Page 17 of Her Nebraska Touchdown Daddy

It’s amazing,in an awful, terrible, no-good sort of way, how little time it takes for everything to go from normal to phenomenal to shit. Breath-stealing, hands-shaking, eyes stinging with angry, hopeless tears shit. I want to scream and rail at fate for teasing me with a happiness I didn’t even know was real before ripping it away. Dramatic much? I’m a college senior with my first real heartbreak. I think I’m owed a little grace when I let the angst of it all get to me.

“Howell, you’re cooked. Get off my field. Hit the showers and go home. You’re dragging ass and knocking everyone else off their rhythm. Ice and rest for the night, you know the drill”

Assistant Coach Michaels yelling at me startles me from my mental sobfest and I trip over my own feet. On the plus side, wiping out on the turf is so common it doesn’t hurt anymore. The downside is rolling to my knees and looking up to see everyone staring.

Even the special team’s football players who are practicing kickoffs and punt returns nearby. Even their head coach, the Daddy my heart still wants for my own. Wants. Can’t have.

The dorms are a ghost town when I make it over to that side of campus. Normally, the team travels like a pack. It’s nicer that way because it’s easy to blend in with a group. No one pays me any specific attention when everyone’s laughing and talking.

There’s a convenience mart that takes student meal cards in the building next to mine. I swing through there on my silent, solo, booted-out-of-practice walk of shame. Maybe today I’ll eat the turkey sandwich and cup of pasta salad. More likely, they’ll wind up piled next to yesterday’s and the day before’s food.

Hard to feel like eating when all I want to do is go running to Daddy to fix everything. Too bad Deke is part of the problem. Why’d I have to go and fall for a famous, important guy? Why couldn’t I meet an ordinary Joe Schmoe that Director Franklin didn’t have any power over?

The plastic sack with my dinner in it gets tossed on the desk next to the pile and my practice jersey, shorts, and socks land in the overflowing laundry basket. I spray down my shin guards and cleats with anti-fungal spray, because even heartbroken I’m not willing to let that funk manifest.

The upshot of being a senior in a solo dorm room is my bathroom is mine alone. The downside is it’s the size of a shoebox, so a bathtub is as improbable as a formal dining room, Still, my parents surprised me with a pop-up cylinder tub that fits in the shower stall and keeps water cold for ages.

Do I like frigidly cold soaks? Duh, of course not. Years of swollen ankles, knees, shoulders and wrists make what I like less important than what’s necessary. So even though all I want to do is bury myself under the fluffy blankets piled on my bed, I don’t.

I grab the two buckets stuffed under the sink and swing to the industrial ice machine in the lounge by the vending units.Another upside of getting booted from practice is there’s a full bin that has yet to be raided by all the other players and teams.

Cold water from the shower has filled the basin nearly up by the time I lug the full buckets back a third time. More than anything I want to skip this next part. Ice baths are the literal worst. Already, my joints are aching at the cold I know is ahead. Undressing is a battle I wage internally, promising myself extra Lego-building time later if I do this now. Probably three or so minutes pass where I just stand and stare at the slowly swirling ice cubes floating in the water. It’s pretty, but sucky.

Sore muscles aren’t gonna un-sore themselves though, so I force myself to lift one leg in and then the other, my breath sucked in and held tight the whole time. My cheeks puff out like chipmunks to trap the gasp that wants to be a scream the instant my skin registers the frigid wet. Quickly, before I have time to talk myself out of it, I sink down until I’m seated crisscross applesauce with my butt on the bottom of the tub and my shoulders just barely peeking out of the waterline.

Stinging needles numb my skin quickly, goosebumps giving way to flesh tight and shivery. No matter how many times the athletic trainers explain the ways ice reduces inflammation and helps overworked muscles heal, it makes no sense. Right now, it feels like every muscle I’ve got has entered a permanent state of lockdown. And yeah, this isn’t my first rodeo. I repeat these anti-inflammatory soaks every couple days during soccer season and have for years. Not that it ever gets any easier.

