Chapter Twenty
Game On
The Devils stadium is packed with fans from both teams---and the Bigfoots are ready to rumble.
The home team has the advantage. Regan sits in the VIP box, wearing her Bigfoots jersey and a big foam hand emblazoned with our team's logo.
She's my fiancée now, though we're keeping the engagement secret for now.
Knowing she's watching revs me up to play the best game of my career.
Ivan Brasher busts into our locker room during warm-ups as if he owns the place.
His smug smile always infuriates me. Every time our teams face off, it's the same routine.
He tries to get in my head before the game even starts by crashing our hangout.
I ignore him, focusing on my warm-up routine instead.
I should never have let that dirtbag get under my skin before the first game of the season.
My fiancée is on her feet, clapping and beaming with pride. Seeing her there, wearing my jersey and cheering me on. Nothing's going to stop us today.
The jackass grins, showing off his perfect teeth. "Ready to get crushed, Hannigan?"
He sniggers, while I'm stretching my throwing arm. "Hope your little figure skating princess is watching. She'll finally see what a real athlete looks like."
"Guess your pals tossed you off the team for being a total dirtbag, huh, Brasher?"
"Something wrong, Hannigan?"
Brasher and I have been rivals ever since college, when his team beat mine in the championship by three points.
"Too scared to talk?" Ivan taunts. "Or did your ice princess fweeze your wittle balls off?"
Oh, he really should not have mocked my girl. I straighten up and face him directly. "At least I have someone in the stands who gives a damn about me. Who's here for you? Your paid entourage?"
Ivan is notorious for his revolving door of girlfriends and fair-weather fans.
For all his bravado, the guy's about as deep as a puddle.
We're toe-to-toe now, close enough that I can see the tiny scar above his right brow, a souvenir from our last meeting when my offensive line drove him into the turf.
Coach jogs up between us before things can escalate further. "Hannigan! Save it for the game. Brasher! Get go back to your own team."
I back off.
Brasher saunters away, retreating to his side of the field.
"They're playing right into our hands, Coach." I accept a water bottle from a staff member. "Brasher's aiming to sack you exactly the way you said he would. It's almost too easy."
"Don't get cocky, kid," Coach Ernie warns. "The game just started. Don't let him bait you, Mike. That's exactly what he wants."
"I know, I know, Coach. That strategy won't work on me anymore, I swear."
"Don't forget who you are out there. You're our leader. Act like it."
As he walks away, Regan smiles at me.
I jog back to our sideline where teammates gathering for final preparations. Our offensive coordinator, Coach Simmons, has the playbook open, reviewing our opening drive strategy.
"All right, gentlemen," Coach says, tapping a diagram. "We're going with the quick-strike package to start. Hannigan, establish the tempo early. Show these Devils we mean business from our first possession."
"Got it, Coach. I'll keep the pace fast and make them chase us."
As I jog in place to keep my muscles warm, I glance up at the scoreboard.
Fifteen minutes until kickoff. My teammates run through their own pre-game rituals.
Alonzo Garber, my star wide receiver, is listening to music with his eyes closed.
Keith Decker, our center, mutters to himself as he always does before a game. We're ready, focused, and in the zone.
"Five minutes, Mr. Hannigan," a production assistant with a headset says as he jogs over to me. "Five minutes, Mr. Hannigan. You're doing the coin toss as team captain."
"Understood." My gaze gravitates to the VIP box one more time, and Regan shows me a thumbs-up sign.
"Hannigan!" Coach Ernie shouts, waving me over. "A word before you go out there."
I jog over to him.
"Remember what we talked about in practice, Mike. Brasher's defensive line has a new blitz package. Trust your instincts. You've studied their film more than anyone."
"Got it, Coach."
Ernie has been with me through every high and low of my professional career. I trust his judgement.
The referee signals for the captains, and I jog to midfield where Brasher is already waiting. The ref approaches us. "Heads or tails, gentlemen?"
