Chapter 21 #2
“Oh, I . . .” Hell. Despite Jan’s taunting, I’m not actually “here” for any real length of time. “Wait, you have to decorate this?”
Jan looks at me like a professor having to work with a beginner student. “Having a box is like buying a condo. It’s up to the box owner to furnish it and pay for food, drinks, and staff—all provided in house, of course.”
“The house always wins,” Monica says dryly.
“I honestly thought we’d be sitting out in the regular seats.”
“August wanted you comfortable,” Jan says idly.
Something in the way his gaze stays firmly on the field has me wondering if that really translates into August was worried about my safety.
“Besides.” Monica nudges my shoulder. “As soon as I heard our boy Luck was getting married, I wanted to meet you.”
It’s sweet how much of a mother hen Monica is.
“Unfortunately, I’m not able to sit out in crowds for very long.” She doesn’t sound upset about it, more pragmatic than anything. “So it’s box viewing for me.”
Taking a handful of the popcorn she offers, I munch on it before speaking. “I also had this vision of sitting with the rest of the players’ families.”
“They’re scattered about, mostly.” She sees my expression and explains. “WAGs have to fend for themselves.”
“WAGs?”
“Wives and girlfriends,” Jan puts in.
“Oh.” I let out a half laugh. “For some reason, I thought of dogs.”
Monica cackles. “Girl, same. I don’t know who came up with the acronym, or if it was on purpose, but, having heard some other sport’s terms for women, I’m guessing the implied ‘bitches’ wasn’t entirely out of mind.”
My nose wrinkles. “WAGs and families have to buy their own seats?”
“Yep. Billionaire owners fret about profit margins and squeeze every dollar they can.”
About ten minutes before kickoff, May and June file into seats around us, happily chatting now with Monica. Sarah arrives soon after, Daniel, Priti, and her ex-husband, Harry, in tow.
She’s vibrating with happiness as she makes her way over. I’d say she only had eyes for me, but her gaze keeps darting to January in awe. Monica might as well be a seat; I think it amuses her.
“Isn’t this the greatest?” Sarah asks, stopping in the aisle by our row. “I’m so happy! They let Edward in!”
At this, she pulls Edward from a glittering yellow-and-white-sequined purse shaped like a ram’s head. “Look!”
My heart squeezes in tenderness, then seems to swell within my breast. There upon his froggy head and poised at a no-nonsense game day angle, is a tiny team ball cap.
He gave it to her anyway. Because he knew she’d love it. Because he wanted to make a fan happy.
“And it’s signed! He signed Edward’s hat!”
Sure enough, a small “AL” scrawled in black ink graces the bill.
Monica coos and exclaims over Edward.
As for myself, I focus on the brilliant green grass before me. A hundred yards. Fifty each way. Two sets of shining yellow uprights. With my whole heart, I want August to win.
Because he loves it. Because it will make him happy. And just maybe he needs someone to look after his happiness too.
August
“The proper temperature to roast a chicken is four-fifty for the first fifteen minutes to crisp the skin and seal in the juices. Then lower it to three-fifty for the remainder cooking time so it doesn’t dry out.”
Down on the sidelines isn’t all football, kids.
I bite my lip to keep from smiling as Carter and Williams discuss the best way to make chicken. So far, Carter appears to have the method down pat. Williams takes mental notes. We lost the coin toss and our defense will start. Now, however, we’re on a commercial break.
Guys deal with the adrenaline-filled nerves of waiting in different ways. Some talk smack. Others?
“You’re saying a cast-iron pan is better than a roasting pan?”
“My mama uses cast iron, so I use cast iron.”
“Valid.”
Jelly snorts as he walks past. He’s keyed up, striding back and forth to keep loose. “Just make the damn chicken and invite me over to eat it.”
I do practice throws with my arm to keep it warmed up and limber.
Inside, however, I’m struggling to find that focus Penelope urged me to remember.
Ironically, the fault lies with her. I kissed Penelope Morrow.
The thought rolls round and round like those records her roommate favors.
I kissed her, something I’d imagined far too many times.
I’ve had dreams about that sweet bud of a mouth, wondered how she’d feel, how she’d sound, how she’d taste.
