7
Monday, May 26th
Blake
With a netted bag of footballs slung over my shoulder—courtesy of one of the Mavericks’ staff—I step through the tunnel and out onto the field. The stadium looms around me, empty but electric, the kind of place that doesn’t need fans in the seats to feel larger-than-life. My feet hit the turf, and I almost have to stop to remind myself to breathe.
This is it. The field where legends played. Where legends still play.
The very field that I hope to someday call home.
I scan the expansive venue, my eyes wide like a kid who just walked into Disney World for the first fucking time.
Hot damn. I’m happy to be here.
Today is the first day of Mavericks Kids Camp. For two hours today and two hours Wednesday, this is where I’ll be, and I can’t remember the last time I was this hyped for something. Sure, I’m here because I’ve been a Mavs fan since I could throw a football, but let’s be honest, I’m also here because Lexi Winslow’s name came up when we were talking about this camp during my lunch with Ace and his dad last Tuesday.
Thatch mentioned the camp shortly after walking into Zip’s Diner, casually sharing that he’d just gotten off the phone with his brother-in-law—retired Mavs running back Sean Phillips. Apparently, Cam Mitchell had torn his hamstring playing indoor soccer with his sons and had to back out of camp at the last minute.
Of course, I latched on to the opportunity like a wide receiver on a Hail Mary pass. By the time I got back to my apartment, I’d already roped Coach Gordan into calling the Mavs on my behalf, and by Friday, I was officially on the volunteer list.
Sure, meeting retired legends like Quinn Bailey is a dream come true. But I’m not going to kid myself—knowing Lexi is here sealed the deal.
Some people think the Mavericks should change their long-standing tradition of starting the annual kids camp on Memorial Day. It’s a disservice to those the day honors. It’s a day normally spent with family . Blah, blah, blah.
But to kids like me, who’ve looked up to some of these guys since they were three or four years old, football like this is family. I watched them on TV, rooted for them in Super Bowls, and followed their careers as they retired. I bonded with my dad over conversations about plays and going to witness them play in person, and I watched as service members were honored at their games.
Being here with them today is a dream come true, and I know, with every fiber of my being, the Mavericks will do the Memorial aspect of today right.
Add in the fact that I’ve kissed Lexi Winslow—stepdaughter of the Mavs’ owner—and today feels like I’m living in some kind of fever dream.
“Blake Boden?” a strong male voice asks from behind me as I dump the bag of footballs in the north end zone of Mavericks Stadium to get ready for our first drills after warming up. I stand and spin from my squat, my eyes widening on the vivacious, charismatic face of retired Mavericks quarterback Quinn Bailey. Affectionately, friends and family know him as QB.
I hold out a firm hand, belying the very shaking of my confidence upon meeting my idol. “Quinn Bailey. Excuse me for being so uncool, but holy fucking shit, is it a big deal to meet you.”
Quinn laughs, thank God, easing the tension in my shoulders and solidifying all the things I’ve heard about what a great guy he is over the years.
“I could say the same thing about you, Boden. I’ve watched what you’ve done with the Dragons since you got there, and I’ve got a tingly feeling this year is going to be your year.”
I smile so big my cheeks burn. “I sure hope so, sir.”
Quinn laughs again, waving a hand between us. “Please, for the love of God, don’t call me sir. I feel old enough as it is when it hurts to get out of bed in the morning. Stick with Quinn or QB.”
After years in New York playing for one of the best football teams in the country, Quinn’s southern twang has faded just a bit—I guess fifteen years surrounded by fuggettaboutits will do that to you. But I can still hear the hint of it in his every word, and the thought of possibly finding a home away from home with the Mavericks like he did makes me smile.
“Right. Quinn, then.” I shake my head, a rumble of laughter in my throat that makes Quinn freaking Bailey match my smile. I know there are other Mavericks alumni coming today, but for as exciting as that is, it could end right here, and I’d be a happy guy. “Thanks for coming today. I know meeting you has got to be a ton of these kids’ dreams come true.”
“I was that kid,” Quinn says simply. “We all were.”
