Game Day Box Set: A College Football Romance

by Lily Cahill

  Brett winds his way back toward the rest of the SigEp guys.

  “Did you seriously just turn down the President of SigEp?” Brooke says, standing beside me. “He’s fucking hot.”

  “Whatever,” I say, laughing her off.

  “Lou is somehow immune to him,” Caroline says.

  “How? Brett is a catch. He’s nice and he’s smart and he’s going places. And did I mention how hot he is? What more do you want?”

  “It’s not like that. We’re just friends,” I say.

  “I don’t think he sees it that way,” Brooke says.

  “Seriously, we’re just friends. And he’s not the only hot guy on the planet.”

  “Okay. I get it,” Brooke says with a knowing look. “Literally the only reason to turn him down is if you’ve got somebody better lined up. So who is it?”

  “Nobody,” I say, which is pretty much true. I might have someone on my mind, but there’s no way that’s happening.

  “Bullshit,” Brooke says with a smile.

  “Leave her alone,” Caroline says, laughing.

  “Me and Brett? We’re just not a good fit,” I say.

  “So what? Even if you’re not into him—which makes you legally insane, by the way—why wouldn’t you go anyway? Gregg’s dad is loaded. I would kill to party with them in San Francisco tonight.”

  Lead Brett on just to get an invite to a party? That’s fucking low. It’s moments like this that make me question sorority life. But I try to check my thought. Most of the Kappas have loads of integrity. But like any other group of people on the planet, you’re bound to have a few rotten apples. I just didn’t realize until now that Brooke was one of them.

  “Gross, Brooke,” Caroline says.

  “What?” Brooke asks. “I’m just being honest.”

  I decide to try and get rid of her so this stupid conversation will end. “If you want him so bad then go talk to him,” I say. “It sounds like they’ve got an empty spot.”

  “You wouldn’t be mad?”

  “Not even a little bit. Go.”

  Caroline shoots me an eye-roll as Brooke trots off toward Brett. She must be as over Brooke as I am. “Okay, now that she’s gone,” Caroline says quietly. “Tell me the truth. Is there a guy?”

  “Nope,” I say. Which is technically the truth. Two kisses and two rejections officially means there is absolutely not a guy. Besides, there’s no way I’m telling her all the pathetic details. And she’ll want details.

  “For real?” Caroline asks. I swear, she has spidey-sense about this shit sometimes.

  Luckily, they give us the signal that we’re about ready to go back on air.

  “Oh! You need a quick touch-up,” I say. I grab the can of blue hair spray out of my bag and spruce up Caroline’s do, making it pop with vibrant blue for the camera. A little spray gets on the guy behind her. It’s practically nothing, but he gives me a look. I flick him the bird and tuck the can back in my bag. I clench Caroline’s hand and we go back into screaming mode.

  The show is almost over. This is the part where each of the announcers predicts who will win the game. I can feel my whole body tighten in anticipation, hoping they choose MSU across the board.

  First up is Kirk Herbstreet. We watch the giant screen that shows us the live program on air.

  “I gotta say, it was a tight game the last time these two were matched up. MSU had the win last time, but it could have gone either way. I’m going for the Ducks.”

  The Oregon crowd erupts as my stomach sinks.

  “Well, Kirk, we’ve seen both of these teams fight hard this season,” Desmond Howard says. “But Oregon’s team has shown a lot of growth with every game, and I’m just not sure the Mustangs have the offensive strength to beat them again.”

  “It’s that quarterback issue,” Kirk says.

  “It’s that quarterback issue,” Desmond agrees. “After the scandal they faced last year, Sawyer just hasn’t matured into the position the way Mountain State hoped.”

  Anger rises up in my belly like lightning. It’s never bothered me before, but right now I want to race up there and kick this guy’s ass. I mean, fuck. West is a real person, not just some pawn on the field for them to gossip about. I really hope he isn’t listening to this right now. It’s the last thing he needs in his head before the game.

