Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
I fly downfield, getting open, darting away from a safety when Caff lobs the ball my way. I’m racing, fifteen, now ten feet from the end zone, and holy fuck, it’s coming in hot and fast.
My arms are over my head and the ball is threatening to sail past me. I leap and grab that motherfucker with one hand.
It bobs in my palm.
Not today, football.
I haul it down, hugging it to my goddamn shoulder, then bring it to my chest right in the end zone.
That’s how you do it!
A few seconds later, Hamlin smacks palms with me. “Dude, you caught that ball with your fucking shoulder.”
“I fucking did,” I say, then we bump chests. Some plays just fire you up. I steal a glance at the fifty-yard line. I swear, I can make her out from here. Cheering, hollering, getting hoarse from excitement. Yeah, I hope she saw that touchdown catch. I hope it fired her up like it does me.
Cafferty joins me next, high-fiving too. “Ringleader! You and your circus catches,” he says.
A few years ago in our last Big Game appearance, I caught one of his passes on the side of my helmet.
“I am the End Zone Ringleader,” I say, taking that new nickname and owning it.
And I’m also all energy as we head to the sidelines for the extra point. “Let’s do this, D. Fucking lock it up,” I say when the point is good and the kickoff return team heads to the field.
“Maybe there’s another reason Hendrix is extra excited today,” Hamlin drawls.
I shoot him a look in question.
“Your fans,” he says with a smirk, then nudges Cafferty’s arm while looking my way. “I think it’s because someone is here.”
“That so? Who is this special someone, Hendrix?” Cafferty goads.
This convo with the guys is as normal as high-fives, spotting your bud in the weight room, and talking trash in the locker room.
But for a few seconds, I’m more speechless than I’d like to be. Rachel’s a friend. She’s always been a friend. They both know Rachel. She’s been a fixture on the sidelines for most of our home games this season.
Trouble is, I don’t know what to call her as I fashion my comeback.
No one feels all wrong.
Someone is too much.
And just a friend feels like a lie.
I choose option D, sidestepping it. “It’s hard, isn’t it, that my cheering section is so fucking big,” I say, then gesture to my crotch, since, well, size is the easiest way to tackle any trash talk.
“Like your ego,” Hamlin retorts as the special teams leave and the defense takes the field.
We’re all business now, focused on the game. The defense has to hold off the Wolves. But the Wolves are gnashing, and two big plays later, they’ve scored a touchdown.
I groan in abject misery. We only have thirteen damn seconds to get in field goal range.
We start deep in our own territory, so Cafferty goes long and hurls the ball my way. Like a hawk, I track it as I run. I can feel it in my fingers. I’m this close to hauling it in and getting out of bounds with enough time left.
But out of nowhere, a cornerback slices my path, batting the ball down before it even reaches me.
There is no out of bounds. The clock runs out, and I don’t groan in misery. I curse in despair as I walk off the field, head down. It’s one game, but it’s not just one game. Every game matters.
After a few shitty minutes where I want to kick things, but I don’t, I pull myself together to head to the stands to say hi to friends and family. First, Mom and Dad.
“Tough loss, kid,” my dad says. I’ve always been kid to him. I’ll always be kid. I don’t really mind.
“Yeah, sucks,” I mutter. He never expects me to be happy all the time. It’s nice.
My mom ruffles my hair, and since she always looks on the bright side, she says, “But that catch was amazing.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
I don’t say what I’m really feeling—lot of good it did.
I raise my face. I can’t avoid it any longer. I have to see my friends. When I make my way to Rachel, I’m even more disappointed in myself. That’s a weird feeling with her. But maybe it’s not a weird feeling in general. I’ve always wanted to impress the girls I like. Knowing your girl is in the stands always adds something extra to a game. You want her to see you at the top.
Sure, Rachel’s been to countless games of mine in the NFL, but this is the first game she’s come to after we’ve slept together, after our chocolate café date, and after the decision to do girlfriend lessons.
I want to win for me, for my team, for my job, for the fans.