“Yo! QB!” a big man with an even bigger smile calls from the tunnel behind Quinn. He’s got a beard and has changed his haircut, but Teeny Martinez is quite arguably one of the most recognizable faces in American football. He commentates some on Football Tonight now that he’s retired from the game, and just last weekend, he was at some concert dancing in a tracksuit in the middle of the band. He’s a personality and a half, and I’ve never met a single person who doesn’t love or idolize him.
“Teeny!” Quinn greets, doing the slap, handshake, hug thing you often see us men doing. They do a complicated handshake that ends in a spin, and Teeny finishes it off by holding out a hand for me to take. “Hey, Boden.”
“Teeny,” I say back, my face a layer of melting disbelief that all these guys know who I am. “Thanks for coming.”
“You bet, kid. Speaking of…where are the attendees? This isn’t some elaborate prank you’re pulling just to get some face time with me and QB, is it?”
I chuckle. “While I’m not entirely above that particular move, staging an entire kids camp through the Mavs organization is a little above my abilities. From what I understand, they were doing a meet-the-owner thing with Wes Lancaster and their parents first, touring the stadium, and then ending here, where Lexi is going to show them a highlight reel on the jumbotron before we get started.”
“Lex is coming?” Quinn asks excitedly. “That’s my girl!”
It’s an innocent statement from one of the people Lexi grew up around, and yet, I don’t like it.
Ridiculous, I know, but there’s a small, irrational sense of possessiveness I’ve already developed for Lexi Winslow. If she boxes me out like she could—like she has been up until now—that’s going to make for one hell of a crash and burn.
“She’s great,” I say, stopping myself there instead of going into a three-page essay on all the things I’d like to get to know about her.
“You friends with Lexi Lou?” Teeny asks.
“We know each other from Dickson, so sort of…” I laugh. “I’m kind of still convincing her it’s worth her time to be my friend.”
“Ha!” Teeny shouts. “God, I love her.”
“Where’s Sean?” Quinn asks then, looking back into the dark tunnel and cupping his hand over his eyes to shield the morning sun. “I thought he was supposed to be here too.”
“He is, but he and Six are doing their podcast for this week about Camp. They probably went with the kids so they could catch Bossman on audio giving his little speech.”
Six is Sean’s wife and an incredibly famous YouTube personality turned popular podcaster turned reality television star. Truthfully, it’s mind-blowing how much I know about these guys and their lives.
Quinn laughs. “Oh shiiit. Lancaster hates the limelight, that’s for sure.” He picks up a football, working it in his hands and spinning it constantly to get a grip with his fingers on the laces. It’s a classic quarterback fidget, one I was mere seconds away from starting myself. Quinn pumps a couple of times with some fake throws, and Teeny starts cackling.
“Look at this guy. Retired and still can’t stop himself. He misses the game so much, he calls me crying on the phone at night so I can put him to sleep.”
Quinn holds up a middle finger before throwing the ball to one of the catch nets at the other end of the end zone. Teeny laughs and winks at me before continuing. “You’d think a married fella like himself would be content once he got in bed, but nope. He needs a phone call with Teeny to make sure he has sweet dreams.”
Quinn turns around with a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head, a smile curving his mouth all the way to his ears. “Don’t listen to this guy, Boden. I have plenty to do with my wife, in bed, at night. He, on the other hand…”
Teeny snorts. “My wife is an angel on earth who takes care of her man’s every need and want, okay?”
“Does she also have a listening device on you?” Quinn asks with a snort. “Because holy hell, you’re laying it on thick.”
Teeny shrugs and pretends to whisper. “You never know.”
There’s a sudden jolt of noise as the jumbotron kicks on in the center of the field, the Mavericks’ intro playing at full volume. It’s a tiny taste of what it might be like to be a player in this stadium, and fuck, does it give me chills.
“Welcome!” the announcer's voice yells over us. “To Maverriiiiiiiickkkkks Kids Cammmp!” On cue, a surge of young boys and girls dressed in matching camp T-shirts comes running on a charge out of the other end zone tunnel, their tiny faces scrunched into warrior expressions and their screams permeating the space between us.
A golf cart zooms toward the middle of the field, and Quinn, Teeny, and I pick up a jog to meet it there as Wes Lancaster, Winnie Winslow Lancaster, and Lexi all climb from the back and take their spots to wait for the arrival of the running kids.