  “So for that reason, I’m voting the Ducks.”

  Another raucous cheer rises from the sea of green and yellow across from us.

  Dammit, dammit, dammit.

  “Well, boys,” Chris Fowler says. “You may not know this but my motherin-law is an MSU alum, and I’m pretty sure she’d hunt me down if I didn’t vote for the Mustangs today.”

  It’s a pity vote, but we don’t care. We’re jumping up and down and screaming.

  Last up is Lee Corso. This is the one that really gets the crowd going.

  He leans down slow to pull out the mascot head that represents his pick. He’s taking forever and it’s agonizing. I’m holding my breath and praying that he comes up with the mustang head. The whole crowd has gone silent waiting to see what he’s going to choose.

  I hear the eruption of the Oregon fans before I see the duck head, but sure enough, Corso puts it on and starts clucking around the stage.

  Three to one against us. Fuck.

  Chapter Twelve

  West

  THERE’S A MOSH PIT IN my stomach.

  “Can’t stop the stampede!” a player shouts in my direction. A herd of voices join in with meaty growls, echoing all the way through the locker room.

  I want to be the guy who’s pumped up and shouting with him. Hell, I want to be the guy who’s getting them charged up. But I just can’t.

  The weight is pressing down on my shoulders, heavy and thick. Every possible scenario of getting out of this game is racing through my mind: fake sick, break my hand, just leave. But I know none of them will work.

  It’s all resting on me. Everyone else on the team is ready, confident and sure of themselves because they were all meant to do this. They aren’t the second string leftovers that got their positions on a technicality. And the weight of that is suffocating.

  I look up as Coach walks into the room.

  “Take a knee,” he says.

  We follow orders. The entire locker room kneels down. There’s a hum of conversation still, though. People telling jokes or trading inspiration.

  “ESPN just told the world they think you’re gonna lose,” he shouts.

  That shuts everybody up real quick.

  “Do you think they’re right?” he asks.

  “No, sir!” the room shouts. I shout it too, but it sounds like a lie coming out of my mouth.

  “I asked, do you think they’re right?”

  “No, sir!” we shout louder.

  “That’s better,” Coach says, pacing the room, taking the time to look every one of his players in the eye while he speaks. “You’ve worked your asses off to get here. Each and every one of you. And you’ve beat this team before. So it’s your job to prove the naysayers wrong,”

  A rumble of male voices breaks open around me.

  “It’s your job to go out on that field and show them exactly what you’re made of.”

  The rumble gets deeper, louder, more feral.

  “It’s your job to beat any motherfucker who tries to tell you you can’t.” Coach Prescott’s voice has become a growl too. His face is red and spit sprays from his lips with every word. He’s in full-on, fired-up Coach mode. “And the way you do that, is to win!”

  The rumble turns into a roar so loud it drowns out everything else.

  “So what are you going to do on that field today, gentlemen?”

  “Win!” we shout.

  “Louder!”

  “Win!”

  “Louder!”

  “WIN!”

  “That’s right. Now huddle up.”

  We grab our helmets and bunch together. I’m pushed into the inside of the pile with Coach
. My teammates make rings around me, each player placing a hand on another player’s back. It feels like they’re looking at me, looking to me to do something, say something. But I can barely breathe, much less think.

  Somebody else starts it instead. I’m not sure who. I only hear the stomp of his feet behind me. Soon, others are running in place too. I join them. Our feet make a thunder like a band of horses.

  “Can’t stop the stampede!” Coach shouts.

  “No!” we say.

  “Can’t stop the stampede!”

  “No!”

  “Can’t stop the stampede!”

  On the third repetition, everyone breaks formation, shouting and growling as we race through the tunnel and out onto the field to a roar from the crowd.

  We’re wild beasts, ready to kill. I can taste the blood in my mouth too. But it’s not my opponent’s. It’s my own.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lou

  MY HEART LURCHES AS I watch the defensive tackle take West down. All my anger melts away as I watch him get slaughtered. Even if he doesn’t want to be with me, he deserves a win out there. And so does my dad.

