Chapter Fifteen
The Final Countdown
If my muscles could talk, they'd be cursing me out in at least four different languages right now.
Our first game with the Devils is coming up soon, and though I'd love to glance over to the stands to wink at Regan, I know that would be a dumbass move.
I'll see her after this final practice is done.
Right now, I need to stay laser focused on the game.
"Again!" Coach Barnes barks from the sidelines as I drag my sweat-drenched body back to the starting line. The August sun beats down on us as if we personally offended it, and my lungs burn like they're filled with molten lead instead of air.
"You think the Devils are taking it easy today?" Ernie shouts as the entire offense lines up for our fifth consecutive set of sprints. "You think they're lounging around wondering if they should maybe practice a little harder?"
"No, Coach," we mumble in ragged unison.
I glance over at my teammates---twenty-five grown men who might be contemplating murder, career changes, or both.
Bigfoots' training camp is legendary for its brutality, but this year Coach Barnes seems determined to push us beyond human limits.
The fact that we're coming off a disastrous season doesn't help.
"Everybody on the line!" Coach hollers, his voice laced with an edge that means someone's about to become an example. "Nobody moves until I say so!"
I dig my cleats into the turf, trying to ignore the burning in my quads. Beside me, Stan "Tank" Wilson---our mammoth offensive lineman---looks like he might throw up. I'd feel sorry for him if I wasn't fighting the same battle with my own stomach.
"You think Portland fans care that you're bushed?" Ernie paces in front of us, his weathered face set in granite. "You think they give a damn that it's hot? They remember last season. Everyone remembers last season."
The collective groan is audible. Last season. When we choked so spectacularly that ESPN created a lowlight reel set to "Yakety Sax." I've spent months aim to forget how we collapsed in the final stretch, losing six of our last seven games and missing the playoffs by a single win.
"This year is different," Coach continues, his eyes locking with mine for a moment. "This year, we prove we're not the joke of the league."
I nod curtly as the weight of his words hit me. I was supposed to be the savior last season, the hotshot quarterback who'd turn things around. Instead, I became the face of our failure. The sports blogs had a field day. "Mike Hannigan: Million Dollar Arm, Ten Cent Brain."
That one still stings.
"On my whistle!" Coach raises his hand, and I crouch lower, ready to explode forward. My hamstrings are screaming in protest.
The whistle pierces the air, and I launch forward with my legs pumping despite the protest from my own body. The first twenty yards aren't bad. It's muscle memory taking over. By yard forty, reality sets in. By yard sixty, I'm questioning my life choices.
But I'm still out front. That's what matters.
Tank is surprisingly close behind me, moving his three-hundred-pound frame with shocking speed for a big man. He's motivated today, probably because Coach threatened to make him run even more if he finished last again.
I cross the finish line first, hands on my knees, gulping air like I've been underwater for the past minute. The other players are staggering in behind me like a parade of misery and sweat-soaked jerseys.
"Better," Coach grunts, which from him is a standing ovation.
"But the Devils' secondary is fast this year.
I know I need to stay sharp if I'm going to outrun their corners.
That's why I sneaked into their practice session yesterday.
I stayed under the bleachers where nobody would notice.
Maybe that was a dick move, but the Devils are a "whatever it takes" type of team.
None of those assholes would bat an eye at using underhanded tactics.
I've always believed the Bigfoots did so badly last year because of that.
"Water break, two minutes," Coach calls, mercifully. "Then we're running plays."
I grab my water bottle and squirt half of it into my mouth, the other half over my head. The cool liquid offers short-term relief as it trickles down my neck. Nearby, Tank collapses dramatically onto the grass.
"I think I'm dying," he moans. "Tell my mom I loved her. And tell that cute waitress at Flanagan's I'm sorry I never called."
"Drama queen." I punch his arm and and smirk, nudging him with my cleat. "Get up before Coach sees you."
"Let him see me. Maybe he'll take pity on me and call practice."
I snort. "Coach Barnes and pity don't exist in the same universe."
