Chapter 6
Nik
I roll my shoulders, jump up and down a couple times, shaking the nerves out, and place my helmet on. The room buzzes with adrenaline while the stadium around us shakes with the undeniable noise that comes from a hyped crowd that isn’t our hometown.
Anyone will tell you it shouldn’t matter where you play—a field is a field—but the players know away games are a completely different beast. You’ve got hecklers and people who wish you’ll get injured, all so their team will advance.
Then you’ve got your own fans who travel hundreds of miles to see you win, and that pressure to give them a win is heavy.
Make it a televised national game? Insanity. Thursday Night Lights flashing everywhere, playoff pressure is thick in the air, and tonight is a must-win to keep our seed. We’re on target to finish with a winning record, which will push us straight into playoff contention.
I should be locked in.
I’m not.
I’m thinking about my conversation with Dante. I’m thinking about Rhett.
I’m thinking about Noelle.
I’m thinking about the way she looked at me the other day, like she already knew all my secrets about my double life.
I’m thinking about sophomore year and all the sin underneath the saint.
We’re in the locker room, just minutes from walking through the tunnel onto the field.
Coach Gage, tough, fair and bleeding green for this game, like every game, is giving us a pep talk.
His words always struck something inside me, sparking a desire to be better.
I guess that's the difference between a good coach and a great coach.
Some of his old team pep talks, dating back to when he coached high school, can be found online.
He had those kids so stirred up that they were barking every time Coach jumped up on a bench in the locker room.
That’s who I want to play for. Someone who can make you feel the passion, each and every day, with just a few simple sentences.
Someone who makes you want to strive to be the best player you can be, all to make his vision of a winning team happen.
He’s the best thing to happen to South Carolina.
“Tonight, it’s us and the clock. There’s no match-up out there.
We’re stronger, faster, better. We didn't get here by luck, gentlemen. We got here on skill, perfect practices, and winning attitudes. Tonight? I don’t give a fuck about last week, last year, or that Super Bowl ring you wear.
That's the past. We’re on a new hunt. To prove we are the best, the most deserving, because we know what it takes to win.
” He stands in the middle of the locker room, slowly turning and looking each of us in the eye. “Who’s with me?”
We swarm him, jumping and barking, excited to take that field. I want this win so bad I can taste it. I want to be that rookie who changed the season. I want to continue to be talked about for making a play bigger than what I was destined for.
I want a fucking ring.
I want to wear it and prove that I’m better than what they think, and that luck doesn't have a place next to my name.
We run the tunnel, hear the screams, and now, here we go, kickoff.
The first quarter’s smooth. I pull in two catches for forty-seven yards.
It happens fast, I’m playing sharp, connected to the field, and Jameson knows it.
I feel like myself, and the crowd, despite being fans of the home team, are loving me.
This is where I thrive. This field, the smell of the leather ball, the dig of my cleats into the grass, the way the setting sun hits the stadium and casts ghosts on the field that I quickly juke and outrun.
There’s no other place I feel more alive than right here, in these moments.
But when the second quarter creeps in, so do my past transgressions: that buried season and the weight of a terrible secret settle on top of me. I think about Noelle and what she knows, doesn’t know, or is about to dig up.
“Yo, eleven! Papas. Papas!”
It takes Coach Gage calling my number and name twice before I jump from the bench and throw on my helmet. He gives me a look and grabs my shoulder. “We need you here. You locked in?”
I nod, telling him I’m good. I’m here and I’m ready to win.
But I’m not.
Because on the fourth down, with a short yardage to run, the ball is snapped, and I break left. I’m wide open. All I have to do is catch this, run, and secure our lead going into halftime. The ball is thrown, soars through the air, hits my hands…
And drops.
The ball just slips right through my hands like it doesn’t want me anymore.
Half the stadium groans, audible and disappointed, and the other half cheers.
I can feel the ground vibrate, it’s so loud.
I don’t react. I just shake it off, jog back to the sideline, and keep my head down until the next play.
Those thoughts from three years ago bounce around my mind.
It happens all the time.
Not to you.
Even the best of the best drop passes.
You’ve only done it on purpose.
It’s not a curse; it’s life. You can’t always be perfect.