Lexi’s eyes are on the three of us, but at this distance, it’s impossible to tell who she’s focusing on. I want it to be me, but these are guys she’s known her entire life, so it’s probably not.
Fuck, I sound real damn annoying, don’t I?
As the stampede of kids comes to a stop in the middle of the field, Sean Phillips and his wife Six running behind them with a camera and microphone, Winnie and Lexi clap, and Quinn, Teeny, and I stop just to the side, our arms crossed over our chests. The kids’ parents begin to fill up the lower levels of the stadium seats, and the other Mavs’ staffers who help run the camp start to set things up on the sidelines.
Wes steps up in front of the excited group in his jeans and expensive button-down shirt, offering high fives to those who can jump high enough to hit his hand. “Welcome, everyone!” Wes says on a shout, quieting the boisterous and adorable little crowd effectively. “Thanks for coming out to the Mavericks’ tenth annual kids camp! I’m Wes Lancaster, the owner of the team, and behind me are my wife Winnie and daughter Lexi. Winnie is also the team physician for the Mavs. Though, I do have some disappointing news that she’ll be retiring after this year.”
“Booo!” the lot of us yell, the loudest of which come from Quinn, Teeny, and Sean.
“I know, I know. It’s the end of an amazing era. But I’m confident we’ll find someone to fill her shoes who will be with us, hopefully, all the way to your generation of players,” Wes tells the kids. Sean comes to stand next to Quinn and Teeny, while Six stays on the other side to get a good camera angle, and Wes continues with the introductions. “Now, these guys, I’m sure you recognize…” He pauses, and within seconds, the kids start to scream and hoot and holler toward us.
“Quinn!”
“Teeny!”
“Oh my God, Sean Phillips is standing right in front of me!”
“QBpie!”
It’s a smattering of yells and a jumble of different affections, but without any doubt, it proves the kids do, indeed, know just who the retired Mavericks players are.
It’s not a surprise, given their interest in a Mavericks football camp, but what does shock me is the number of kids who start to yell my name, unprompted.
“Boden!”
“Blake!”
“Oh my God, I didn’t know Blake Boden was going to be here!”
Quinn turns to me with a waggle of his eyebrows, mouthing, “See? Your year.”
I wave to the kids with a smile, jerking my chin up when one little boy calls my name again.
“And yes, it seems you know him too,” Wes says and flashes a smile in my direction. “Blake Boden is the quarterback at Dickson University and has generously volunteered his time to help you guys learn this year.”
My eyes can’t decide where to look, bouncing around the crowd at all the kids and occasionally looking to where Lexi stands beside her stepdad. When I see she’s looking in my direction, her eyes focused in that analytical way I’ve seen so many times before, I can’t help but wonder what she’s thinking right now.
Is she mad I’m here? Is she happy I’m here?
Has she finally decided that she should give in and marry me?
Surely the latter is over the top, but the fact that she’s not tossing glare-daggers my way is all the response I need.
Add in the excitement as the kids scream about getting to work with me, and a warm wave of pride crashes over my chest. Becoming the guy people look up to in a sport I love is an accomplishment in and of itself. Whether I end up making the pros or not, I’m certain this is an experience I’ll remember for the rest of my life.
Pulling a ball from the ground at my side, I pass a quick ten-yard lateral to the sideline, where a waiting boy in a Mavericks camp shirt and black jersey shorts waits with his hands up. He completes the catch with the ball tucked to his chest and then does a quick shuffle with his feet to turn upfield. His moves are impressive, reminding me of what I was like when I was just becoming obsessed with the game at eight years old.
Lexi holds court with a group of other kids, talking shop and statistics for pretty much the entire past roster of Mavericks’ football.
I haven’t gotten a chance to talk to her yet today, but as things wind down, I’m hoping I can catch her before she leaves. Her highlight reel video at the beginning of the day was so fucking well done, including a huge tribute to memorialized soldiers at the end and everything.
Graphics and videography may not be her main skill set, but I’m starting to think there isn’t anything her brilliant mind can’t do.
I pick up another ball and repeat the process for the last two kids in line, shouting encouragement as they each make their catch, the second of which wasn’t even that suitable of a pass.
“Good hands!”
They beam under the praise and run to join the group in front of Lexi, tossing their balls back to me on the way. I net them all back into the bag, pull the drawstring, and then follow them over.
