by Claire Adams
When I got back to the dorm, there was a note taped to my door.
Jess let me in—I’d hoped you were here. Call me, please?
It was signed in Zack’s messy scrawl. I ripped it off my door and went in, closing myself into my lonely room and deciding that I’d rather just curl up and go to sleep rather than risk running into him at the dining hall. I turned off the lights and tried not to think about the times that Zack and I had been together, or the sound of his voice, or the way that he seemed so interested in being with me. He would give up soon enough and maybe later—if I hadn’t ruined things for good—I could explain to him that I had just needed space, and wanted him to have the ability to focus on the game. Even if he couldn’t forgive me for that, I needed to be able to tell him. Maybe, I thought with a mixture of dread and hope, he would just forget about me completely, and move on with his life. The frat he belonged to must be having parties; there would be plenty of girls all around him vying for his attention, more than happy to take his mind off of me.
The next morning, I woke up with my stomach in knots, twisting in on itself from hunger. I realized that I had left my phone turned off all night and dug it out of my bag, turning it on. At least I hadn’t managed to oversleep. As my phone loaded up, I saw the flash of two more messages and a voicemail—all of them from Zack.
Look, just tell me you’re okay. I can’t find you and your roommate won’t tell me where you are. The second one read: If I did something wrong you should at least give me a chance to apologize.
Steeling myself, I opened up the voicemail he’d left me. It was three minutes long. “Evie, come on, I know you’re avoiding me. I just want to know why. My phone is showing all the texts are delivered—and I saw you read most of them. What’s going on between us? I already told you: no more public spectacles. I promise. Just give me a chance to figure out what I did wrong and how I can make it right.”
My eyes stung as I deleted the message, unable to listen to it all, and took a deep breath. I didn’t think he’d try to contact me again after that. At least I hoped not. I just hoped that once everything was said and done, I’d have some kind of a chance to explain to him why. But then, I thought, I didn’t even fully understand why I was doing it myself.
It would have been bad enough to handle Zack’s texts if I was able to keep my reaction purely emotional; it bothered me to hurt him—and I definitely was—but the sex I knew I was missing out on bothered me almost as much. I had gotten so used to not getting any; even before I started college, I had cut myself off from sex, having too much to deal with after my mom died. Even more to the point I didn’t even particularly want to date anyone after—not just because I was wrecked by having my biggest support and cheerleader gone from my life, but because I had discovered that guys were just a bunch of trouble.
But from the first time Zack and I had made out, I felt the juices flowing in my veins again. When we’d had sex on the couch at his frat, I’d been easy prey—it wouldn’t have been that difficult even for Zack to convince me to head to his bedroom at the frat house during the party. Now that it had happened again I was consumed with the memory of how good he’d become, of how great it felt to have him touching me, tasting me. I shivered in class as my brain—against my will—reminded me of how great Zack’s cock had felt deep inside me, brushing against my inner walls, filling me up. I couldn’t focus on my work the way I used to be able to easily; I was distracted, having to take breaks to get myself off to the thought of Zack in my bed again, going down on me or working me with his fingers, thrusting into me, rocking his hips against mine until I came. I didn’t tell Jess about it, but I was almost afraid of how intensely I wanted sex—how much I wanted to just give in and call Zack, tell him to come over and screw my brains out.
I told myself that it would pass—that it had always passed before—but I was on fire constantly, hoping and dreading that I would run into Zack. If I just saw him, I knew I’d end up throwing myself at him, begging him to forgive me and find us somewhere private where we could be together. I could only grit my teeth and hope that it would pass in time, that I would be able to get back together with Zack once the football season ended and I could be with him without distracting him. It occurred to me more than once that it was—for me at least—more distracting to be separated from him than it was to be with him. But I had to stick with what I had decided. Even if it was torturing me slowly every day.
****
I had to miss the staff meeting for the newspaper; I told Professor Grant in advance and also emailed Lisa that I couldn’t be there because of a class. They both told me that it was a perfectly valid excuse, and Lisa said that I could drop by her office in the student union after class to get my assignment from her. I hurried over to the student union as soon as the professor let us out of class, and made my way to Lisa’s office, still drinking the last of the coffee I’d brought for my late class and ready to take notes on the assignment she had for me.
“Hey, come on in,” Lisa said, gesturing to the chair on the other side of her desk. “I wanted to tell you we all really loved your piece on the last game. The interview was great—you really got Zack to open up!” My cheeks burned with a blush but I didn’t say anything, struggling to keep my composure. I nodded, not quite trusting my voice. “In fact, we didn’t have to do much editing to it at all! Good work.”
“Thanks—that means a lot.” I took a deep breath. “So what have you got me on for next week, Chief?”
Lisa grinned. “Since you did so well on the game last time, I figured you were a natural to cover the final game of the season. This time, though, we want you to get an interview with Coach Bullden, about our prospects for the nationals, that sort of thing.”
