36. Chapter 36
Chapter 36
Logan
It's the Conference game, football's semi-finals. As focused as I am on the game, Evie's presence in the box is a balm to my spirit. It grounds me. Alongside every technique I've ever learned in sports psych, it manages to keep my pulse in check and my mind sharp.
I'll need every ounce of determination and focus I possess— and more— to make the right plays. We're losing 28-21 and, with only two and a half minutes left, every second, every move, and every breath counts.
I purse my lips, get into position, and chant the familiar countdown to the snap.
The ball is in my hands. My mind goes blank. Big guys run at me and even bigger guys try to stop them. My receivers sprint to their positions, but two defenders get free and aim for me. I run out of the pocket, my eyes still on the field. Everything turns into slow motion. From the corner of my eye, I see new threatening figures coming at me from the other side. I dodge a tackle, run sideways, and brush off another attempt to make me eat turf .
My position is off, and their defense blocks Dom. I'm taking too long, and giving the other team too much of a chance to block our plays and I see it— Saint gets open.
I'm in the middle of adjusting for my throw when I'm pushed from the back. My hips absorb the hit, and my back bone itself re-arranges to keep the angle of my arm.
I whip-throw the ball as I fall. The last thing I see is the ball flying in Saint's direction, before I crash on the grass.
It's not a bad fall, and I'm back on my feet within a couple of seconds, right in time to see Gael Santiago, the incredible player that he is, running for the end zone.
I don't breathe. I don't feel. I only watch him, completely useless now, and pray he gets there. From my position it's not clear, but he keeps running. Without my volition, my arms raise slowly as if they knew what I'm about to see. Like they've responded to something my brain understands but hasn't told my awareness yet and I—
Saint crosses the final line with an acrobatic jump, and every fan and Strike player roars. The thunderous sound reverberates in my chest. Bear is screaming at me, a big smile on his face. We grab each other's shoulders, helmet to helmet, and shake each other as if we're trying to make the other see sense.
Do you get what that means? We're tying the game!
"Make that heart, King!" Leon screams. "Fucking make that heart for Evie again!"
In the heat of the moment, I don't hesitate. I make a heart with my hands and point it in the direction of the box. I imagine Evie laughing and shaking her head at me.
No one doubts Damián will score the extra point and, when he does, the Strike has a fighting chance at defeating the season's favorite and going for the big trophy.
The Pythons have the ball now, and I sit on the bench with a blanket around my shoulders. It's branded with a large silver lightning against blue. People around me comment on my play, but I don't register much. They're excited, praising what I did, but it's not until my QB coach sits down next to me that I understand it's big.
He shows me the replay on his tablet. "That will go onto every highlight reel for this season, King. They'll talk about that play for years."
Everyone pays attention to the field, where our defense struggles to halt their drive. Thirty seconds left. An eternity in football and, if they get close enough for a field goal…
My eyes go back to the tablet. I see myself sidestepping defenders, avoiding tackles, and throwing as I fall.
It's the kind of play I would have studied for hours.
My chest does something strange. A click somewhere between my lungs. Cogs aligning after years of disrupted fit. The invisible stone that kept things slightly off is gone, and the whole system is finding a new way to run. After years waiting for an opportunity to redeem myself, there's a film to prove what I'm capable of.
I got the team that fighting chance. Maybe that's plenty. Not everything but perhaps… enough.
My chest rises and falls as I process what this may mean.
My coach squeezes my shoulder. "They'll try for a field goal. It's what I would do. But even if they win the game, Logan— no one can take away that play from you."
The Pythons got the field goal and the game. The Strike is eliminated, and the mood in the locker room is somber.
Yet there's a thread of optimism in the air.
Coach Clark is at the center of the space, and all the other players and I surround him. He's been naming every single person who put on cleats and stepped on the field today, and reminding them of the amazing things they did for the team.
I listen to all the wonderful, encouraging words he has for everyone. I believe them all. This is the team I waited for my whole life, and together we will do incredible things.
"Finally, Logan King."
I frown. My arms are crossed.
Coach Clark is a man in his late forties, with white skin wrinkled by spending his days outside. Dark brown hair and brown, piercing eyes. He always looks like he's planning something and, as head coach of the Strike, he probably is.
He directs those sharp eyes my way. "People are calling you the new king of football, but they don't know what that really means. Half of them use it because of your last name, and the other half do it to compare you with your father. They haven't seen what I have seen at the Thunderdome, or know the way you think about the game— but today everyone got a taste of it."
He nods. I mirror him.
"Ever since I saw you playing for your college team," he continues, "I knew you were destined to be one of the best. Regardless of anything else, plays like yours today are a sign of greatness. What you bring into the game is something many of us seek our whole coaching careers and never find. Everyone in the team is ecstatic to have you, and be a part of what makes you a king in the game."
My heart beats fast. Words like the ones still echoing in the locker room are exactly what I've wanted for years.
No one else has responded to Coach Clark, so I don't either. The things I want to say get trapped at a dam in my throat— thank yous and promises for an even better year next time.
Clark talks to the rest of the room again. "Be disappointed that we lost today but don't let it fool you. No one thought we'd make it to the playoffs yet here you are. You turned every prediction on its head and, with what I saw today out there? No one will stop us now. "
A few people applaud. I study the crowd. They're disappointed, all right, but no one is crushed.
We may not have won the ultimate prize, but we achieved every other goal we had.
