. The reality is, he lost. He'll have to grapple with it, deal with it in his own way, on his own time, with no help from me. But he
'll get over it. He'll be okay. He's still had an exemplary rookie year. He has his whole life ahead of him, to practice and play and accomplish so many things. With the help of his teammates and his family, he'll be fine.
As for my reality? Well, I'm alone. I may never speak to Kade again. But I'll be okay, too. I have so many blessings in my life. So much opportunity at my doorstep. So many people to meet, so many memories to make. A life without Kade can still be a good one— no, a great one. And I'm determined to make sure that happens.
But right now, none of that helps. My heart is pounding. My mouth is dry. I feel sick. I just want to curl up under the covers and hide from the world.
I just want to stop hurting.
Chapter 23
Kade
The ocean roars as turquoise waves lap against the blinding white sand. Out in the water, several of my teammates are making their first attempts at surfing, but they don't appear to be too successful, tumbling and splashing and slipping headfirst off their boards. At least they're having a good time. That's more than I can say for myself, and definitely not Dylan, who's laying on the towel next to me with his arm crooked over his eyes.
It's our post-season vacation, and while it's nice enjoying the sand and surf of Belize, the vibe is not particularly celebratory. Filing out of the plane two days ago, it felt like we were headed to a funeral. Our faces were somber. No one really spoke, and those that did kept it hushed. Coach has made a valiant effort to keep our spirits up by giving us inspiring pep talks, but with limited effect. I can see the pain in his eyes, even though he tries to hide it.
But Dylan, here, he's taking it the hardest out of all of us. He blames himself for the loss. He was the one in the endzone who nearly had the game-ending catch, but it slipped out of his hands. I've tried to convince him that the blame rests on my shoulders— which, honestly, is debatable— but he won't have it. I tried to tell him the ball was overthrown and that he never should've had to jump so high for it in the first place. But the general consensus among fans and the media, is that it was his fault alone.
It didn't help matters any when he erupted in the locker room afterwards, getting into a fist fight with another player. It leaked to the media, of course, and now everyone thinks he's both a fuck up and a sore loser with a chip on his shoulder.
I nudge his arm. "You okay, man?"
He groans in response.
"I hope you put on sunscreen. You're turning red as a lobster."
"I don't care."
I search for the words to say to finally pull him out of his funk, but I know it's a tall order. "Can't beat yourself up over this forever, Dylan."
"Sure I can."
"What's the point? It's over," I say. "You'll just fuck yourself up next season by dwelling on it too much."
In a way the words are meant for me, too. The loss has absolutely gutted me. I keep going back and repeating that final play in my head over and over again. We were so fucking close, but we let it slip out of our hands... literally. Going into the game, I never even considered the possibility that we would lose. I was confident the whole way through, all the way to the end. The realization that we would go home empty-handed hit me like a ton of bricks.
It's been a surreal experience, to say the least. More than anything, I just feel empty. A dark, oppressive cloud has been looming over my head, filling me with dread and blocking out the sunlight, making it difficult to see a way out, a path forward into the future. Logically I know that I'll be fine— we'll be fine. My career is just getting started, and I intend to lead this team back to the Gridiron Bowl next year, and the year after that. But thinking about doing it all over again, having to claw our way up from the very bottom, first learning to adapt after the offseason roster changes disrupt the dynamic of our team, then battling our way through inevitable injuries and close games, knowing that at the very end it could all be snatched away from us again in an instant... it just makes me sick.
Then there's Willow. She's crept back into my mind in the last few days. She just won't leave me alone, like a song I can't get out of my head. I think about her face while I lay in bed. I dream about her body pressed close against mine under the covers. In the middle of conversations I'll trail off and completely forget what I was talking about, my mind hijacked by thoughts of her: what is she doing right now? What's she thinking? Is she happy? Or is she feeling like a miserable failure just like I am?
I regret treating her so harshly when she came to see me. I was still raw from the pain she caused me, and the concussion had left me a little emotionally volatile. I hope I didn't upset her too badly— but hell, I know I did. It's not like I can call her up to apologize. The bridge has been burned. She probably never wants to see me again. She probably laughed when she heard that I lost the Gridiron Bowl, after all. Serves me right for being such a massive jerk to her when she was just concerned for my health.
I lean back on my beach towel with a groan.