I nodded quickly. The very last thing I wanted in the world was to have to go to another football game and watch Zack. But I couldn’t exactly tell Lisa that the reason I’d been able to get Zack to open up to me was because he and I had a history together—a history that I was risking by staying away from him. Besides, since I couldn’t make the meeting, there probably weren’t any other assignments open anymore, and I wanted to make sure I was in the campus paper as many times as I could be.
Lisa gave me the details and asked me to do some research on my own about the coach—his career, his strategies, the kind of material that would make a good profile on the man to accompany the coverage of the final game of the season and the one that would determine our position in the national level. I took notes, trying to calm myself. I wouldn’t have to even talk to Zack, I told myself over and over again. I would just ignore him—as much as you can ignore the quarterback when it came to a major football game. I would cover the game, talk to the coach, and have done with it. If I had any luck at all, Zack would just head straight for the showers after the game and I could get my interview without any fuss or even any attempt from him to talk to me—he might not even know I was there until the article came out.
CHAPTER THREE
Jess had a date for the night of the game—away from campus, with a guy she had met in Women’s Studies. So I went to the stadium all on my own. I had my campus newspaper ticket and my press pass that would allow me to get onto the field after the game, and I told myself that I would be just fine on my own, that it didn’t matter; after all, when I’d gone the last time, Jess had left when I went out onto the field to talk to Zack. With my notebook and camera, I’d be left to my own devices, more or less, by the people seated with me.
I thought about what I should wear. Jess, I know, would have suggested that I dress up for the event—wear something cute, something just a little sexy. Especially since she would assume that I would be waiting for Zack at the end of the game. On the other hand, the very last thing that I wanted was to look as though I was interested in flirting. I decided to dress as plainly as possible; the main benefit to that was also that it would at least be comfortable—but I also didn’t want to look like a scruffy, unprofessional college kid. Not when I ha
d to interview the head coach. I put on my least-ratty pair of jeans and a medium-brown cardigan over a matching camisole. I put my hair in a bun, smoothed back but not overdone. I kept my face mostly clean, just a little powder and lip tint to make me look polished. It was a relief to be going to a game without having to worry about if I would smear my eye makeup or my lipstick. I could focus entirely on the game; I’d be practically invisible.
The stadium was absolutely packed with people—as it should be, considering it was the last game of the season, with some of the highest stakes. But the team we were playing against wasn’t huge competition—they were ranked third or fourth overall, with more losses than the team we’d been up against the last game. It should have been a decent game, but overall the chances of us winning were pretty good.
I grabbed pictures of the packed stands, of the marching bands on either side warming up the audiences. I tried to figure out what my angle for the article would be; after all, it wasn’t going to be a massive struggle like it had been for the team they were up against the previous week. There was no real rivalry between our school and the one we were playing. I couldn’t focus on Zack—because I already had in the previous article, and because I frankly didn’t think I could handle it. I decided that I would—without Jess’ flirting to distract me—look at the game as a way to show off my knowledge of strategy and tactics in football.
Part of my research on the coach had been on football strategy in general. Of course, the skill of individual players came into play with the game—it was unavoidable. And if you had the best possible players in all positions, you didn’t have to worry that much about strategy. But knowing that another team had a particular weakness on the defense, or a lag in their offense because of certain players, could mean the difference between win and loss. I had looked over Coach Bullden’s usual strategies and tactics, the way he put his players to the best possible use. I’d also done a little bit of digging on the strategies of the coach that Bullden would be up against.
I was starting to feel more than a little bit fidgety as the bands played on, and the crowd of people continued chanting, watching the cheerleaders on the sidelines performing. I just wanted to get the game over with; it would be a definitive win, and then I would get my interview and have a rest from the pounding of my heart.
The opposing team took the field first, coming out of the lockers with a roar. They may not have been the best team in the division, but they looked energetic, in their white, black, and gold jerseys. They warmed up on the field, garnering plenty of cheers from their fans in the stands. They were clearly hungry to prove themselves—they were up against the number one team in the division, which should have daunted them, but it would be a great opportunity if they could manage to score a few times against us; at least if they put on a good game, they could lose with dignity. They went back to their sidelines, jumping up and down, smacking themselves, and I grabbed a few more pictures of them.
Our team finally took the field with a burst of enthusiastic musical noise from the marching band, running out of the locker rooms and basking in the cheers of the fuller section of the stadium that belonged to the home team. I tried not to look for Zack while I snapped pictures of the team warming up and showing off. The team looked confident, as they should; they had a winning record, they were on their way to a bowl game, and they were almost certain to win that night’s game. I thought, with a sudden sense of foreboding, that I hoped they wouldn’t take it too easy on the other team—even if they were the best team in the division, they couldn’t afford to become overconfident.
As the game started, it was difficult for me to try and piece together just what the problem was; the teams had both taken the field full of energy and looking confident in themselves. But from the first play, I was shocked at how disorganized our team was. Zack went down in a tackle right away. I watched in concern, but he got up onto his feet and shouted something, and then they were onto the next play. The other team seemed to sense something different in our team; they took advantage, rapidly getting their first touchdown early in the first quarter and then managing somehow to keep our offensive line at bay through most of the rest of the period. I shook my head, and I wasn’t alone; the people in the stands next to me were murmuring amongst themselves between plays, wondering out loud what was wrong with Zack.
