Chapter 7
TATUM
I loved it when we played against an opponent that matched our energy.
Some people preferred the blowout game, where you didn’t have to worry about any back-and-forth, do-or-die type of energy, but personally I thrived on it.
Had it been a shaky season that would’ve made a less talented team a more desirable opponent?
Sure, but this was championship-level football, so it wasn’t going to come easy.
Hadn’t come easy.
We’d barely managed to make it this far, and now we were at a moment of truth.
The Blackwood Behemoths were very appropriately named.
Not just because of the sizes of their players, it was their reputation, their skill level, the competitive nature they brought to the field. Even in a good season for the Kings, the Behemoths were one of our most challenging opponents.
And this time around, they had a little vendetta.
I loved shit like that, too.
Aside from their genuine skill—creative defensive schemes, speed rushing, stamina, all that keeping me on my toes—they were also doing some dirty shit. Trying to pull off late hits on the quarterback, grabbing face masks, holding, egregious shit talking… nothing really new, but certainly notable for a team that was usually just all about playing some quality football.
I knew what it was about, though.
Montgomery Rudolph had been trying me for the last… shit, however long we’d been out here playing. At first, I wasn’t sure why he kept at me. I had a solid fifty pounds on him, so when it came to a head-to-head thing, he wasn’t getting past me.
He wasn’t trying to, though.
He was trying to exhaust me.
And I couldn’t front, it was working.
Where I outmatched him in size and strength, he made up for it in speed and agility, making me have to work hard to keep him away from my quarterback. That was my job no matter who we were playing, but it was a specific strong suit for the Behemoths, which meant I really had to be on my shit.
The noise from the crowd was deafening, so loud that I couldn’t actually make out their chants, but I didn’t need to.I tuned them out as I took my place at the line of scrimmage, body tense, mind alert, eyes taking it all in, ready to spring into action as soon as the snap happened.
Monty was directly across from me.
What are you about to do?
I knew what our play was. Trent was throwing it to Rut, to get it down the field and get some momentum going. The Behemoths’ goal was going to be disrupting that pass.
Monty, specifically, would most likely be going for a sack. It was his personal “specialty”, besides the fact that it was so disruptive for whatever team on the receiving end of it.
It was on me to make sure that didn’t happen.
As soon as the ball snapped, Monty exploded off the line. He didn’t go for Trent, though.
He came straight at me.
Fuck.
He was choosing chaos. Instead of trying to get into the protected area around our quarterback while he searched for an opening to pass, he was going to try to disrupt it, creating an opening for someone else.
I drove my cleats into the turf, bearing down as he hit me with as much force as the short burst of speed allowed. Hands planted in my chest, he tried his best to take me down, but I was anchored.
Once that initial impact has dissipated, it was nothing to shove him off.
The ball was already down the field anyway.
I could hear Monty talking shit under his breath as we separated to start the next play. Since I couldn’t actually make out what he was saying, and also just didn’t give a fuck what he was saying, the only response I gave him was a grin.
From the look he gave, he hated that shit.
Perfect.
We were here to play football, not whatever else he was trying to do.
I was focused.
The score was tied.
Second overtime.
We had to close this up.
The ball snapped again, and this time it was me who lunged forward in an aggressive charge that knocked Monty out of commission pretty immediately, creating a necessary hole for Trent and Rut to make their shit happen again.
The pass was beautiful.
Rut snatched it out of the air, falling in the process but then he was back on his feet, running it as many yards as he could get before ducking out of bounds to avoid a tackle.
Second down, successful.
Two more at most to go.
We had to just keep getting the ball down the field.
The conditions were certainly ripe for a win.
Someone to win. There was no guarantee yet that it would be us.
That second down had yielded a good amount more yardage, but we were just short of completing a necessary touchdown.
So now came the debate.
Did we run it through?
Did we try another pass?
Or did we push for a field goal?
Whatever way we went, if we didn’t make it happen now, the chances of the Behemoths getting it all the way back across the field were slim, which would mean overtime.