Quinn, Sean, Six, Teeny, Wes, and Winnie have already left for the day, so it’s just me, Lexi, and the kids.
The last time we found ourselves alone in a football stadium together, the night ended in a kiss. I can only hope this time goes as well.
“Great job today, everyone,” I say encouragingly as I join Lexi at the front of the group. As in any camp like this, it’s plain to see that some of the kids have more natural talent than others, but the heart of every single one of them was huge. They all put in one hundred percent effort for the whole two hours, which is a lot for kids ten and under, attention-span-wise. “I’m so impressed with everyone’s effort today and can’t wait to see where we can get Wednesday. My goal is to leave you with as many exercises and drills as possible that you can use at home and in your own team’s training to improve your timing, hand-eye coordination, and general knowledge of the game. Speaking of which, Lexi here is a wealth of football knowledge, so be thinking between now and Wednesday of some new questions you can ask in an effort to stump her.”
Lexi eyes me with a narrowed gaze I can see out of the corner of my vision, but I smile and continue on.
“In fact, if anyone can ask her for a Maverick statistic on Wednesday that she doesn’t know, I’ll give them a signed Dickson Football poster to take home for their room.”
The kids roar in excitement, and Lexi shakes her head with a coy smile.
“Don’t get too excited,” I warn them. “She knows almost everything . It won’t be easy.”
“My dad knows all kinds of Mavs’ facts!” one little boy shouts. “I’ll definitely get her.”
I laugh. “I hope you do. But until then, be practicing and get some rest. We’ll be busy on Wednesday!”
I pull the kids in for a final huddle, hands-in cheer, and then off they run toward the south end zone to meet back up with their parents.
Lexi and I are standing alone on the football field again, but thankfully, this time, we’re not locked in a standoff with Dickson’s athletic director.
“So, what do you say, Lex? Want to grab some pizza again?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light.
She makes an exaggerated gagging noise, her eyes bulging for extra effect. “Not unless you blindfold me first and bring a stun gun for backup.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Good thing I packed both.”
“Ha-ha.” She rolls her eyes but smiles just enough to give me hope. “Very funny.”
“Okay, but really. Let’s go do something.”
She shakes her head, her ponytail swishing behind her. “I’m busy.”
“Busy doing what? Avoiding me?” I tease, even though I’m silently wondering if that’s true.
“Wow,” she deadpans. “We’re really back to square one, huh?”
“Not exactly,” I argue, folding my arms. “At square one, I didn’t have your number, and you probably wouldn’t even be talking to me right now. So, we’re at square three. Maybe two and a half.”
She tilts her head, considering me.
“Just for clarification,” I continue shamelessly, “at what square do I get to kiss you again?”
“That square is off the board,” she replies flatly, but I don’t miss the way the corners of her mouth twitch. She wants to smile right now, but she’s doing everything in her power to keep her poker face intact.
“Oh, come on,” I say, eyeing her closely with a grin. “You can’t tell me you hated it that much. It was a good kiss, right? Technically speaking.”
“It was above average,” she admits, her tone neutral but her cheeks pink.
I grin, leaning in just a fraction. “By a lot of points, right?”
Her eyes narrow, but I see a flicker of amusement in them. “What is it with you and your ego? Do you need it stroked every five minutes, or can it occasionally pet itself?”
“It’s like a cat,” I say with a shrug. “It needs attention. Regular rubs.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, arching a skeptical brow.
“What? That’s normal. Everyone’s ego likes attention. Don’t you like it when people tell you how smart you are?”
She shrugs again. “I guess I don’t hate it.”
“See?”
“See what?” she asks, crossing her arms.
“We have a lot more in common than you’d like to believe. You just need to spend more time with me to figure it out.”
“I can’t tonight,” she says, turning away, her voice dismissive but not unkind.
“Then when?” I ask, a level of desperation setting in I’m not used to—not in school, not in sports, and definitely not in women.
She glances back over her shoulder, and the tiniest hint of a smirk plays on her lips. “You have my number. Guess you’ll have to figure out how to use it.”
I watch her walk away, but my resolve grows with every step she takes.
Fine, Lexi Winslow. You want me to figure it out? Challenge accepted.