Chapter 24
ICING THE KICKER
Elliot
“Whose bright fucking idea was it to build an open-air stadium in fucking Chicago? This wind is goddamn criminal.”
At some point during the season, I learned to stop listening to Coach Mancini when he’s bitching about weather and wind conditions during games.
He can mutter and mumble about the benefits of stadiums with roofs all he wants.
I just focus on what I can control, and that is swinging a few practice kicks and getting my head on straight, because from where I’m standing, the fate of this game is resting on my shoulders.
The Redwoods ended our regular season with an 11-6 record. Not the best, but it gave us the chance to play today in the Wildcard Round. If we win today, we get to go to the divisional round and keep our Big Game dreams alive for another week.
It’s the end of the fourth quarter, the score is 16-15 with Chicago in the lead, and at this point, there’s no telling which way this game is going to go.
Part of me wishes we’d been able to get it together early on, or that Breaker pulls off some kind of Hail Mary miracle so that our playoff hopes weren’t dependent all on me and my ability to kick a field goal.
But this is the first game of mine Alex has been able to make all season, and the macho, egotistical, peacock part of me is looking forward to showing off in front of my man.
He and Mom are seated right in the end zone, both dressed head-to-toe in Redwoods red and gold and covered in face paint and glitter all over their cheeks.
After we made things official, Alex and Mom became the best of pals.
She helped him work through the mental struggle of cutting off his parents, and the three of us spent Christmas at Mom’s place in Minnesota, where she and Alex drank a metric fuck ton of hot chocolate and took turns swapping embarrassing stories about me.
I’m pretty sure Alex talks to my Mom more often than I do at this point, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I love that the two people I love the most in the world care so much for each other.
And when Breaker and the offensive line fail to convert on third down at the forty-three yard line, a part of me really loves that I get to kick my field goal attempt directly in Mom and Alex’s direction.
Coach calls a timeout, leaving us with one left, and that thirty seconds gives special teams enough time to get coordinated out on the field. With only ten seconds left on the play clock, every breath counts.
I fucking love this part of football. When the seconds have ticked down and the need to manipulate the clock is almost—if not more important—than manipulating the ball.
We line up, and I take my last few moments of the timeout to visualize all the angles and feel which direction the ball needs to go. I can make a forty-three yard field goal in my sleep, but with everything on the line, I need to make sure all cylinders are firing.
The play clock starts back up, Lennon snaps the ball. It’s lined up in front of me, my foot connects, and I watch it soar straight through the middle of the uprights. I wait for the refs to signal that the kick was good and essentially end this game, but they don’t raise their hands.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Lennon calls out, and that’s when it hits me. The sound of whistles blowing just as I stepped forward to kick.
Chicago had one timeout left, and they called it before I could connect with the ball.
“They’re trying to ice the fucking kicker,” I roar, pissed as hell as my line disassembles to wait out the rest of the thirty-second time out.
Seems like we’re not the only ones trying to manipulate the few seconds left on the play clock.
Icing the kicker is a perfectly legal but ruthless move.
Everyone knows that kicking the football for a field goal or extra point attempt is 10% skill, 5% luck, and 85% mental fortitude.
Five seconds ago, I was in the zone. Five seconds ago, I was focused.
Five seconds ago, I kicked a perfect, straight through field goal.
But it doesn’t matter, because Chicago made sure it didn’t count.
“Don’t even think about it, Baker,” Lennon says, patting my shoulder as the thirty seconds winds down. “Forget the last kick. It never happened. It’s just you and the ball, you fucking got this dude.”
I nod, letting his encouragement go in one ear and out the other. I don’t need it. I know I’ve got this. I’m Elliot Fucking Baker, and I’m not going to let some deep-dish pizza eating fucks ruin this night for me with an underhanded call.
My guys line back up, and a whistle blows. There’s only three seconds left on the clock, but Lennon doesn’t rush to make the snap. Even if the clock hits zero, whatever happens between now and the time the refs call the kick counts.
I take a deep breath and find my spot in the middle of the uprights. I can’t make out the faces in the crowd from back here, but I imagine Alex watching me, and I focus on making him proud.
The ball is snapped, lined up, and my foot connects. The sound in the stadium is eerily silent. It takes everything in me to keep my eyes open, but I have to watch. Either way, I need to see where the ball goes.
And thank fuck that I do, because even with roar of Chicago fans booing in the crowd and the sight of my teammates rushing the field and lifting me up over their heads, I don’t think I would’ve believed that I made a perfect kick, again.
The game is over, and we win by two measly points.
Our entire sideline is on the field and the media is starting in as well, coming at us with cameras and microphones ready to get their sound bites. I know they’re going to come straight for me, but I’m not ready to talk just yet.
“Put me down!” I yell to Lennon, who has me hoisted up over his shoulder.
I have to smack his helmet to get his attention, but he gets the message and sets me back on my feet.
I rip my helmet off and toss it to the side, then sprint towards the end zone.
A rogue cameraman catches my movement and follows me, but I’ve got a one track mind.
I run through the end zone, past the uprights, and straight towards the stands, where fans are cheering and screaming and spilling their beers everywhere.
None of that matters to me, though. There’s only one fan I want to celebrate with.
I spot Alex right in front, screaming his head off while Mom shakes his shoulders.
Hoisting myself up on the wall, I use all my strength to hold on with one hand and grab my man by the back of his neck with the other.
With the exception of Alex’s on-air love confession after the Hockey Cares game last month, we’ve kept our relationship mostly private.
But right now, it doesn’t matter that there are a thousand cameras pointed at us or that tomorrow, the game highlights will be forgotten and this will be the moment played over and over again on the news.
I pull Alex close and capture his lips with mine, pouring every ounce of love, adoration, and gratefulness I feel for him into this kiss.
He grabs my waist, and with a bit of maneuvering, helps me all the way over the wall.
Once I’m on my feet in the stands, I hoist Alex up and he wraps his thighs around my waist. He cries and tells me how proud he is of me between kisses, and I cry and tell him how much I love him in return.
I bring him and Mom down to the field to celebrate, and someone dumps a bottle of champagne over my head.
It’s chaotic and messy and exhilarating, and the win means so much more knowing that, had I lost, Alex would still be just as proud and love me just as hard anyway.
The next morning, Alex and I are front page news, just as I expected. The San Francisco Gazette runs a full page photo of me scaling the wall and kissing my man.
I frame it, and when I’m officially moved into Alex’s place, Scarlett purrs at our feet as we hang the paper in our living room. And every time I pass it, the headline sends the Alex-loving butterflies fluttering in my stomach like it’s the very first night all over again.
Icing The Kicker: A Love Story