Again.
And we were already exhausted.
The game had been going long as fuck, and we were cold as fuck.
We were ready to nip this in the bud, one way or another.
The decision was made to run it in, and so it began.
The line up, the countdown, the snap, the tackle, the—Shit!!
There was a brief moment of chaos where I saw the ball go flying, and then… it was on the ground.
Nobody touching it.
No.
No.
As I watched, from too far away to do shit about it, a cornerback from the Behemoths grabbed the ball.
And he was off.
Fucking blazing.
If I wasn’t personally victimized by the shit I saw happening in front of me right now, I lowkey would have been impressed.
But there was no time for that.
We were already right on his heels, but that little motherfucker was agile, dodging every attempt to take him off the field.
He was running.
Running.
Running.
Right into the end zone.
Right as the clock ran out.
And… the crowd went wild.
Everything was a blur after that.
The shaking hands with the other team, the congrats, the condolences, the pep talk in the locker room. It was all the usual shit, all normal parts of the game, except for some reason this time I just couldn’t seem to hit the acceptance state as easily.
Maybe because we were so close, which was where things got tricky with playing good teams. If we’d just been getting our asses handed to us for the whole game, it would be easy to accept the loss. If we were just completely outclassed, outworked, just outdone, period.
But when it was close like that you couldn’t help assessing everything, going over every little moment in your head, trying to figure out if there was something you could have done differently, or better.
Or, what was almost worse, seeing exactly where your teammates had dropped the ball.
Especially when that was literally what happened.
Yeah, there was the teasing about oiled gloves, butterfingers, whatever, whatever, when the ball slipped out of somebody’s hand.
But underneath that, there was just that underlying feeling of… bro, what the fuck?
Handling the ball was never my job. I was on the field to make space for the people who excelled at that. But shit, even I knew to tuck the fucking ball.
Not that it mattered anymore at this point.
That loss marked the official end of the season, and our coaches were already making their plans for the next one.
This was it.
It was done.
Well, not quite, we had to sit down for the interviews, a part I hated.
Win or lose, honestly.
Oftentimes, the reporters were fucking vultures—not even interested in getting a real story, delving into the plays, our mindset, whatever.
For too many, it was about getting the most salacious soundbite, getting the emotional misspeaks on film. It was sick to me, and I only showed up because I was contractually obligated to.
So when I sat down behind those mics as one of the chosen representatives for the offense—one who played one of the best games of my career, even though it still hadn’t been enough to secure the win—my energy, or lack thereof, wasn’t because of the loss at all.
It was because I simply had no desire to be there.
“Tatum, Wil Cunningham from On The Sidelines.”
I followed the sound of the voice in the crowd, a smile instantly hitting me when I found the familiar face.
“This formal introduction? Really?” I teased, and she laughed.
“Just cause you know, doesn’t mean everybody does. Don’t start no sh— don’t start with me,” Wil said, quickly correcting her language.
She was one of my absolute favorite sports reporters, always coming with thoughtful, respectful questions. And… there was also the fact that she was married to Ramsey Bishop.
Something people claimed caused her to be biased in her reporting, but shit… she was one of our toughest critics. And being friends with Ramsey, our most reliable running back, meant I could find myself on the end of one of her grillings or critiques at any time.
One of the reasons I always looked forward to her questions in the press room. They were always actually about football.
“Can I ask my question?” she asked with a smirk, and I chuckled.
“Go ahead, Ms. Cunningham.”
“Thank you. So… I’d like to know what went through your head when you realized a rookie had circumvented the choreographed play, and caused the fumble that ultimately cost the game.”
“Ah, man. Well… of course I didn’t know at the time what had actually happened, you know? I just knew something had gone very wrong. There were a lot of curse words. In a very short period of time.” I chuckled. “I couldn’t really dwell on it, though. I wasn’t actually close enough to do shi— to do anything about it. But I had to try, so my focus was getting down the field. Obviously, it still didn’t work out. Do I wish the end result had been different? Of course. But I can’t even hate on Buddy, he was out of there. Where’d they even get him from?”