Someone said that they thought the pressure must be getting to him, but I didn’t think it was likely; after all, the team they were up against had lost several games. If Zack was going to crack under pressure, it would have been the previous game, where we had been up against our greatest competition for the top spot. But it was hard not to argue that something was clearly wrong; we were down by two touchdowns heading into the second quarter, and didn’t manage to even the score by halftime. Zack’s plays were all over the place—he was getting instructions from the coach, but I couldn’t imagine that he was doing what he was told, at least not exactly. The other team became more and more confident of their possibility for a win, driving us back again and again, defending their end of the field more aggressively than I could have imagined.
I watched the halftime show with my mind full of questions. What was going on? Our team was much better than this, and a win was almost a foregone conclusion going into the game. How could we still be lagging behind by a touchdown going into the second half? I had taken notes throughout the first part of the game, but even with my notations on the different plays I could see, I couldn’t understand just how it was that Zack was consistently missing his passes, or being tackled before he could make the handoff. He was obviously distracted—he didn’t have his entire brain on the game. But surely, I thought, that couldn’t be the only thing going on? It was just as much the other members of the team that would be to blame, wouldn’t it? Maybe they were overconfident, and Zack was distracted.
The team tried to rally in the second half, but it was an uphill battle. A wave of relief moved across the stands when we finally managed to close the gap at the bottom of the third quarter, getting a miraculous touchdown when the other team’s defense left a gap—pure chance. I was shaking my head, grabbing pictures where I could, trying to understand what was going on in front of me. It was as unlike the previous two games I’d gone to as anything could possibly be, and I dreaded having to interview the coach if we lost—he would be pissed, I knew.
My heart was in my throat throughout the fourth quarter. Both teams—ours and the other team—were playing their hearts out, trying to break the tie. The clock continued its downward count, and it seemed as though it might go into overtime—the disorganization of the first half was still present, but not as glaring, and it seemed like the team was trying to just keep Zack from being tackled long enough to get a pass. The line of scrimmage moved from one end of the field to the other, back and forth; it was exciting but dreadful at the same time, and I knew that by the time I got back to my dorm—even if everything else went the right way for the rest of the night—I would be exhausted from the stress of the game. There was a near moment when Zack went down, thrown to the ground by an overzealous offensive lineman, when he laid there for a long time after the whistle was blown. My heart pounded in my chest—what if he was injured? It wouldn’t just mean the loss of the game. In my mind I chanted at him to get up, get up, get up. I couldn’t stand the thought of him being seriously injured, even if I had cut him out of my life for the duration of the season.
But then he got to his feet and shook it off, and I sighed with relief. Everyone in the stands was screaming, shouting, cheering, trying to get the team to a final touchdown by any means they possibly could. Of course, it would be exciting if the game went into overtime—but if we could get a definitive win before the clock ran out, that would be much better. I was clenching my fists as the end of regulation time came closer and closer, rocking on the balls of my feet, staying quiet but wishing I could make myself scream and shout to get rid of the nervous energy that filled me.
With only
a couple of minutes left on the clock, the final play of the game started. Zack handed off the ball successfully just before being tackled—and the player he’d handed it to managed to dodge and evade, spinning away from the group that had gone straight for the QB and exploding into a desperate full-pelt run. I stared at the field, without even the presence of mind to take the pictures I knew would be the most dramatic of the game, as the clock came to the last minute of regulation time. Everyone was silent—all the screaming and shouting down to nothing, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife—until the instant right after the player got to the touchdown line, with just seconds to spare. After a brief sigh of relief, everyone in the stands on our side erupted in an enormous, shrieking, shouting cheer.
I sank down onto my seat with relief, closing my eyes and breathing as slowly as I could. At the very last, we’d managed to eke out a win—that would make it easier to interview the coach in a few minutes, once everyone was done with the post-game celebration and started to clear the stadium. Zack was uninjured, and the team would go on to Nationals. The cheering went on and on; I looked up to see that the team was cavorting about the sidelines, congratulating themselves on the narrow victory they had managed to eke out in the very last moments of the game. A few of the players grabbed up cheerleaders and got kisses or hugs from them—or simply lifted them up into the air. I smiled to myself; I could easily understand their excitement.
After several moments, though, people in the stands realized that there were better things to do. It was chilly out and there were parties to go to, other celebrations with free or at least cheap liquor. As the people started to slowly trickle out of the stands, the band played on, the players kept to the field, and I tried to decide if it was worth the risk of confronting Zack to get my interview without missing the coach. I was sure that in spite of the team’s apparent desire to keep jumping, running, and shouting, they’d be corralled into the locker room soon—and the coach would follow, to congratulate them and to critique their performance. I needed to get out onto the field before Coach Bullden left. I looked around and spotted Zack talking to some of the other members of his team; I hoped that if I could just slip out onto the field and pull the head coach aside, he might not even notice me at all.
