55. Connor
CONNOR
The next two days fly by, as Eden and I play house. I don’t have practice, since the Waves are on the road, and she’s content to relax, for once. New Year’s Day is quiet. Well, except for when I have her blindfolded, tied to the four posts of the bed, and we play again with her present.
She’s not quiet, then.
The night after is the Waves game, and we make the drive to Grace’s house after a leisurely day. Avery and Rori are there, too, and we all lock in for the first half.
A fast touchdown between Johnson and Bailey, the Waves’ other star wide receiver, is followed by a kickoff return for another six points two possessions later. By the time half-time hits, the Waves are leading 17–3.
“I’m going to make us some popcorn,” I say to Grace a few minutes after the third quarter opens with another touchdown. Up 24–3, almost certainly getting that bye week, I feel comfortable stepping away.
“Yum,” Avery says. “I could eat some too.”
“Alright, on it.”
“Can you bring me a seltzer?” my sister asks.
“Me as well?” Rori requests.
Jesus. I’ll need a notepad soon if I stay here taking requests. “Be right back.”
Like everything else in Johnson and Grace’s house, the kitchen is absurdly large. There are about five times the number of cabinets as my apartment. Eventually I find the popcorn and get it going.
While it’s heating up, I grab seltzers for all four of the women, just in case.
“Here you are, ladies,” I say as I walk back into the room.
“One for each of us?” Avery says. “Look at his manners.”
“Southern boy,” Eden says under her breath, and we share an amused look.
“Did anything happen in the game while I was gone?”
Grace answers my question. “Not really. Jeremy’s about to try for a field goal.”
Which is only going to pull the Waves further ahead. “Alright, back to the kitchen I go. Popcorn should be ready soon.”
There’s still thirty seconds left when I check on it, crackling in the microwave.
“Oh crap,” Eden calls out anxiously from Johnson’s TV room.
I rush in. “What is it?”
Grace turns to me. “One of the rushers had a late hit on Jeremy. It looks like he hurt his ankle.”
I watch the replay of the extra point, and the video is ugly, with Jeremy’s leg going in a different direction than his ankle and foot. When they go back to real time, he’s getting helped off the field, his arms around two trainers’ shoulders, hopping along on his good leg.
“Shit, that’s not good.” I blurt out.
“Well, wait, you’re here?” Rori says. “There’s a whole quarter left. What do they do if they need a kicker?”
“Our punter Ernie will handle those kicks. He’s the emergency backup,” I explain, and then Eden’s face lights up with understanding.
“And you’re the real backup. So for the next game…”
“I would theoretically start.”
“Holy crap!” Grace says. “Not that we want him injured.”
We all stay quiet for a moment as the significance of what happened settles.
Though I purposely included the word “theoretically.” If Jeremy is too injured for the next game, the Waves could sign me to the official roster—or they could look for an experienced kicker who’s not on a team currently, but a known quantity.
“Either way, let’s watch the rest of the game,” Grace says, recentering our focus.
Eden gives me a reassuring smile, like I might be drowning in my thoughts.
Only one question is dominating my mind: am I finally going to get my shot?
Eden tries to keep me distracted when we get home, but it’s a bit of a lost cause.
I don’t get the answer to the question I’m dwelling on until Del calls me the next morning.
“Hey.” I try not to sound excited—Jeremy’s injury is not something to celebrate.
“Hey. So, I won’t beat around the bush. Jeremy’s got a high ankle sprain, and he’s out six to eight weeks.”
Damn. “Yeah, it looked bad.”
Six to eight weeks covers the Super Bowl, if we make it. What does this mean for me? It feels like my chest is in my throat.
Del delivers the answer. “We’re going to offer you a roster spot. It’s a week-by-week call-up, starting with the New Jersey game next weekend.”
I silently pump my fist. Eden sees the movement and stands up, hand covering her mouth. She knows.
“Thanks, Del, I’m good to step in.”
He chuckles. “I’m sure you are.”
“Do I need to come to the facility today?”
“First, we’ll email you the contract if you want your agent and lawyer to look at it. It’s standard language. You’ll make the league minimum.”
“Sure, okay.”
“Good. Your agent can talk to the GM’s office if there are any questions. Then I’d like to meet with you today, go over a few things, and see if you and Ernie can hook up for some practice.”
Since it’s Friday, our regular team practices won’t resume until Monday otherwise. “I can definitely come in.” My head is brimming with questions too.