The whole press pool erupted in laughter, but I was barely joking. A play like that was insane, especially for a relatively unknown player fresh off the draft.
The kid should have been a King.
Wil thanked me for my answer, and the turn went to another reporter, some smug-looking white boy I immediately knew was about to be on some bullshit, purely from his expression.
“Tate, what was it like facing off against Monty Rudolph while you two are beefing over his fiancé?”
My eyebrows went up. “We’re beefing? That’s news to me.”
“What do you think about his tweets from before the game this afternoon? He had a lot to say about the Kings, and I would say successfully, predicted today’s loss, which eliminates you all from the championship.”
“Ahh, he’s clairvoyant?” I chuckled. “I think that’s dope. He should have no problems carving out a career for himself post-retirement with a skill like that, good for him.”
“But—”
“Good for him,” I repeated, with a pointed smile.
He sat the fuck down.
A couple of others tried it though, as the interview moved on, and I just kept redirecting.
It was annoying to be asked about Monty over and over, but honestly, I was chuckling inside about it.
I’d really made that nigga this mad without even being in contact with Aurora since that stuff went down between us.
He should be glad I wasn’t interested in really turning shit up.
Once everything was done and we were finally released, I met up with my family. It was a rare occurrence to have all my siblings and my parents in the box, but this had been a major game. Obviously we’d hoped this was going to be a celebration, but fooling around with my family?
The energy was barely any different.
Wilders only mourned the dead.
Outside of that, we always found the pocket to cut up in.
Even when my parents called it a night, I ended up in the adjoining hotel suite with my siblings—eating, drinking, and… in what was probably not that great of an idea, hopping on a livestream on social media.
For the most part, it was all love.
Some of the fans were disappointed in the outcome of the game, but I knew I had done my big one for all four quarters, with stats to back it up. So none of the insults and shit a few of them, and some folks from other fandoms, tried landed with me.
I focused more on the encouragement from people who had critiques, but were optimistic about what next season would bring.
It was good vibes.
And then, somebody asked me about Monty.
I was gonna ignore the shit.
Needed to ignore it.
Should have ignored it.
I was just inebriated enough to be a bit loose at the tongue, but sober enough to know that, so I wasn’t about to walk myself into trouble. But between Timothy, Tamira, and Tremaine… there was only barely a limit to our need to cut up.
Which was made so clear when the music we’d had playing in the background switched and the opening strains of Dru Hill’s “I Should Be” started playing.
I turned to Tim with a grin, shaking my head.
He was the one whose phone was connected to the Bluetooth speaker.
“Come on, man, don’t do this shit.” I laughed, and he shrugged.
“Don’t do what?”
“You know exactly what.” I chuckled, eyes narrowed as my sister Tamira came into the camera frame with me, holding up an empty liquor bottle upside down in front of her face.
“Lies,” she sang, “And deceit?—”
Shit.
I couldn’t even help myself.
I started singing along with full fucking gusto.
With no shade intended, for real.
This being my jam didn’t have anything to do with Montgomery Rudolph being the exact kind of motherfucker Sisqó n’em were singing about, trying to convince that woman she should drop ol’ boy.
It wasn’t my fault the shit was relevant.
It wasn’t my fault that “All The Things Your Man Won’t Do” was next on the playlist.
It wasn’t my fault that “You Should Let Me Love You” was up after that.
I was too busy with hotel room karaoke to pay much attention to the comments on the live stream, but when that last song ended and I came back to them, I immediately started laughing.
There were a lot of comments about bro code and “Mr. Lowdown” and whatever the fuck else. The majority were rocking with me though.
Which… was funny and all that until I saw people were tagging Aurora.
Instantly sobering.
I wasn’t trying to send any bullshit in her direction.
“Hey y’all, don’t tag her in this stuff, aight? We’re just fucking around, all having a good time, just let it be that,” I admonished.
