Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
LUC
“Alright boys! Shut ‘em down!” Coach claps and breaks the huddle, sending us out on the field. I settle into my spot just outside the line, scanning the offense.
We’re up by five and there’s only a couple of minutes left in the game. The ball is on our forty-yard line, and if Miami gets in the end zone, they’ll be able to turn the score in their favor with little-to-no room on the clock for miracle plays to pull off the win.
But they have to get through us first.
Miami’s quarterback shouts and the line shifts.
I know this look. I’ve spent hours reviewing game footage.
He shifts to his right, a slot receiver stacked inside.
Rocke is tracking him. Good. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, he uses this play to bolt straight downfield, looking for a quick strike.
The ball snaps. AJ Leon bursts through their line like a bulldozer, blowing their protection apart.
On the edge, Dez Carter bends around the tackle, hell-bent on a sack.
The quarterback senses the pressure, but he’s calm.
He sees his window–a receiver sprinting open down the seam.
But I see him, too, and I’m already moving before the ball leaves his hand.
It cuts through the air, a perfect, smooth spiral.
I dart towards the receiver, ready to drive into him the moment the ball touches his hands, but I get there just a fraction of a second before he does.
Diverting my attention at the last moment, I break across and step right in front of him.
Leather smacks into my chest and I lock my arms around the ball just as the receiver crashes into my back.
I stumble but maintain my footing and take off the other way, towards their end zone.
Ten yards fly by under my feet. Then fifteen. The sideline opens up, and the crowd detonates, a wall of noise so loud it rattles my helmet from here.
Two of Miami’s players drag me down near the thirty-yard line. I hit the turf, ball cradled tight, a smile behind my facemask.
I stand, eyes wide at the madness around me, bracing as a wall of white and gold comes rushing towards me. AJ knocks his helmet into mine and screams like an absolute maniac. Dez whoops, and Treyden Rocke is slamming his fists against his chest pads, yelling, “That’s right, baybee! That’s right!”
As we head back to the sideline, Monty rips my helmet off and kisses the side of my head before taking the field. “Dinner’s on me, Martín!”
I pick up my helmet, more aware than ever of the cameras following me as my teammates and Coach congratulate me on a great play. One gets rather close, and I wonder if Jesse is watching. I shift my eyes to the camera briefly, as if I could see him there, then look away, smiling to myself.
We end up winning 46-34 after Monty makes a clean drive to the end zone, and our kicker puts up the extra point.
Tonight is not a night where I’m able to keep my head down.
Coach Harrick actually shrugs when I’m immediately pulled to the side for a post-game interview, after being forced to endure a quick ride on my teammate’s shoulders.
I keep my statement quick and to the point, and then I’m thankfully torn away from the cameras by an overexcited defensive tackle who mutters, “I got you,” under his breath as he manhandles me.
Once we’re in the tunnel, I smile at AJ gratefully. “Thank you,” I say sincerely.
“Anytime, my man. I know you hate that shit,” he says, locking his arm around my shoulders. The moment we step into the locker room, everyone starts clapping and cheering. A ball hits me hard in the chest, and I almost don’t react in time to catch it.
Is this–?
“Game ball, Martín. You fucking deserve it.”
“Oh.” Wow. I’m speechless. Everyone’s staring at me, though, so I’m not sure what to do other than tip my head and say, “Thanks.”
Monty chuckles, then looks at AJ. “René’s on it.”
“Nice–you already tell everyone?”
“They’re all in.”
“What are you two talking about?” I ask nervously, because AJ looks like he’s up to something. Hopefully, if he’s involving our team captain and René, our team travel manager, it can’t be too bad.
“Go take a shower, Lucy,” he says. “We’re taking you out to celebrate.”
“A–”
“–Just dinner, and René is setting us up with a private room. I told you, I’ve got you.”
I huff a laugh and shake my head. “Alright. But stop calling me Lucy.”
A mischievous grin stretches across his face, and I turn away to go take a shower before he starts his stupid Ricky Ricardo impressions.
Ghost: Was that smile for me?
ME: You caught that?
Ghost: Kind of hard to miss. I’m not the only one, either. I’m afraid to tell you that you’ve become America’s sweetheart over the last half hour.
ME: Shut up.
Ghost: For your fame-hating sake, I wish I was. You can’t help it, you're so goddamn sexy.
A link comes through, and just by the title, I decide not to click on it.
“The smile that launched a new football fandom: America has a new heartthrob, and his name is Luc Martín.”
ME: That’s just absurd. They’ll forget by tomorrow.