  Caroline and I are in the second row, right on the fifty yard line, close enough to see the grimace on West’s face through his grill.

  It’s our last possession of the game. We’re down six points and the fourth quarter is almost over. With the lost yardage, it’s third and eleven, and those eleven yards feel more like a mile.

  Dad calls a timeout, and I’m glad. I’m not sure how much more of this West can take without getting injured, and it has me totally on edge.

  “This fucking QB is killing us,” some guy says behind me. “What’s it going to take for Prescott to replace him?”

  I turn around. My anger rises through me and I relish in the familiar heat of it.

  “Shut the fuck up,” I say.

  “Excuse me?”

  “There’s a reason you’re not the coach, dumb ass. You don’t know shit about what’s going on down on that field.”

  “Jesus. Are you blind?” he asks. “This game is a shit show.”

  I’m about to go off on him again when Caroline tugs at my arm. “Lou, don’t.”

  It’s probably the name that gets him to recognize me. “Oh, shit,” he says.

  “How about you show a little respect. He got us this far, didn’t he?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean any insult to your dad,” he says.

  He doesn’t realize that I’m not talking about my dad. I’m talking about West. But I don’t correct him. “Maybe keep your genius thoughts to yourself for the rest of the game then, huh?”

  He nods, but I can tell he’s holding back a flood of words.

  “Come on, Lou,” Caroline nudges. I turn back around and sit down, still fuming.

  West has what it takes. I know he does. He’s just not in the right mental space. He’s been in good positions all night but he just keeps hesitating too long. If he’d just trust himself and go for it, he’d be fine. He doesn’t see how close he is to making it happen.

  I glance down at my dad, at the set of his jaw. It’s clear this is driving him crazy too. Dad’s been trying all season to get West to perform to his potential. If we lose tonight because of him, he’ll take it as a personal failure. I know he will. If only there was some way to hack into West’s mind.

  Then I have an idea.

  “Caroline, give me your poster,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “Quick. We’re running out of time.”

  “Okay.”

  Her poster is done up in sparkly silver and deep blue with a simple “Go Mustangs!” written in large swooping letters. I turn it over to the blank side.

  “Does anybody have a marker?” I ask, but get no answers. “Shit.”

  “I have lipstick,” Caroline says, digging in her purse. She pulls out a tube of Mac’s Russian Red.

  “Perfect. I’ll buy you a new one.”

  I scrawl on the white in giant red letters. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It only has to be big enough to see.

  I stand and hold it in the air. “West!” I shout. “Weston Sawyer!” Just as I start, so does the rain.

  Caroline joins in.

  “West! West!” We’re shouting together, but there’s no way he could possibly hear us in this crowd.

  The huddle breaks. West starts walking toward the field. I will him to look our way as we shout like maniacs.

  “Weston Sawyer!”

  And then, right then, he turns his head just enough to see me. At first, it seems like he won’t register it. But then he stops walking, turns all the way to face me. He’s such a big man, but his eyes look turbulent. I see in them sunken ships and crashed airplanes and blood on battlefields.

  “FUCK YOU, remember?” I shout. “FUCK YOU!”

  “Did you just get his attention to piss him off?” Caroline asks, astounded.

  “Shut up for a second,” I tell her before shouting again. “You’ve got this! Be FEARLESS!”

  He nods but his face doesn’t change much. Most people wouldn’t recognize the difference. But I do. There’s a light in them again. Not a bright one. But there’s a light.

  I turn around to the idiot behind me as West jogs back onto the field. “Want to do something that actually might help us win?”

  “Okay?” he says.

  “Scream with me,” I say. “Fearless! Fearless! Fearless!”

  He joins in and so does Caroline. Caroline even adds two stomps between our chant.

  “Fearless!”

  Stomp-stomp.

  “Fearless!”

  Stomp-stomp.

  “Fearless!”

