Chapter 23
SHOTGUN FORMATION: AN OFFENSIVE ALIGNMENT WHERE THE QUARTERBACK LINES UP SEVERAL YARDS BEHIND THE CENTER.
Crawling into bed, my mind refuses to settle. Tonight began with promise and ended in damage control, with me stuck playing defense of ignoring Bryce who, by no means, I can control.
I should be savoring my time with Troy. Instead, as exhaustion pulls me under, I’m left thinking back to the moments that brought us all colliding together.
As I drift into sleep, the line between dream and memory snaps—suddenly I’m not in my bed at all, but back under stadium lights, surrounded by noise, by history, and by a choice I never had to make the first time around.
Despite the unusually cold temperatures for late January, the Lightning stadium feels electrified.
There’s a surge of energy beneath my feet.
I feel it through my boots as I hop up and down in the stands right behind the team on the fifty-yard line.
This is it; the AFC Championship game and every breath is riddled with tension.
Double overtime.
Twenty-one to twenty-one.
I rub my arms up and down my Lightning hoodie, the storm grey colors reflected by half the strangers surrounding me. As much as I know my heart is pounding, I know it’s nothing compared to the way the team must be feeling.
Especially as the crowd is becoming more and more agitated with every snap of the ball.
The scoreboard flashes the reality—second and goal.
Below me on the field, the ball is snapped.
Bryce falls back to a shotgun formation—about 5-7 yards behind the center who is trying to do everything—short of getting a flag on the play—to protect him.
He scans the field looking for somewhere, anywhere, to pass the ball.
But despite being the quarterback and the Lightning’s captain, the boy I’ve built my world around is in an untenable situation.
The defense breaks through and Bryce, fortunately, is outside the tackle box. He throws the ball to what should be an eligible receiver but it’s a crap pass. On the other hand, he avoids being sacked and losing ground for the Lightning.
Third and goal.
Tension radiates off every Lightning player now. They know what’s at stake—a trip to the national championships. A chance at the Lombardi Trophy. They’re looking for Bryce to lead them. I can’t see beneath his helmet, but I’m close enough to hear, "Double Right 200. Jet Dragon."
I chew on my nails as the offense lines up in a two-by-two formation, with their tight end on the right side. While Bryce successfully executed this play several times today, I’m terrified the other team discussed during half-time how to block it.
The stadium hushes as the ball is snapped back and he drops back. But the defensive line has him boxed in. Perfect coverage.
“Oh no,” I mutter to myself even as Bryce rolls, he pump-fakes the ball. But there’s no window for him to get rid of it. Refusing to give in, to lose the yardage, he tucks the ball beneath his arm and runs.
My breath seizes, and it’s not due to the cold air. It’s because Bryce comes up short. No first down.
The referee’s whistle renders through the air accompanied by the groans of thirty-five thousand fans. The play is complete and our hopes for making it to the playoffs are dwindling rapidly.
Fourth down.
The coach signals from the side of the field. Bryce rips off his helmet, fury lining his face the second the polycarbonate clears his head. The sweat dripping from his hair is likely the only thing keeping it from being on fire as he argues with the offensive coach.
But it’s not his call anymore.
They’re sending out special teams.
The stadium buzzes in excitement, even as a knot forms in my stomach. Our special teams is good, but it hasn’t been great since…
Wait. Troy Walsh is jogging out onto the field? How can that be?
His helmet, with the silvery-grey lightning bolt catches a ray of light. The number 7 stretching across his back appears backlit. Ethereal.
Otherworldly.
Like there’s something different about this memory. I tap my finger to my lips, unable to figure it out, but too caught up in the game to pinpoint it. Instead, I focus on Troy.
Since I met him at the rooftop bar, I’ve learned his calm focus.
His integrity. His intensity. He’s my friend, despite the discomfort it gives Bryce.
And the crowd? Well, they adore him, if the way he was received the moment he walked onto the field is anything to go by.
I’ve never experienced a player be welcomed onto the field that way.
Like they expect some sort of transformative event to occur.