I’m not sure how much time passes while I huddle in the water, shivering and being miserable physically and mentally. The shaky chills do help clear some of the fog around my brain that’s been dulling my ability to focus and think. So far Director Franklin’s upheld his end of the deal. I accepted the baggie of little capsules of the Meldonium he expects me to take. I’ve been flushing them, which luckily Franklin has no way to tell becauseit’s not like he can drug test me. In return, there haven’t been any new rumors and me and Deke. No scandal and no one screaming for Coach McCree’s head on a platter.

And I guess that’s the real kick in the throat about being a grown-up. Freezing my bits off in an ice bath to hustle along sore muscle recovery so my blackmailer won’t realize I’m not seeing any gains from the illegal drug he’s coercing me to take. Because I’m not actually taking it. All so I can protect the guy I’m pretty sure if I’m not already in love with, I could be with just the tiniest encouragement.

I hadn’t even known having a Daddy was a real thing until I had my very own and had to kick him to the curb for his own best interests. And what really, really sucks? The way he hasn’t sent a single text message to me today. Guess ghosting him for three days is enough to convince him I’m not worth the effort.

Effort is such a small word for such a huge thing. My head tips back onto the hard plastic ring that holds up my human-size ice bucket. Effort is too much to hold my head up anymore. Effort is too much to climb out of the water even though my extremities are going numb from the cold. Effort is having no idea how I’m going to manage to convince Director Franklin that I’m taking his stupid drugs long enough to get through the soccer and football season. Effort, effort, effort.

CHAPTER 21

Deke

Much as Iwant to rush to Windy’s side and carry her home with me, we both have work to do. Student athlete might not be an official job title, but it’s absolutely grueling work. She needs to be able to focus on her practice and performance, not be pestered by the guy who’s crazy about her. Especially not the guy who’s crazy about her that she’s been avoiding for days. And my own athletes are counting on me to prep them for upcoming games.

Pushing thoughts of her back as much as I can, I supervise my coaching staff as they run drills. It takes deliberate effort to keep my eyes off the soccer pitch next to my football field, but I do it. Barely.

“Bring it in, men!” I blow the whistle around my neck and holler for the players to gather around. In my days as a student athlete, a whistle and a shout was enough for a coach to be heard. Might make for a hoarse and sore throat by the end of every practice, but I never heard any of my coaches complain. Technology marches on, though, and today I’m able to stand on a bench and speak into the wired-up mic that’s clipped to mypolo. My voice carries all the way to the players shuffled to the very back of the huddle.

With over eighty young men to coach and supervise, my attention still manages to stray over the bobbling helmets as player jostle one another to get closer. I’m looking for the compact little dynamo with the impossibly thick soccer-girl thighs and the bouncing blonde ponytail that trails behind her as she does her thing on the defensive end of the pitch.

By now I’ve given the mid-week end-of-practice speech enough times I can recite it in my sleep. Which is why I’m able to keep motivating my players even while I’m scanning the far fewer girls on the other field and its benches on the side. Fewer soccer players means fewer halfway covert scans necessary to realize she’s not on the field. Not on the benches. Not anywhere.

“That’s it for tonight. Jerseys only tomorrow for a walkthrough. If you’re on the list for testing tonight, stop by the trainers in the clinic before you leave. If you’re testing in the morning, get it done before classes. No using ball as the excuse for poor academics. Clear?”

Maybe at other schools, players are allowed to cheat and sports their way into passing grades. University of Mariposa doesn’t tolerate that shit, though. My players are expected to be as studious as any other college kid. My focus is still divided though, coaching because it’s my job and searching to find Windy on the women’s field because not having her in my sight is becoming a serious problem.

I dismiss my players and make my way to where the soccer team is winding down its own practice. This time it’s me seeking out Vanderman instead of the other way around, but I don’t bother to disguise my purpose.

“Where is she?” I ask.

“Michaels sent her home early while I was on your side. Said she’s favoring that left leg, and he wanted her icingand resting before the game Saturday.” Paul shrugs, seemingly unconcerned.

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