Cheaters are far from it.
I tell myself it’s nothing, it’s over, that’s the past. But it’s not nothing, and the past seems to be making itself known.
I glance into the crowd behind the bench, something I normally avoid, but tonight, I need to know if she’s here.
I need to know if she took the time to travel here because that will tell me how intent she is on getting a story.
And my chest tightens when I see her in the press box.
Her lanyard waving in the breeze, small voice recorder held tight, and her eyes boring deep into mine.
I turn from her, telling myself to fucking focus. She doesn't know anything; let her write whatever nonsense she wants.
Fourth quarter comes, and we’re down by three.
We’re in the red zone, it’s third and ten.
We need this, and I want the ball. I want to redeem myself, I want to save the team.
I’m in the huddle, telling my team to trust me.
We break, and I set the toe of my cleat, digging a hole in the ground to give me a jump ahead.
The ball is snapped, and I run a clean slant, cut hard on the inside, and look back.
The ball is already in the air, a perfect spiral, right at my chest. I breathe in, and it’s like time slows down.
Something hits me, inside my chest, and I hesitate.
For a split second, a thought creeps around, and I fucking hesitate.
Cheater.
The ball hits my palms.
Bounces off.
Incomplete.
The crowd erupts not just with disappointment this time, but with hate. The boos are louder than they've ever been. But the boos are drowned out by the sound of my own heartbeat in my chest and words from years ago…
“I can’t believe it! Papas has never dropped a pass.”
“Maybe he’s not ready after all.”
“He choked.”
I stare down at my gloves like they’re the ones who betrayed me and run back to the huddle with my team.
I swore that one game was it, I would never change another outcome, and I never did since then.
And I’m sure as fuck not about to do it tonight.
My team shows me grace, clapping me on the back, but I watch as Jameson is called to the sideline.
I turn my back on him and Coach Gage, focusing my eyes on anything but them.
A moment later, Jameson jogs to the circle and comes up beside me. “Coach wants you out, but I told him no way you’d drop a third. Don’t make me a liar.”
We break on three and get into formation. The crowd's hum disappears, and I lock in on the voice of my quarterback. “Blue eighty! Blue eighty! Set, hut!”
The ball snaps clean, and I explode off the line, shoulders low, arms in tight as my legs carry me past the corner who tries to jam me up. I get a lead and whip my head back, locking eyes with Jameson as he wrenches the ball back by his ear.
He lets it sail, and I see the ball gaining on me.
I glance back as I run, arms extended, fingers soft.
The ball drops straight into my hands as I continue my stride.
There’s no bobble. I just catch it smoothly, tuck it into my side, and turn up the gas.
The other team can’t catch me, already trailing behind me by twelve yards and counting.
I cross the goal line, only slowing when the whistle blows.
I let the ball drop and turn to jump into the arms of my teammates who chased me down.
“That’s the Papas I know!” My team celebrates, and I’m feeling on top of the world again. We set up for the kick, it easily sails through the goalposts, then jog to the sideline together. Garrison and Starks are waiting for me.
“Keep catching like that, and Starks said he’d buy steak dinners for the team,” Garrison says and bursts into a laugh as Tristan Starks punches his arm.
“Sounds good, I like mine medium-rare.”
Jameson’s voice cuts through, steady and sharp: “Focus, Papas. We’ll order dessert after the win.” The team oohs and aahs, and I smile as Jameson comes closer and whispers in my ear, “I knew you weren’t a fraud.”
He laughs, and I slow my stride, letting those words wash over me.
~~
Post-game, we’re in the locker room celebrating the win and the fact that we are one step closer to the playoffs.
Reporters crowd the usual stars, and when they come to me, the questions avoid the two drops, like they’ve been told to stay clear.
Ignore and bury it, like it didn’t happen, just like old times, instead focusing on the final run that continues to secure our seed position.
“Nik, how does it feel? Rookie year and making a catch that pushes your team ahead once more?”
I give them the smile they all want and add a bit of charm to tease the newswoman. “Feels like I cashed a winning ticket with a second left on the clock. Rookie or not, pressure’s just another kind of spotlight, and I don’t mind the heat.”