As if summoned by his name, Coach Barnes blows his whistle again. "Break's over! Offense, get set for red zone drills!"
Movement in the bleachers catches my eye, and I spot Regan up there blowing kisses at me. I get an energy boost just seeing that.
Tank groans but peels himself off the ground with the enthusiasm of a man heading to his own execution. I offer him a hand and pull him up. "Remind me again why we do this?"
"Because we love the glory." I start jogging back to the huddle. "And the paycheck."
"The glory better include a massage and about fourteen cheeseburgers."
I glance back at where Regan is sitting. She blows me another kiss.
Bohdan disapproves of his star skater taking time out to watch me, but I think he's resigned to the situation now. Regan already bought season tickets for the Bigfoots.
Coach calls for our goal line package, and I settle in behind center, scanning the defense. Our defensive coordinator has set up a nasty blitz to force a hurried throw that's meant to rattle me. I recognize the formation from our last scrimmage. They're disguising coverage on the right side.
With the ball in my hands, I backpedal quickly, feeling the pocket collapse almost immediately. Our defensive line is hungry today, and Jamie Diaz---our All-Pro linebacker---comes screaming through the gap Tank was supposed to cover.
I sidestep, barely avoiding his outstretched arms, and scan downfield. Jackson has a step on his defender in the corner of the end zone.
Touchdown.
"Whooo!!" Coach Barnes shouts, sounding eager for once. "Do that against the Devils and we might not embarrass ourselves!"
"Woo-hoo!" my favorite girl shouts. "Hannigan, you were on fire!"
Once the practice ends, I'm rushing through my cool-down stretches like a man possessed. Not that Coach would approve of my half-assed hamstring holds, but Regan's been sitting in those uncomfortable bleachers for over two hours. The sooner I finish, the sooner I can kiss her senseless.
"Slow down there, Romeo," Tank mutters beside me. "Your girl isn't going anywhere."
"Speak for yourself." I slap Tank's back. "Some of us have social lives that don't revolve around protein shakes and ice baths."
"Says the man who literally keeps protein powder in his glove compartment."
I shrug, spreading my arms. "Whatever it takes to keep in shape. You could take a lesson from my discipline."
Once Ernie has dismissed us, I head to where Regan's waiting and try not to seem too eager.
Regan flings her arms around me. "There's my superstar. You looked great out there. Amazing, actually."
I pull her close. "You always give me an ego boost, just by smiling at me."
She laughs, then playfully pushes me away. "Ew, you're like a human sprinkler system. But yes, spectacular works too."
"I'll take it." I glance over her shoulder to where Bohdan is pretending not to watch us while packing up his clipboard. "Your coach still giving you the evil eye?"
"He's protective, that's all."
"Not sure 'protective' is the right word." I glance toward a shady spot where I see Bohdan waiting for Regan. "Wanna come back to my place?"
She smacks my chest backhanded. "We're having dinner with my family and yours. Have you forgotten?"
"No. And your coach will be there too."
"You aren't fooling me, Hannigan." She wraps her arms around my neck. "You like Bohdan, and he likes you."
My laugh turns into a snort. "I'll believe we're buds when he stops calling me 'that football person.'"
"Oh, he's just teasing you."
"Uh-huh. Sure he is."
When we finally reach Bohdan, he does something so shocking that I think I must have slipped into an alternate universe. Why? Because he smiled at me. And slapped my arm the way my teammates do to each other.
"See?" Regan says. "I told you Bohdan likes you."
The Ukrainian guy waves for us to move, heading toward the parking lot. "I'm impressed with your progress, football man. Perhaps you are not useless on field after all."
"Careful, Coach. That almost sounded like a compliment."
"Don't get used to it." Bohdan clears his throat. "Regan says you are working very hard. This I can see today."
We walk toward the parking lot, my arm around Regan's shoulders. She doesn't mind that I'm disgustingly sweaty. That's just one of the million reasons I'm crazy about her.
"So, are you guys ready for the dinner tonight?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
Regan grins. "Can't wait."
Both our families. Together. In one place.
No, that won't be weird at all.