Callan
The clock is running out, but not fast enough. Thirty-eight seconds. One timeout. Ball on their forty-two.
My hands are steady in the huddle, even if everything else feels like it’s vibrating through me as I listen to the play call in my helmet. The noise from our home stadium presses in, an energy on the field that’s almost a living thing.
“Trips right. Y Stick. Alert X if he presses. On one. Get out of bounds fast.”
Helmeted heads nod. We break, and I catch a glimpse of Charlotte on the sideline, tablet in hand, tracking exactly what’s going on. She doesn’t look nervous, though, and her confidence blooms in my chest. She knows I can do it.
I jog to the line and settle into my spot under the center. Their line shifts late. Now there are five on the line, both edges wide, their linebackers acting like they’ve been waiting for this exact moment all afternoon.
Of course they have.
“Kill, kill!” I call, flipping the protection. I tap my thigh twice for the back. He nods, but he’s already glancing outside, thinking route, not blitz. It’s not ideal.
I exhale once and reset.
“Blue 80… Blue 80… set—” The ball hits my hands, and everything narrows. My first read is covered, and shit, the second is late. The right edge of my pocket starts to cave. I step up right as my shoulder has contact. I move, just enough.
I’ve lost my pocket, so I roll left, buying space. Space that shows me a receiver breaking late, but the window is already almost closed. I hold, not willing to force it. At least, not yet.
Ten seconds.
I tuck the ball and run, sliding hard after eight yards. The turf burns through my pants, but I’m up immediately as Coach calls a timeout.
After a brief break, I line up in shotgun, hoping it will give me a half-second more to see the play we need.
“Set—” The ball is snapped.
The left side holds. Just for one beat, but I’m quick enough this time.
I hit my drop. One, two, three. Pitty sells the out, plants, turns upfield. The corner bites. Hard.
I let the ball go, a tight spiral cutting through the lights.
Then I get hit.
Clean, square.
I go down, and the air leaves my lungs in a sharp exhale.
The sound comes back all at once as the crowd erupts. I push to my knees, my gaze searching downfield. Pitt’s got it in the end zone.
Touchdown.
Teammates bang into me as I get to my feet, helmets knocking mine as we celebrate. Someone yells something I don’t catch, but I smile anyway.
We won.
The last game of the regular season is ours. And we’ve redeemed ourselves against the Las Vegas Reapers.
I jog to the sideline and pull off my helmet, dragging a hand through my hair. The exposed sweat cools fast in the frigid January air. I tug on my team-issued stocking cap, ignoring the ache already building in my shoulder.
“Holy shit. That was a-fucking-mazing.” Charlotte is standing in front of me, her petite frame hidden beneath a heavy down jacket.
Her eyes are bright, her smile wide, like this is exactly where she wants to be.
She bounces lightly on her toes, biting her lower lip as she glances from me to the stands surrounding us.
Finally, as if she’s made some big decision, she pulls my face down to hers, pressing her lips firmly against mine.
I lift her slightly, bringing her closer in every way.
I didn’t know it, but this, her, is exactly what my life has been missing. She makes everything better. My wins are brighter, my losses more bearable, and everything in between is simply more because Charlotte’s around.
I bite back my need to tell her this isn’t fake anymore. It’s real to me. But the middle of a stadium, teeming with people, is perhaps not the right place for that.
Finally, we break apart, and that damn lip is back between her teeth. “Good game, Ball Boy.”
“Thanks, Princess. You sticking around for post-game or headed straight to your parents’?” We drove separately today, since far fewer reporters want to talk to her these days. There’s no need for her to hang around, and the Langford family dinner is on for tonight.
“I’m headed out. Need to talk to my brother, anyway. But you’re coming when you can, right? I can have Chef keep a plate warm for you.”
I give her a quick kiss on the forehead, unable to stop myself. “Of course. I’ll head over as soon as I’m done with media.”