20
KAIN
The rumble of the crowd is audible from the locker room, setting my nerves buzzing. Coach is going over plays and I try to focus, but all I can think of is Gabriella.
She was distant when I saw her this week, like a reflection in a mirror that you want to touch but can never reach. When I gave her a ticket for today’s game, she seemed reluctant to take it, but when I told her Ellie would be there to watch Dornan, she finally accepted it.
I tried not to feel offended, but when we fucked and she came like a woman possessed, there was something disconnected about her that made me ache behind my chest.
Afterwards, I don’t know if she could sense my disquiet, but before I left, she rooted around in her drawer, pulling out a small button with a shamrock on it. I recognized it from a St. Patrick’s Day party we’d been to when we were kids. It felt like a lifetime ago and yesterday, all at the same time. “A lucky charm,” she said, pressing it into my hand. “For the game.”
I brought my hand closer to my face so I could look at it. “Thanks, Gab.” I slid it into my pocket, uncertain of what it meant for her to give it to me.
“Not that you need luck.” She shrugged, and something about her expression made her seem defeated.
I’d left heavy-hearted, but something about that button gave me hope. She was slipping away, but there was still a part of her that wanted to reach out. That was the part I forced myself to focus on.
I turn the button over in my hand. Dornan, who must notice my lack of focus, nudges my arm. “What’s that?”
“Lucky charm.”
“You believe in that shit?” he asks. I know Dornan isn’t superstitious. He’s the one player on the team without either a fixed pregame or postgame ritual to hang on to. He breezes onto the field without a care, taking every game one play at a time. He reflects on his performance, but it’s always with a level of ownership, something he could do better rather than what fate stole from him.
Maybe I need to be more like him. Less focused on fantasy and more on reality.
The button feels like a piece of Gabriella, a piece that she was comfortable to give to me. Leaving it behind in my locker might feel like a rejection of that, or it could just be me finally feeling that I’m a master of my own destiny.
I always want to be in control. It’s a trait that’s deeply ingrained, a part of my character that I just can’t fight against. It’s what I find so frustrating about my feelings for Gabriella. They’re intense and head-rush inducing, like whatever will be will be. No amount of hoping for luck or relying on buttons or other superstitious trinkets is going to make any kind of difference to the way my life turns out.
When Coach is done, my teammates lumber to their feet. We do our team chant to hype ourselves up, and I quickly rest the button on the shelf in my locker.
The walk from the locker room to the field is always accompanied by butterflies. It doesn’t matter how big the guy is, how fierce his abilities, knowing how much is on the line with every game messes with a man’s guts.
Knowing Gabriella is up in the stands somewhere, waiting to watch me play, makes my guts twist even more than usual. I don’t want to be a disappointment to her. I want her to see me at my best. I want her to be proud.
I want her to know in her heart of hearts that I can and will do anything in my strength and power to make her happy, even if that’s walking away.
But there’s only so much a man can communicate on the field.
The anticipation is palpable as we’re greeted by the roar of the crowd. The atmosphere is charged with energy as the national anthem echoes through the stadium, and we line up for the coin toss at midfield. Our quarterback, Alex, steps forward, ready to call the coin flip, and the tension mounts. The referee, a burly man in his forties, flips the coin, and I hold my breath as he takes his sweet time before revealing the result.
We get the advantage, and cheers erupt from our sideline. We know Coach will choose to kick off. Let the game begin.
We take our positions on the field, and our quarterback barks out orders. I ready myself for the snap, tension mounting as the ball is hiked. The back of my neck is as hot as the sun, and I feel Gabriella’s eyes on me like the press of fingertips into my skin.
Football is second nature to me. I’ve been playing for so long that it’s almost an unconscious function like breathing and blinking. Like a dance through water, tackles that happen in seconds feeling stretched out like elastic. But knowing Gabriella’s out there makes everything sharper than usual.
We vie for yardage and momentum, Coach yelling instructions from the sidelines like a man possessed, but Alex, the quarterback, keeps his head on the field. We execute our plays with precision, the sound of helmets colliding, pads crunching, and the cheers of the crowd punctuating every gain. We’re dominating, gaining yards with each play, closing in on the end zone. It’s so close I can practically taste it.
I’m bruised already, but that’s an inescapable part of this game. Sometimes I leave the defenders grasping at air, and sometimes they floor me. Maybe Gabs can kiss me better later. The thought of her lips pressing against my ravaged purple skin makes my head swim.
Alex drops back, scanning the field for an opening. The defensive linemen charge to disrupt the play, but I’m already running, losing the defenders who’ve been crowding me, my legs pumping, arms ready to catch. The ball sails through the air, Alex’s throw arching perfectly towards me, as if my palms are magnetized.
The crowd roars with excitement as I charge towards the goal line. I see an opening and make a sharp cut to the left, evading a tackle attempt. I’m going to do it, and Gabriella will get to celebrate my success, but before I can complete my imminent touchdown, a massive hit blindsides me. A burly linebacker from the opposing team comes at me with full force. I brace myself for impact, but the hit is brutal. His shoulder crashes into my chest, and my feet lose contact with the ground. Time slows, seconds ticking as I fly through the air, the ball slipping from my grasp.
I can’t fucking breathe and when I hit with force, my head snaps forward with such momentum that I see stars.
The referee blows his whistle and I try to get up, but my head won’t stop spinning. The cheers of the crowd trail off into silence, or maybe it’s just my hearing. Maybe it’s a concussion.
My chest feels dull, empty, my focus fades.