Dylan glances over, peeking under his arm, and gives me a knowing smirk. "Don't try to hide it. I know you're hurting just as bad as I am."
He's right.
His smile fades, and we lay in silence under the hot, searing sun.
—
The warm evening breeze dances along my skin as I toss back the rest of my Corona. I'm at the patio restaurant of the resort, and I've just finished off a plate of lobster and shrimp in coconut milk over rice. A band in the corner plays soft, happy Caribbean music with marimba, drums and shakers. I'm surrounded by teammates, and many of them are smiling and laughing and getting a little tipsy. The vacation is still shrouded in somberness, but at times we can still be light-hearted, and I enjoy seeing it. For the moment I feel calm and peaceful. I even crack a smile every now and then. Might as well enjoy it while it lasts.
Children dart around, some of the little ones dancing in front of the band. Some guys' family members have arrived to join in on the vacation. It's nice to see, but at the same time it reminds me of everything I lack. After this, I'm coming home to an empty, dark apartment. No wife or girlfriend to kiss and hug when I get back. No children to sweep into my arms. No support system. Just me, myself, and I... alone with my thoughts. Sure, I have my parents, and I've got my friends. But it's not the same thing.
I flag down a waiter and request another Corona. He sets the ice cold bottle on the table and I take a long swig. Barely a second later, a little girl comes flying around my table and bumps right into me. I splash the beer all over my chest.
"Sorry!" she squeals, turning on a dime. She's being chased by a little boy, a toddler who's waddling around on chunky little legs.
"Aaliyah Grace!" My linebacker Rufus Carter hollers. "Come here right now!"
The girl hangs her head low, pouting as she approaches him.
"I told you no running in here! Do you understand?"
She nods sullenly.
"Now go give Mr. Hughes a proper apology."
She turns and drags her feet back to me. "I'm sorry Mr. Hughes," she mumbles, her head hung low, not meeting my eyes.
I smile and lift her chin. "It's all right, sweetie. You just be sure to listen to your daddy, okay?"
She nods, her bottom lip quivering.
"Now you better get out of here before I tickle you!" I poke her belly and tickle under her arms and she giggles, swatting at me before making a quick escape.
"Sorry about that, man," Rufus says, shaking his head, as I try to wipe up the beer with a napkin.
"Oh, it's no problem," I laugh.
He takes a seat next to me with a sigh. He's a giant of a man, 6'4 and 360 pounds. A beast on the field, but a teddy-bear family man at home. "Kids," he grumbles.
"Nah man, I love 'em."
"That's only because you don't have any," he chuckles. "You know week 11 when I got that forced fumble? You know what I had to do right after I got home?"
"What?"
"Change diapers and clean up puke all night," he says. "Kids had some kind of stomach bug
."
I laugh and finish off what remains of my Corona. "Shit. That sounds tough."
"It is, man, it is. Non-stop work. Wife got me working around the clock."
"She doesn't let you rest, huh?"
"Hell nah," he shakes his head.
"At least you got a family to go home to," I say. "All I got is my motorcycle. And my flat screen."
"And peace and quiet! And a full night's sleep without interruption."
"True," I laugh.
"Grass is always greener," Rufus says. He turns and gazes at his wife, who's kneeling down and chatting with the kids, a big smile on her face. "But I wouldn't trade it for anything."
"I bet."
"Never thought I'd get tired of the single life. Hell, I was prepared to be a Hugh Hefner type, you know? But then I met her... and well, everything changed in an instant."
"Love at first sight?"
"Something like that. A little bit of love, a little bit of hate," he laughs. "But we just go together. Never met anyone like her. I think sometimes when you know, you just know. Everyone else was a question mark, but not her. She just felt right."
I watch Rufus as he watches her. He's not bullshitting— I can see the love in his eyes. It's hard to believe this is the same guy who grunts on the field like an enraged bull and runs guys down like a runaway freight train hurling off the tracks. Hell, his fierceness makes me uneasy, and he's on my team! Who would've guessed that this monster of an athlete was such a romantic at heart?
He turns back to me with an embarrassed smile. "Anyway, man— don't tell her I told you that."
I laugh. "Got it."
"So enough about me. Let me live vicariously through you. You gonna get into some fine Belizean strange while we're here?"
"Eh, I don't know about that."
"I saw some fine honeys down on the beach. You'd be crazy to turn that down. Might be a nice distraction."