Caught in the bubble of my worry, I begin to hope. Can Troy make this happen? Can I believe in him?
I find myself crossing my fingers as he takes his position thirty-five yards out. It’s a kick most can make. Still, some would choke in this kind of high pressure situation.
But Troy doesn’t feel pressure. In fact, he glances in my direction—as if he’s trying to reassure me, he has this. He won’t let me, or anyone else who depends on him, down.
The play clock ticks down to its final seconds. The long snap is textbook. The hold, perfect. Troy steps into it and kicks. The ball flies off his foot in a powerful arc.
End-over-end.
Perfect rotation.
I find myself leaning, along with the rest of the Lightning fans, in the direction of the ball—as if we can guide it through the goal posts.
Then, we see it.
The refs arms go shooting up next to their ears. The field goal is good. There’s no flag on the play.
The stadium descends into madness. Confetti cannons fire.
The Lightning’s center boosts Troy up into the air and runs him around in a small circle before the rest of the team races forward—including Bryce, I note.
But it’s the unbridled joy on Troy’s face that captivates me, not my fiancé’s.
When Troy shouts out, “We did it!” he’s not just talking about his winning kick.
He’s bringing the whole team into his moment of glory.
My smile splits my face even as I lift my fingers to my lips and whistle for him. “Way to go Troy!”
His gaze finds mine over the crowd and he beams at me. With the intensity of that smile, I find myself on the field. The heels of my boots sink into the turf I wasn’t on mere seconds ago. Bodies, cameras, they’re all rushing back but I’m caught in slow motion staring down at something.
My engagement ring.
Despite the chaos that ensues from knowing we’re going to the National Championships, I feel weighed down. Like my scarf is choking me.
Or, I realize suddenly, is it a different circle that’s doing that?
My eyes find Bryce in the crowd, set apart behind the cameras that are focused on where Troy’s receiving his well-deserved accolades.
Bryce’s helmet is dangling from his hand and with it, the mask he wears as the Lightning’s golden boy.
The mask has slipped off and nothing in his expression reflects the boy I fell in love with.
His eyes are narrowed into furious slits.
His cheeks are flushed with an unrighteous anger.
Tension radiates from every cell in his body.
How did I never see this before? He’s supposed to be the person I believe in, the one I want to say “I do” to.
I find myself fiddling with the ring on my finger as Troy moves closer. Bryce slithers back into his facade and congratulates Troy on his kick as the cameras roll.
When suddenly, my ring pops off into my hand—intentional or prophetic?
I make my way in the direction of both men—one looks at me expectantly, the other with joy.
Bryce’s eyes demand; Troy’s wish. Wait.
My choice is clear. I hold my hand out and press the engagement ring into Bryce’s hand just before leaping into Troy’s arms.
Troy’s breath catches in surprise, before it expels in relief. Like this is the moment he’s dreamed of all along. He lifts me up, much as he was earlier, spinning me in tight circles until my head is as dizzy as my heart.
Once he drops me to my feet, his gloved hands catch my face between them. Our noses brush. He breathes my name, “Maya.”
It’s reverential, awed.
He leans down and brushes his lips against mine. When he does, it all dissipates. The game, the crowd disappear. The noise that surrounded us fades to nothing but the hum of the television.
We’re back on the couch. The same couch we were watching the game on earlier. But we’re still kissing, still wrapped in one another like we were always meant to fit together.
My hand slides around Troy’s nape. His thumb traces the line of my jaw. I can taste Gatorade on his tongue instead of the wine we drank earlier. Our lips slowly break apart and I ask him, “Is this real?”
He trails his lips down the side of my neck before murmuring, “Only you can choose the answer to that.”
He leans in to kiss me once more, then—
I wake up with my heart pounding. Hands wrapped around my pillow.
Like I’m holding him against me.
Groaning, I roll onto my side and stare out the window, watching shadows shift beyond the glass until exhaustion drags me under again. I pray I don’t dream—because if I do, I’m not sure I’m ready for the emotions waiting there, demanding to be faced before I’m willing to admit them aloud.