Chapter 3
Taylor
I explode from the slot, setting a fake block and then cutting off the fake into the space beneath the zone.
My QB sees me on his first check and lets it fly.
It hits me square in the gut as I’m on the run.
In a routine motion my body is trained to do, I fold it into me and turn up field.
The linebacker gets a bead on me, but I spin away, just missing the tackle.
I dodge the safety and get four more yards before the corner hits me.
He’s smaller than me, but strong. His body hangs off of mine, arms locked, tugging me down.
In two strides, I’m on the ground, but I made the first down.
Hallelujah.
We can win by a field goal, at least, if we don’t fuck it up.
Next play, they show blitz. I take the block from the linebacker. A third-year all-star, he hits like a ton of bricks. I grunt, sidestepping with him to keep him from rolling around me to get to the quarterback. I’m not quite quick enough.
No!
We can’t miss this chance for points. I grab at his jersey as he goes by.
The whistle blows.
“Holding, number eighty-five, offense. Ten yards. Repeat first down,” the ref barks through his lapel microphone.
Fuuuuuuck!
I just erased all the work I did to get us here.
I shake my head. How did I let that squirrely little fucker get by me?
When we line up again, I make the cut, but Tyler, our quarterback, sails it long and out of bounds.
Next down we run it up the middle. We gain five yards, thank goodness.
A field goal will put us back on the table with just a few more yards to go.
I line up on the opposite side for the next play. Tyler calls a shift. I circle back, trotting off to the other side and the ball is snapped. I take off. This route is a deep beeline. All it requires is speed and force.
I look over my shoulder when the cut curls around. The ball is humming.
Shit.
I kick hard, snorting, pushing myself to my limits.
I reach out when I get there, the ball at my fingertips.
I grab the end, hoping the tacky on my gloves will help it stick.
When it stops in my hand, I pull it in a second before I’m hit from both sides.
I buckle and go down, but my clench keeps the ball safe in my arms.
The whistle blows. I look up. I gained twenty yards.
Fuck yeah!
I give the ball to the ref with a grin and trot off the field as the field goal unit comes on.
When the ball soars through the uprights, the crowd goes wild.
My teammates cheer, bump chests, and dance, making a tugging feeling warm in my chest. I would have once called it nostalgia.
Like the pull of childhood pleasures. Now, it’s the future causing my chest to tighten.
How many more of these moments will I get?
After my shower, I trudge to the press room.
I’ve never enjoyed press conferences, but these past two years have been unbearable.
Every single time it’s the same question…
When are you going to retire? Even though we won and I made a great play, I still wouldn’t count on them to not pose the question.
I settle in my chair, the clusterfuck of mics, both auditory and journalistic, in front of me.
The first question comes from Steve with Sports Network. “Great game, Taylor. That last play was something special.”
I smile. This is a welcome start.
“But that penalty a few plays prior, when the linebacker got around you. Was that a blown assignment or…?”
My smile evaporates. “Why don’t you tell me? I’m sure you have an opinion, Steve. You always do.”
Steve’s disingenuous smile grows. Fucker. Never played a day in his life. I’d love to wipe the smile off his face. “I’m just wondering if it’s tough to keep up with the rookies at your age.”
“Well,” I smile sweetly, “we aren’t all weaklings who have to prey on others’ alleged weaknesses in order to feed ourselves. Some of us go to war and accept we’ll take casualties. Including ourselves.”
He reddens, sitting down.
I eye the others, glaring. “Anyone else?” The room is quiet.
“That’s what I thought. If one more person brings up retirement…
in any way, shape, or form, that will be the last interview they do with me.
Ever. I’ve been very clear. I’m playing this season.
Fully. Next season is a question mark, like it has been since year one. ”
I get up and walk out, disgusted. Fuckers. What the hell would they know about retirement? They can do their jobs until they die at their laptops. I, on the other hand, have to figure out who I’m going to be when I grow up. Again.
Thoughts of Harper drift through my mind. I wish I could talk to her. Not that I want to discuss retirement with her. Or anyone. I can’t believe I brought it up at her event. It would just be nice to have her near. To joke with her. Get my mind off things.
I settle for texting her and trying out this possible new career path.
Me: Hey Harps. Wanna get your training on?
Harper: Hey Taylor. Great game. I’d have assumed you’d be buried in an ice bath right now, not texting me. But since you asked, I’d love to work out with you.