I couldn’t guarantee how much good it would do, but I couldn’t not say anything, and I was pleasantly surprised though, to find that most people did let it go. But after that, it was time to call it a night.
I set myself up in an extra room in the suite I’d set up for my siblings, not seeing the point of going back to the team hotel for the night. With nothing to celebrate, most of the team was opting to hang with their families and lick their wounds before we headed back to Connecticut.
About an hour later, I was reclined in bed, and decided to stop avoiding the inevitable. I went on and checked my phone.
I wasn’t too surprised that there was a text from Aurora.
Wow. That was something. - Rori M
Shit.
It didn’t take rocket science to guess that she’d either seen or heard about the livestream, and wasn’t impressed, and I couldn’t blame her for being pissed.
Instead of a true reply, I hit her back with eye emojis, trying to test the waters a bit and get a gauge on where her mood was since a couple of hours had passed since she initially texted me.
Eyes is all I get? Oh, okay. – Rori M
That “oh, okay” was actually fucking lethal, and I cringed about it for a second while I thought about how to approach, since she was clearly at least still irritated, if not outright mad.
Damn. You not fucking with the emojis? You kinda strict. was what I opted for, trying to keep it lighthearted on my end.
Still a gamble, though.
No, I’m not strict. See? Here: – Rori M
A moment passed, then a whole wall of eyeroll emojis hit our text thread, making me laugh.
Before I could type out a response, she’d already sent another one.
I had just been working up the nerve to hit you and apologize for Monty being weird to you because of me, and then you turned around and got weirder. – Rori M
Again… shit.
I stared at the phone for a bit, trying to decide how to play it next.
Was she unbothered enough that I could charm my way around this?
Cut me a break; we lost the chance to go to the Super Bowl today. I’m not in my right mind, I typed out, knowing the odds of that working were hit or miss.
Not in your right mind. Wow,” she replied, with a couple of laughing emojis. That’s an interesting excuse if I ever heard one. – Rori M
I’m just saying, have some sympathy, I pleaded.
Uh-huh. – Rori M
Yeah… it wasn’t really working.
Time to stop playing.
Okay bullshit aside, I started, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have given in to the urge to be petty. I can own that. It was childish, and probably only fed the drama beast, and… just wasn’t cool. I’m sorry. I would, however, like to make the point for the record that he deserved much, much worse. He ought to be glad I wasn’t REALLY trying to take it there.
He ought to be glad or EYE ought to be glad? – Rori M
Damn.
Okay.
I had to eat that.
She was right, and I couldn’t deny it, not after I’d had to ask people to stop bringing her up on the livestream. It wasn’t just bullshit between me and Monty. It all reflected on her too, and that deserved my consideration.
She deserved my consideration.
A little fact I started to type out, then changed my mind and called instead, a video call I halfway expected her to decline. Instead, she answered, in a big ass puffy headband, with a wet face.
“You’re right,” I admitted. “I wasn’t thinking about the blowback you might get, and I should’ve. I’m sorry.”
She smirked, looking away from the screen to pat her face dry with a towel. “Don’t sweat it. I’m so used to the bullshit at this point I barely expect different anymore.”
Ouch.
“I guess I deserve that,” I said. “Tell me how to make it up to you.”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged, then started dripping a thick liquid on her face from a dropper. “Dick for breakfa—oh, shit, I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” she giggled.
“Nah, don’t try to run it back now,” I said, groaning as I sat up. “I’m already in town, we can make that shit happen no problem.”
“I was playing,” she insisted, patting the product into her skin. “Remember after the picture, you said I owed you?—”
“Pussy for breakfast, yeah, and I ain’t forgot,” I told her. “I never did get it.”
“Sounds like they cancel each other out.”
I scoffed. “Nah, it don’t work like that sweetheart,” I told her, watching as she spread another product on her face, a thick cream this time, that left her looking shiny and clean.