  Stomp-stomp.

  A few others join in around us, and soon I see Nara looking my way from her cheer position near the field. I gesture to her wildly, and somehow she understands. She gets the other cheerleaders into it too.

  Let it be enough. Please let it be enough.

  Chapter Fourteen

  West

  LOU HAS SOMEHOW GOTTEN THE entire crowd in on her chant. Half of the stadium is roaring with it by the time we go into our huddle.

  “Fearless!”

  Stomp-stomp.

  “Fearless!”

  Stomp-stomp.

  “Fearless!”

  Stomp-stomp.

  I look at Lou’s crazed face, the blue and silver stripes on her cheeks and the sign she’s waving in the air. She’s so free, so completely her.

  Then I look at the scoreboard. We’re down 13-7 and the 4th quarter is ticking away. All the Ducks have to do is keep us where they have us right now. They don’t have to prove themselves. They don’t have to score. They just have to make sure that I keep feeling like shit. Exactly the way I do right now. They’re not beating us, I’m beating us.

  All the self-doubt that’s riddled me all season rises like bile in my throat.

  They never wanted you.

  No one believes you can run this team.

  You’re leading the league in both sacks and interceptions.

  Then I remember what it feels like to let go. What it feels like to let go with her. FUCK YOU! I shout to all my inner demons.

  The only thing you’ve done this season is hold your team back.

  You’re a second string quarterback dressing up in a starter’s uniform, like a kid in his daddy’s suit.

  You’re the last person anyone should trust.

  I see her under me, feel the surge of power I got when I didn’t think, just flipped her on that fucking mat at the track and almost—almost—had her. Maybe it’s time to bring a little bit of old West back. FUCK YOU! I say louder to my subconscious.

  Then the chant flows into my ears and I imagine it working its way down my body—pushing the bile down.

  Fearless, fearless, fearless.

  I let it spread down my throat and through my chest.

  Fearless, fearless.

  It hits my stomach where there’s a riot going on.


  Fearless. Fearless. Fearless.

  I grip the pig skin and look at my team. Their eyes are open and waiting for me to say something. They’re not the sports announcers who deduce that we’ll never be a winning team because of me. They’re not the fans who want my blood if I don’t play to their satisfaction. They’re my brothers and they’re counting on me.

  But even more than that, I need to do this for me. To know that I can control the ugliness inside of me. It’s a part of me, but I don’t have to turn it off completely to survive, or let it be all that I am. I can use it. I can choose to let it make me stronger on my terms.

  “Fearless,” I say out loud.

  “Fearless,” the team says back to me. The chant is loud now, coming from all angles, surrounding us.

  On the sidelines, Coach is calling for Red 52. It’s a running play. It’s safe. We won’t lose the possession, but I doubt our man will be able to make it to the first down. And it basically eliminates me from the play. I pass off the ball and let the team carry me. Again.

  Not anymore.

  I call a long passing play that requires more accuracy than I’ve ever been able to execute in gameplay. “Yosemite 6.” The words come out of my mouth and I can’t quite keep the waver out of it.

  Ben Mayhew furrows his brow and Riley Brulotte is biting his lip. This is crazy as hell.

  “Yosemite 6,” Reggie says, his voice low and stern. He’s been telling me for weeks that I need to take chances and trust my gut. Fearless. Fearless. I keep the words running through my head. I can’t back down now. I can’t let the doubt creep its way back in. I’m holding the reigns on my monsters this time. I’m the one calling the shots.

  “Yosemite 6,” I say again. This time with no lingering uncertainty. I clench my jaw and keep eye contact with the team until one by one they’re nodding their heads along with me.

  This play is simple. I’m supposed to throw the ball in a long, straight spiral down the field to our fastest receiver, Ben Mayhew. He’s supposed to outrun the defender and I’m supposed to out throw them. It’s not complicated. There’s nothing to think about. Except all the ways it can go wrong.

  We line up on the field and I push away everything but the single word that’s driving me.