Chapter 17
“Is it always like this?” I shout to Millie over the steadily rising voices building around us and the current mix of pop, country, and hip-hop music blaring through the speakers overhead.
“This?” She looks at me like I might have a fever. “The night’s barely started. The student section hasn’t even gotten here yet.”
It’s not that football wasn’t a big deal in Colorado…or at least, I think. It’s just that my school’s team sucked and we didn’t have a college-equivalent stadium located right behind our school.
“I thought Friday Night Lights was an exaggeration.” I look around the stadium slowly filling up with every face I’ve seen around town and ignore the curious, if not suspicious, glances being thrown my way. “But I’m starting to think they might’ve undersold it.”
“Yeah.” She nods her head, trying to take it in as if it’s her first time like me. “Texans are serious about their football, but Celestial takes high school football to another level.”
“I can see that.”
I think it’d be impossible to miss.
Everyone is decked out in the school colors.
Kids run around at the bottom of the bleachers in their matching Astro logo shirts dodging a group of little girls shaking their pom-poms with ribbons in their hair.
People of all ages climb into the stands, schlepping up the steps with seats thrown over their shoulders and snacks in their hands.
The team moms are impossible to miss and not only because of the cowbells so many of them are insistent on ringing.
Beaded football earrings dangle from their ears, and the rhinestones glued to their sons’ names on the backs of their T-shirts wink beneath the sun.
The dads, though woefully less sparkly, are just as easy to spot all huddled in a circle with their hands shoved in their pockets, nervously shifting from foot to foot.
“Just wait till our rival game,” Millie says, and the glee in her voice is both thrilling and unnerving. “Things get crazy.”
“Are we good?” I ask, noting how desperately I want to include myself in this community. “I’ve seen the boys work out and I know they can run a mean ladder, but how are they in games?”
Growing up, I was competitive to a fault.
My second grade teacher requested a parent meeting to discuss my “intensity around board games,” and my mom almost pulled me out of soccer because I would get so upset if we lost, I’d cry for the entire weekend.
Now, as an adult and a spectator who has been humbled by life, I’m much more laid back.
Win or lose, I have goody bags in my trunk for the entire team.
That said, it’s so much more fun to watch your team win, and for the sake of the boys I’ve grown so fond of, I really hope they don’t stink.
“We’re really good,” she says. “We’ve always been decent, but ever since Tate came back and started coaching, we’ve been on the slow ascent to state. If the buzz around town is right, this could be the year we make it.”
I try to focus on the topic at hand, but one mention of Tate and I’m right back on that blanket, waking up with the warmth of the sun beaming against my face, still wrapped tight in his strong arms.
“He seems like a great coach.” I try to keep my voice light and unbothered despite the Godzilla-sized butterflies running amok inside my stomach. “Whenever I’m running while they practice, everyone always seems really happy even though they’re working out in full pads in this heat.”
That alone feels like an award-winning accomplishment.
“Tate knows what he’s doing. He was, like, the best player in the state of Texas,” she says. “Maybe even the country.”
She says this so casually, I’m unsure I heard her correctly.
“In the country?” That has to be hyperbole.
“Yeah. I think he was projected to go in the first round of the draft before…” She pauses and her eyes widen like she just gave away the ending to the latest Marvel movie. “Never mind.”
What in the world?
“Oh no—” I start to argue, but I don’t get the chance, thanks to the marching band sitting in the section directly to our right choosing this moment to stand up and play. “Saved by the tuba!” I shout into her ear, ignoring the shit-eating grin that spreads across her deceptively angelic face.
The players are nowhere to be seen, but the field is bustling with activity.
A group of ten men stand in the end zone, flanking the giant inflatable star they spent the last thirty minutes wrestling, and holding on to the straps keeping it in place for dear life.
The cheerleaders are out in full force. Some of them are in the middle of the field, wowing the crowd with their acrobatics as others stand to the side, waving their pom-poms and chanting “Let’s go, Astros,” loud enough to be heard over the band, while the other set have created a tunnel of sorts coming from the inflatable star and onto the field and are marching in place.
“Remind me again,” I yell to Millie, “why are there two sets of cheerleaders?”