“Of course it does,” she laughed. “Hey, seriously though… that game… you good? I don’t know a ton about football but that was kind of a tough loss, right? Overtime, and then another overtime, and then you guys almost had it, but then…”
“Are you trying to make me feel better, or rubbing it in?”
“Not sure yet,” she said, wearing a little smirk as she took off the headband, revealing that her hair was tucked underneath a colorful silk scarf. “I’m still deciding if I’m mad at you or not.”
“You’re not,” I declared. “You wouldn’t be flirting if you were mad.”
“Who says I’m flirting?” she asked.
“Your mouth,” I chuckled, as she picked up the phone and started moving. She wasn’t looking at it. She was looking wherever she was heading, which gave me a perfect opportunity to really stare. “Damn. You ’bout a pretty motherfucker, you know that?” I said, and her eyes went wide before she looked back at the camera.
“Huh?” She was still now, and I could see her headboard in the background. “’Bout a pretty motherfucker… That’s a compliment, right?” she asked, slightly confused.
“Oh, that’s how you gonna do me?” I laughed. “That’s who we are? The big city girl can’t understand the country nigga trope?”
“I’m dead serious,” she giggled. “Are you country?” she asked.
“With a nickname like Country Boy Tate? Niggas calling me Tater and you’re asking if I’m country?” I asked, and she shook her head.
“I don’t know anything about all that,” she insisted. “I hear it in your voice a little I guess, but you don’t have a super heavy accent. Where are you from?”
“Kentucky.”
“Seriously?!” she shrieked. “I… never would’ve guessed that. What else is in Kentucky?”
“Bourbon,” I laughed. “And livestock. Fields. Lots of land.”
“Sounds… remote.”
I shrugged. “It can be, but I love that shit. I’m heading to Wildwood in a few weeks as a matter of fact.”
“Is that the city you’re from? Your family is still there?”
“Yes, my family is there, but it’s not the city. Wildwood is my family’s ranch.”
She pulled the camera closer to her face. “Your family owns a ranch? Like… a ranch? Like on TV?”
“You talking about those messy ass murderous white folks?” I laughed.
“You know I am. Is that realistic?”
“The murder part, nah… not that I would ever say so over the phone, just in case the feds are listening,” I teased. “The rest… is sensationalized, but I can’t honestly say it’s too far off. My mom and sister love that shit.”
“Sounds like my kinda company,” she said. The camera shifted again, she was laying down now. “What about the corporations and stuff coming in? Are y’all like, constantly defending your land and all that?”
“Uh… my pops has had to make a point a time or two over the years,” I admitted. “And if he rode, we all did. It’s been a minute since anybody tried anything like that though. Hopefully it’ll stay that way.”
She nodded. “Yeah… that’s wild. Sounds like fun.”
“It’s never boring, for damn sure,” I chuckled. “You look sleepy.”
As soon as I said that, she yawned, then laughed at herself for doing so.
“I am,” she said. “I had to go into the office for bug fixes that took way more time than expected, but I wanted to clear my plate for tomorrow so I wouldn’t have anything except a few emails to handle.”
She settled back against her pillows with a sigh.
Still pretty as fuck.
“What about you?” she asked. “How does it work? Are you… off the clock now, or…?”
“Post-game analysis,” I groaned. “The coaches are gonna want to watch some film, bitch at us, blah, blah, blah.”
“Well that sounds awful. Good for you.”
My eyes went wide as she laughed, and I shook my head. “Damn, you still on my neck?”
“Just the teensiest little bit,” she said, barely getting the words out as another yawn broke through.
“Okay, take your pretty ass to sleep. So you’re ready for your emails tomorrow.”
She laughed. “And you rest up for your… getting bitched at?”
“You so damn mean.”
“Only because I care.”
“Ohhhh, you care now?” I exclaimed, and she covered her face.
“I didn’t mean that, I’m just talking.”
“So you don’t give a fuck about me?”
Her mouth dropped open. “Um?—”
“Sweet dreams, love,” I chuckled. “I’ll be seeing you.”
She shook her head. “Goodnight, Tatum.”