Ghost: Doubtful. They’re in love
Ghost: Not gonna lie, I love knowing that half the country is losing its collective shit over you right now, but I’m the only one who knows who that smile was for.
Ghost: Me. It was for me.
Ghost: *GIF of Scarlett O’Hara swooning*
ME: You’re ridiculous.
Ghost: I’m also riDICKulously hard.
ME: Don’t tell me that. I’m about to get on the bus.
Ghost: Headed back to the hotel to order something bland from room service and wait for your dashing boyfriend to call?
Wait… Boyfriend?
ME: I’m actually going out for dinner with some of the team.
Ghost: GASP
Ghost: Tell AJ to check your temperature.
ME: Don’t get too excited. It’s a private room.
Ghost: Baby steps. You’ll be dancing on tables and doing blow off a stranger’s dick in no time.
ME: …
Ghost: Just kidding. I’ve never done that.
Me: …
Ghost: Okay, once.
Ghost: For the blow thing
Ghost: I’ve danced on a lot of tables.
Ghost: Okay, I’m done digging my own grave now.
Shawna: THAT WAS INSANE!!!
Shawna: Congrats on a great game!
Shawna: Um. DO NOT get on the internet right now.
ME: Too late. I already saw the article.
Shawna: THE article? Oh, honey… There are so many.
Shawna: So, so many…
ME: How much shit are you about to give me?
Shawna: How much time do you have?
ME: I’m actually headed to dinner.
Shawna: What, with people?
ME: …
Shawna: Did you hit your head? Tell AJ to take you to get a CT.
ME: Why is it always AJ?
Shawna: Because he’s your only friend.
Shawna: Other than me, obvs. I’m your BEST friend. He’s your work bestie. It’s a caste system.
Shawna: Has HE seen the articles?
God, I hope not.
I look around at my teammates, shuffling onto the bus. They’re mostly talking among themselves about the game. People keep slapping me on the shoulder or fist-bumping me, but no one is being over-hyped.
Well, no one except AJ. He comes bounding towards the bus just as I’m about to get on. The people behind me let him cut in because we all sit in pretty much the same spots anyway. He’s practically buzzing, lips rolled in to keep from letting too much joy out. It’s disturbing.
I groan. “You saw it, didn’t you?”
“Oh. My. God. Lucy, you’re an internet sensation!”
“I am not. It’ll die down by tomorrow.”
“Unlikely. The clip that ESPN showed went viral immediately, and then so did your very boring post-game interview. Those things never get much replay unless the player says something offensive. But your boring ass, ‘Well, we played a great game. Despite the stick in my ass, I ran fast,’” he says in a poor impression of Forrest Gump’s voice, “is now viral.”.
I roll my eyes. “It’ll die down.” It will. Right? It has to. I wonder if I can get Jesse to do something to distract the masses, like release a dick pic or something. There are pictures of his dick on the internet. I’ve seen them. They were all before he got sober, though.
Jesse Moore dances on tables at the Louvre and exposes dick to passing convent. Three nuns faint, and the rest strip out of their habits on sight. One nun joins him, and they perform an impromptu duet that becomes an immediate world sensation.
That should do it.
I snort a laugh and open my phone again to send Jesse a text telling him my idea, when AJ looks over my shoulder. “Ooooh, is that Shawna? Tell her I say hi.”
“She’s not interested,” I sing-song.
“How do you know? You asked her?” He pauses. “No, really, have you asked her? Because if I’m not her type, I can change.”
“León, she’s not even your type.” AJ almost exclusively dates models and influencers, extremely beautiful women who dress to the nines in couture and wear stilettos with jeans.
The type of women who wouldn’t be caught out of bed without the latest fashions, their hair and nails perfectly done, and a full face of makeup.
Shawna goes to the grocery store in an old, ratty pair of my sweatpants that she stole from my gym locker in high school.
Her daily wardrobe is a pair of leggings and a baggy t-shirt that is likely also stolen from me.
In the winter, she sometimes accessorizes with a hoodie that’s usually covered in profanity and snark.
I’ve never seen her wear a stitch of makeup, even at our senior prom.
Her hair is almost always in a ponytail pulled through a hat that–you guessed it–bitch stole from me.
She farts and burps more than any man I’ve ever met, has a crippling caffeine addiction, and spends all her time reading gay smut novels.
Shawna Landry-Ryan–middle name redacted because she hates it–is, put quite simply, awesome.
She’s my best friend in the world. My brother (because I have two sisters and don’t need another) from another mother. My platonic soulmate. My inspiration for who I want to be when I grow up because she does not give a fuck.
There’s no one better. That doesn’t change the fact that she’s not AJ’s type. Not only that, he couldn’t handle her.