“The ones in the hats and the cowboy boots aren’t cheerleaders.
” She points to the group of girls in the cutest uniforms I’ve ever seen.
They’re all wearing matching white cowboy boots, purple cowboy hats dripping with sequins, and skirts covered in fringe.
“That’s the drill team. They’re like the dance team. ”
“Do they sell their outfits in town?” I ask. “Because while I might not be rhythmically inclined, I do really need that hat and skirt.”
Am I about ten years too old to wear this? Probably. Do I care? No.
I’m obsessed and nobody can stop me. This is the most Texas outfit I’ve ever seen, and I need it in my closet immediately.
“Good luck with that,” she says. “I’m not saying the drill moms are sociopaths who would slash your tires and murder you in your sleep or anything, but what I am saying is gatekeeping is written into their code of conduct, and Abby Lee Miller looks like a teddy bear compared to Liza Smart.”
I’ve heard a lot of names since I’ve moved, but that one isn’t ringing a bell. “Liza Smart?”
“Liza Smart.” She points to a woman standing against the chain-link metal fence in a sequined Astros jersey with her last name written above the number 00.
Liza’s back is to us, but even from this angle, she’s giving pageant queen perfection.
It only takes one glance to know she doesn’t just abide by the old adage of the higher the hair, the closer to god, she lives it.
Her long white hair is serving pageant queen realness.
It’s curled, teased, and pinned to perfection, and even from afar, it’s clear that not a strand of hair is out of place.
Her hands gesture wildly in front of her, with her long, purple-painted nails acting like a conductor’s baton.
Now that I’m tuned in, the unmistakable rasp that comes from smoking a pack a day carries over the crowd as she screams out step counts to the girls on the field.
“She seems intense,” I say. “Complimentarily, of course.”
“ ‘Intense’ is an understatement of epic proportions,” Millie says.
“She’s been the drill team coach since before I was born.
Rumor has it that she was engaged once, but her husband-to-be told her she’d need to take a step back from the team to focus on their home after they got married.
She left him the same day. Nobody gets in between her and her girls.
It’s worked out well for her. I’ve lost count of how many championship titles she’s led them to. ”
“Damn.” If there’s one thing I love most about living in a small town it’s that even the things I might think are inconsequential have the best lore. There’s a long, storied history about everything and everyone, and there’s always someone close by willing to fill me in. “I respect and fear her.”
She nods. “That pretty much encapsulates how the entirety of Celestial feels about her.”
Before I can get Millie to give me the dirt on the cheer coach, the doors to the locker room swing open and the football coaches file onto the track.
They all look equal parts adorable and determined in their matching polos, khaki pants, and baseball hats, and it’s hard to tell who’s who.
Or, I should say, it’s hard to tell who’s who with the exception of one very tall, dark, and handsome head coach.
The moment he steps onto the track, it’s like my body can sense him. My skin thrums with excitement and my body vibrates with recognition. It’s almost like being pulled to him is simply a law of physics that cannot be denied or fought.
Not that I’m fighting.
“Oh, girl,” Millie leans in and whisper-shouts into my ear. “If you don’t think I won’t be asking the second we leave this place about the way you’re watching Tate, you’re sorely mistaken.”
Fuck. It would be so nice if my every emotion wasn’t always broadcast across my face.
“There’s not much to it,” I lie, still unable to tear my gaze away from how well Tate’s pants fit and how cute Duke looks trotting alongside him. “He’s objectively very attractive and it’s in my nature to appreciate beautiful things.”
It’s also in my nature to want to climb him like a tree and spend the rest of my nights tangled in his arms beneath the stars.
“You’re a terrible liar and I will not be dissuaded,” she says, but something catches her eye and her squirrel-like attention span proves her wrong. “Ciara!”
Somehow, Ciara hears Millie over all the noise. She waves back, zigzagging through the group of people huddled at the bottom of the bleachers and then taking the steps two at a time until she reaches us.
“Millie! Luna! I’m so glad you’re here.” She shimmies past the other people in our row and wraps us in a giant hug. “I know I graduated forever ago, but this place still makes me sweat. I was worried the high school kids would call me a loser if they caught me sitting by myself.”