"Heads," I confirm.
The ref tosses the coin, catches it, and slaps it onto the back of his hand. "Heads it is. Portland Bigfoots, what's your choice?"
"We'll receive."
Brasher snorts. "Hiding behind your offense already, Hannigan?"
"Don't worry, you'll see plenty of me today."
As we shake hands, Ivan's grip becomes unnecessarily tight. Then we return to our respective sidelines.
"We won the toss. We're receiving."
Coach Ernie gathers around us. "All right, boys. First possession of the season. Let's set the tone right now. Hannigan's got the hot hand in warm-ups. Trust your quarterback."
"Break!" the offense shouts, and we head onto the field.
Ivan Brasher barks orders to his team, pointing at various spots in our formation. He assumes he's figured me out. What a moron.
He changes direction for a clean twelve-yard gain before being pushed out of bounds.
And just like that, we have first down.
The offense hustles toward the line of scrimmage. As I call out the next play, I catch Brasher glaring at me from the sideline. His jaw is tight, his eyes narrowed. Good. Let him stew.
Hal Johnson launches the ball just as a defender slams into my legs. The hit sends me sprawling onto the turf, but I keep my eyes on the ball's arc. Garber sprints toward the end zone, and the crowd goes wild.
I can't resist glancing at Brasher, who's pacing the sideline like a caged tiger.
"That's what I'm talking about!" I shout, pumping my fist as I scramble to my feet. Forty-two yards on our second play of the season. I glance over at Brasher, who's pacing the sideline.
Now the fun really begins.
I've never felt more alive than when I'm staring down Ivan Brasher across the line of scrimmage. His eyes burn with hatred that's been festering for years. Two plays into the game and we're already marching down the field like we own it.
Garber's already doing his signature celebration dance---a ridiculous shimmy that somehow never draws a flag. The rest of the offense mobs around him.
Meanwhile, Brasher charges through the line with his eyes locked on me. I sidestep just as his fingertips graze my jersey, and he flies past me.
"Too slow, Crasher!" I taunt, spotting Johnson breaking free.
While the game rolls on, Ivan gets even cockier, but the Bigfoots keep our cool. Why give the Devils any advantage? Brasher tries to disrupt my pass from the right, exactly where Coach Ernie predicted he would. Yeah, he's one predictable asshole, and I don't fall for his shit anymore.
As we jog return to the sideline, I get another glimpse of Regan in the VIP box. She jumps to her feet, grinning and screaming my name. Regan's presence inspires me to play harder, run faster, throw stronger.
Marcus chuckles. "You keep looking up there like you're afraid she's gonna disappear." Marcus teases.
"Can you blame me? My girl is an Olympic hopeful who's won more championship medals than I can count and who could have any guy she wants. But Regan picked me."
The game goes on, and soon it's halftime.
We have thirteen minutes to recharge. Most people who aren't football addicts don't realize halftime is that short.
When I told Regan that, yesterday, she thought I was teasing her.
But nope, I get a measly thirteen minutes to drink some Gatorade, wipe the sweat off my face, and sit down briefly.
Now it's back to the gridiron, so I can whup Brasher.
I pick Regan out of the crowd easily. She's leaning against the railing of the VIP box, deep in conversation with someone---Bohdan, I realize.
His animated hand gestures indicate that he's breaking down the game for her.
The thought makes me smile. A figure skating coach analyzing football? Who could've predicted that.
Our defense holds strong, forcing Brasher's offense into a three-and-out, meaning the Devils failed to gain any ground.
By the time the fourth quarter starts, we're up 35-14, and the Devils fans are filing out early.
The game ends with the Bigfoots getting a solid win under our belts and a crowd that adores us.
But as the stadium empties out, all I want to do is find Regan and make love to her.
But two families, not to mention Bohdan, are rushing to give me hugs and praise. By the time we get home, we're too exhausted to do anything except take a shower together and go to bed.
We don't even make love, that's how wiped out we are.