Most Likely to Score
He tips his forehead in the direction of the stadium. “During a game?”
I nod.
“Of course.”
“What do you do about it?”
“Don’t write checks I can’t cash. Don’t make plays that are too risky. Do everything I can to make sure I don’t get in harm’s way.”
“But what if it happens anyway?”
“Then you deal with it, man. You just deal with it. Do I want it? Hell no. Do I think about it? Sure. Do I get out there and play as hard as I possibly can because that’s what I signed up for? Yes. Yes, I do.”
I let out a frustrated groan. “My head is a mess right now.”
“It’s game-time, man. That’s not a good state to be in.”
Pushing my thumb and forefinger against the bridge of my nose, I try mightily to shove away this awful feeling. If I thought jealousy was bad, it has nothing on sheer dread. “I ran into Garrett Snow. He’s done. Finished. Can’t play anymore.”
“That sucks,” Harlan says with a sympathetic sigh. “But it happens. It’s a risk we take. You have to find a way to get that out of your head right now.” He grabs my shoulder and squeezes, even though I can’t feel it through the pads. “We have a game to play. Just know I’m your brother-in-arms out there. I have the same worries.”
Some of the tension in me loosens. Maybe I needed to give voice to these fears to let them go.
He points to the exit. “When you go through that tunnel, you check them at the door. You leave it all behind because you put everything on the field. That’s our job. Let’s go do it.”
Offering a fist for knocking, I smack back. “Let’s do it.”
All I can do is what my father taught me. Give more than 100 percent. Give everything. This is what I’ve done my entire life on the field, and when I’m playing ball, I don’t have to worry about what to say or how to love a woman for the first time in my life. I do love Jillian. I’m madly in love with her.
But for the next sixty minutes, I have one job, and that job is to move the ball.
As soon as I run through the tunnel and onto the field, where I’m greeted by the cheers of our fifty thousand hometown fans, I leave everything behind.
It’s game-time.
31
Jillian
“Sushi!” my father declares from his spot at the fifty-yard line. “I still can’t get over the fact that you let them serve sushi here.”
He gestures dismissively at the aproned guy peddling California rolls in our section while the teams take a time-out in the second quarter for a commercial break.
“You do know I don’t have any control over what they serve at the stadium?”
He flubs his lips. “Next thing you know it’ll be barbecued kale.”
“Dad, you live in California. They serve wine here, too.”
He scoffs, lifting a cup of beer. “I have my beer, and I’m good to go with my foam finger,” he says, waggling a blue number one on his hand. “And look, I even put a number eighty-six on it for your beau.”
Beau.
Is Jones my beau?
I wish I knew.
The sound of the fans drumming their feet drowns out my sad, pathetic sigh. I thought we were doing the whole let’s-be-together thing. But so far, we’re doing the same thing we were doing before. Nothing.
I try to tell myself it’s timing. It’s the weekend. There’s a game. I have to understand that. Hell, I should understand that better than anyone.
My dad leans in closer, bumping me with his shoulder. “What’s going on with the two of you?”
It’s like he can read my mind.
I squeeze my eyes shut as a sob works its way up my throat. “I feel so stupid,” I mutter, and I didn’t plan to say that, but he’s my dad. He’s the one who has comforted me my whole life over bruised knees, bad days at school, and my first teenage heartbreak with a boy named Randall. A flash of fear cuts through me. Is this going to be my newest heartbreak?
He sets down his beer and wraps his arm around me, foam finger and all. “Why do you feel stupid, honey?”
Because I’m going to cry.
Because I want more than two texts.
Because I want to know if Jones has done the same thing I did. “I put my heart on the line, my job on the line, and I’ve barely heard from him,” I say, my voice breaking. Behind us, a woman waves pom-poms and cheers. “All he said yesterday was ‘I’m thinking of you.’”
“Give him time.”
I nod, biting my lip. “It’s just hard.”
He squeezes my shoulder and drops a kiss to the top of my head. “It’s hard when you love somebody. But sometimes, a man has to figure things out in his own time. Man-time does not equal woman-time.”
A small laugh escapes me. “Truer words . . .”
“I wish it did, for your sake, but it doesn’t. You’re a quick thinker and a problem solver. You act. You know your heart and your mind. Some men do, but some men take longer to figure it out. Especially when a man falls for a woman for the first time. It’s like trying to start a car with a leaf. The engine sputters, and warning lights flicker all over the dashboard.”
I laugh loudly at his insane analogy. “Who has ever tried to start a car with a leaf?”
“I hope no one, because I don’t think it would work. Maybe it’s like trying to assemble a desk with a spoon.”
“I love your metaphors. They’re wonderfully awful.”
“I aim to please.” Patting my knee, he adds, “And don’t lose sight of the fact that you did what you needed to do for you. You did the right thing even without the reward in your pocket. Sometimes, we have to take a chance, even if the odds are we’re going to fall.”
I want a soft landing, though. But I haven’t been getting one this weekend, and I suppose I’ll have to be okay with it. “You’re right. It’s only been a few days. I’ll wait patiently.”
“Have faith. Now, let’s watch the game. We don’t want to miss a big play, do we?”
“No way.”
My attention returns to the game as the defense forces a punt. I’ll need to head to the press suite shortly, but I stay with my dad for one more play as the Renegades take possession. When there are eight minutes left in the half, Jones makes a spectacular catch. As his hands cradle the ball, my heart flies up my chest. Once he lands safely out of bounds, I’m on the edge of my seat, waiting.
Waiting for my special signal.
He raises his arms. I cross my fingers.
Cooper rushes to him and they smack palms, then race into the next play.
There is no J, and I don’t have a clue if he even intended to make one before the quarterback high-fived him.
32
Jones
The lead slips through our fingers as the Indianapolis offense attacks with ferocity in the second half.
Their quarterback marches downfield, earning first down after first down, launching beautiful passes that turn into even more beautiful catches. They pull in front by six.
With crossed arms, I stare at the action on the field, searching for a way for us to regain the lead. Cooper is by my side, and Coach Greenhaven reviews the upcoming play—his plan of attack for when we get the ball again.
Once we do, we trot out to the field, ready, absolutely ready. As the noise in the stadium rises to deafening levels, Cooper drops back in the pocket and I cut across the field in a new route the Indy defense hasn’t seen from us before. Cooper’s arm is a gun, and he takes aim.