"Be sorry for yourselves for a few hours," Clark adds. "Go to your person and let them make it better. But when we come back to prep for the next season, know we will do it all over again— but we'll end up with a ring next time."
"Hell yeah!" A few people yell.
"This was the year of the warning for everyone else." Clark's face is serious. He means this. "Now all eyes are on us— the underdog who was supposed to be out of the playoff run months ago, but made it to the semi-finals! We'll show them we have what it takes."
More people exclaim their agreement. A shift in my chest tells me this moment is getting engraved there.
"Hear the thunder, the Strike is here!" Clark yells, and we all join him.
The group breaks into hugs and strong pats on each other's shoulders. We promise we'll get the ring next time. I tell them all that I want at least three.
I find the guys I've gotten close to. I'm about to hug Bear when someone grabs me and pulls me into her arms. I know it's Evie before I feel her soft body against mine, and I pull her tight.
"You're amazing, Logan," she says to my ear. "You're incredible. That was electric. How did you do that?"
I take a deep breath, finding lavender among the myriad smells of a locker room after a game.
Her scent is like alchemy to my mind. Every cog and wheel that make up my inner mechanisms run with smooth precision. All friction is gone. The past hour has had highs and lows, but Evie's warmth next to me is the balm to oil the machinery inside. To remind me that I may not have gotten everything I want out of my career yet, but my first year with the Strike has given me more than I imagined I'd ever have .
Her arms are a vise around my neck. "I will never forget seeing that live from the box. You should have heard the screaming!"
I squeeze her tighter. "Did you scream?"
She leans back to give me a radiant look. "The loudest."
I take a deep breath again. Evie is my person, reminding me I'll get everything I want. With her, I have what I didn't know I need.
I'm considering kissing her right there in front of everyone, when she lets go of me like nothing happened.
"On professional terms," she says, her voice suddenly even, "the TV crew is waiting outside for an interview. I'll wait for you with them."
She turns, gives everyone a big hug, and leaves, her ponytail swinging from side to side. On the way out, my last name stands out on her back. The four blocky letters make my heart stutter.
The guys and I form a circle. They all watch me with varied degrees of suspicion and playfulness.
My brow furrows low. "Thank you for everything. Getting to be a team with people like you all is what I've wanted for years. I promise I won't disappoint you next season."
Bear's eyes narrow. "That started strong, but what is that about disappointing us?"
Damián smirks. "I don't think you understand what you've done for us— with us— this year. This game . We've wanted a quarterback like you for years."
Saint's dimples make an appearance. "And a friend with the kind of seriousness to ground us will only make us stronger."
I raise an eyebrow. "All I'm saying is I'll do better."
"Do more of the same," Bear says. "The rest is the magic of what happens in the field."
My team's— my friends' words of encouragement lighten my chest further. Warmth spreads through me, that I have them to share this moment with and uplift each other like this .
"We'll make magic," I agree.
"No one doubts it." Dom cocks his head. "Especially after today. I hope you're not doubting it either."
I shake my head. "I don't doubt it. I'll make sure to prove it."
"Turn that frown upside down, Logan," Damián insists. "Just the one time."
"Besides," Saint adds, "you got the girl! Isn't that the real prize?"
That steals my attention from the game and football and everything else.
I squint at the pass catcher with the boyish smile. "Explain."
They laugh. All I do is frown harder. If they know something I don't, then I want it. I need anything that might help me figure out this thing with Evie, so I may play my cards right.
Bear crosses his big, tattooed arms. "You think we don't know about you and Evie?"
I open my mouth but don't get to say anything.
"Don't bother denying it," Damián says. "Even if we don't know exactly what you two have gotten up to behind the scenes, what we've seen is enough. There's something there."
"She's wearing your jersey to games, for fuck’s sake," Saint adds.
"She hugs you and looks at you like she doesn't look at anyone else." Dom's eyes are serious. "I had someone like that— someone I would look at the way you look at Evie, someone to hug like that. I let her go. Don't make the same mistake with Evie."
I shift from foot to foot, arms crossed. It feels wrong to deny what I feel for Evie, or to lie to my friends. And still…
"If you guys were correct—" I try. "What do you propose I do? She's… unsure. She doesn't let people in easily."
Bear puts a large hand on my shoulder. "And yet she let you in. I'd say you keep doing what you've been doing, yes?"
"Tell me." Saint puts his hand on my other shoulder. "Are you two together?"
I push my lips to the side. "Something like that. "
"It's not about labels," Saint insists. "Are you, or are you not together?"
I grind my teeth. "I am with her. I don't know if she's with me. If that makes sense."
"It doesn't," Damián says. "All it means is you haven't had the right conversation."
"Are you in love with Evie?" Dom asks.
They stare at me. The answer bubbles up from my chest, a feeling of knowing that's new and yet so familiar…
I may not have ever been in love before, and this grew too slowly to recognize it as it happened, but the past few months have changed the script of what I wanted out of life.
Every part of it includes Evie now.
"Don't tell us first what you feel." Bear squeezes my trap muscle, hard.
I wince. It's a gesture of friendship and a threat.
Bear smiles. "That's something you should reserve for her, right?"
The scar on his lip turns white.
"Mmmh," I growl. "You really have to stop springing interventions on me."
I fail to intimidate them and they laugh. A small smile tilts my lips because, as much as I complain, I'm thankful that I have them all.
These are the bonds I dreamed of, when I first stepped onto a football field.
With them, I finally got what I sought.