I still don’t know that last question. Not really.
Because even though I’d finally got my mouth on hers, it had been for show.
And I’d be damned if I’d invade her mouth with the kind of kiss I really crave under false pretenses.
But it had been a very near thing. Multiple times during that soft, sweet kiss, I’d almost slipped, almost grabbed on and simply gorged.
A quiet shiver dances over my skin. Having fought off a hard-on since the moment I got my hands on her, I can’t let it rise here of all places. Frowning, I pull my head—both of them—away from thoughts of Pen and her succulent mouth.
“Did you know there’s a fungus that turns ants into zombies?” I ask no one in particular.
“Say what now?” Carter leans forward, intrigued.
“The ant is infected by the fungus and the fungus then compels the ant to latch onto the underside of a leaf until the ant dies. The fungus grows within its host and eventually shoots spores out of the dead ant’s head to propagate.”
“Get the fuck out,” Jelly exclaims.
“It’s true,” Rhodes puts in. “Heard it on NPR.”
“You listening to NPR?” Carter finds this amusing.
“Helps me relax on the way home.”
“Put your ass right to sleep on the road, is what it’ll do.” Carter smirks.
Jelly makes a sound of wonder. “And here I thought The Last of Us would never happen.”
“Better watch yourself. If they can come for the ants . . .”
On that note, Carter shivers. “Man, I hate all this zombie shit. Talk about something else.”
“All right,” I say easily. “We’re going to win.”
I do another mock throw. The commercial break is done, and our defense is lining up.
Rhodes quirks a brow. “You psychic or something?”
“No. Pen told me.” I roll my neck. “Pen thinks her grandfather might have been psychic, though.”
“Her grandfather told her we’d win?”
“Pay attention, Rhodes. Her Pops is dead. Pen says we’ll win. I agree.”
Rhodes runs a hand over his head in beleaguered fashion, then sets his eyes on me. “Is she psychic?”
I flash a grin. “Not that I know of.”
“Bro, stop playing.”
“I’m not playing. I’m clearing your mind of all the useless chatter. We’re going to win. Pen knows it. I know it.” I punctuate my words with a focused look at the whole of them. “Because that’s what we do.”
The tone of my voice, the look in my eyes, or maybe even the way I stand—something there must transmit because a change stirs through my offensive line. It starts with the group of guys closest to me, then spreads out like a ripple in a pond.
Winning.
Pen was right. It’s all in the mind. A mind-fuck, really. Because you gotta feel it, know it, but not be owned by worrying about it. I’d understood this for years. But it took her words to remind me. My head’s been in my ass for too long, worrying about things I can’t control.
Here, I can control.
Our time is up. The defense has done a good job at keeping the other team contained. Now it’s our turn to run up the scoreboard.
I grab my helmet and put it on, as the defense jog back to the sidelines. The field spreads before me, a vast sea of vibrant green, the sides of the stadium rising up around us like a cresting wave. Sound rushes down those seated sides and crashes into us.
People sometimes ask me if I feel small stepping out on the field, with all that noise and those eyes watching.
Never. Out here, everything is huge—the guys moving around, the yellow uprights taunting us from beyond.
A wall of guys surrounds me, faces dark and sweat-slicked behind the grill of their big helmets.
They look to me to lead. Focus. Win.
Anticipation pulls tight at my gut, prickles along my skin.
Fucking heady sensation. I can hear the blood pumping through my veins, my heart thumping strong and steady in my chest. Arousal, not unlike sex, but slightly different, more aggressive, something dark and primal, has me twitching.
I know my guys feel it too. Battle ready.
The game plan runs through my head. My coach’s voice a presence inside my helmet. It’s all there. Everything I need. Inside, I slow it down, focus. Outside, I ramp up, flex my muscles, remember the power in my body, in my arm. The talent.
Jelly saunters up, taking front and center in the circle we create. “How we do, Rocket Man?”
“We do it right,” I bark.
“We do it hard,” Carter adds.
They’re bouncing now, adrenaline and anticipation surging.
I catch every eye, let them see the focus, then give them the play name, and end with a sharp “No fear.”
My hands come together in a thunderclap, and we flow to the line.
Game on.