“There’s one more thing you should know, Connor. I won’t lie, some people in the organization want to find a free-agent veteran to carry us for the playoffs. I vouched for you, and since we’ve already secured the bye, we all agreed to give you a shot for this last regular season game.”
He doesn’t continue to the next obvious conclusion, but I can read between the lines. If I fuck up during the next game, I’m out.
“I won’t let you down, Del. I promise.” My words are loaded with particular meaning given recent events.
“I know you won’t.”
The contract gets sorted quickly—it’s indeed standard language, per Aiden, who Landon connected me with after I made the practice team. I’m ecstatic at the almost $50,000 weekly paycheck and opportunity, so we don’t screw around with trying for changes.
Then it’s time to focus on slotting into the starting role.
Once they restart on Monday, the full team practices go smoothly.
Having watched Jeremy for almost the entire season, I settle into a flow that mirrors his.
Functionally, it’s not significantly different from when I was on the practice squad, except now I get a lot more reps and play from the beginning.
Finally, it’s time to go. My first game starting, my first road trip.
When we land at Newark, I can’t help but think about the countless times I’ve gone on this exact flight, Orlando to New Jersey.
Only before, it was to head back to school after a break.
This time, it’s as the starting kicker of an NFL team.
“We don’t walk through the normal airport in Newark, right?” I ask Rawley quietly once we’re seated on the plane. I know it’s a “dumb question,” and he’s the only one I’m comfortable asking.
He shakes his head. “Nah, there’s a private section we use.” He narrows his eyes. “You holding onto any other questions? I forgot you’re basically a rookie today, without the benefit of a bunch of others heading to their first game too.”
I wrack my brain. “Not yet, but I’m sure some will come.”
Part of it turns out that I don’t know what I don’t know. Rawley and Ernie tag team to quietly give me info as I settle into the hotel: dinner options, how getting to the stadium on game day works, what we’re allowed to do for entertainment tonight.
Not that I want to do anything crazy. After hanging with a bunch of the offense players, including Johnson and Rawley, for a movie, I head back to my room and text with Eden.
CONNOR: Hey beauty, back in my room.
EDEN: Ahhhh, wish I could be there. How are you feeling?
CONNOR: NGL, nervous.
EDEN: You’re gonna be great.
CONNOR: Hope so.
EDEN: Want to FaceTime and watch a show together until you fall asleep?
She’s perfect. It’s exactly what I needed. I end up picking a world history documentary on one of the educational streaming channels, and she doesn’t even protest.
Instead, she chats away with me, debating how accurately they portray certain events.
When I wake up, the phone is by my side, and there’s already a message waiting.
EDEN: You fell asleep. I’m here if you want to talk in the morning!
I put a heart on the message and write back after I’m cleaned up.
CONNOR: I’m off to breakfast. More after the game :)
It feels like I’m out of my body all morning. I get food, then gather my stuff for the team bus trip to the New Jersey stadium. It’s surreal.
I attempt to tamp down my anxiousness during the bus ride.
You got this, Connor. Same old ball going in the same old uprights as you’ve done a million times.
But I can’t shake my nerves. When we step out onto the field for warm-ups, it doesn’t help that the stadium is foreign to me.
The consistency of the grass is different from in Orlando. The backdrop view behind the uprights is unfamiliar, distracting. 80,000 seats around me, about to be filled with hostile fans.
Del puts his hand on my shoulder. “Feeling overwhelmed?” He must catch that I’m thrown off.
“More out of rhythm, and uncomfortable.”
He nods. “Just kick the ball, over and over. Kick until you settle.”
“Good idea.”
He claps my back. “Let’s do the standard warm-up.”
I head out to my starting position while he acts as my holder.
“HUT!” he yells to get the mock play going.
I take my steps—one, two, three—and kick the ball. It flies through the uprights, a little to the left but still good by a strong margin.
“Again,” he says. It transports me back to the first days he was teaching me at the Tolliver field.
Look at how far you’ve come.
Once I’m in the right yard line, he shouts, “HUT.” I make contact, and the ball sails through the center of the uprights.
“Again.” Another make. “This time, go back ten yards.” Make. “Again.” Make.
My muscle memory kicks in, and the worries fade.
Just you, the ball, and uprights, once again.
“Thank you,” I say to him as we run back to the locker room.
“That’s what warm-ups are for, right? You got this.”