Page 26 of Her Nebraska Touchdown Daddy

“Line it, Windy! Now!” Taryn screams. My foot obeys without conscious decision. I flick my attention to the defensive player rushing toward Taryn to make sure my pass won’t push her off-sides. Then I launch the ball to her right and ahead of her, trusting she’ll get to it.

The inside of Taryn’s boot cradles the ball as she strides alongside it, matching the speed of my pass to her sprint into the other team’s penalty box. Sweat pours into my eyes, making them sting more with every blink. I squint to watch Taryn press forward, juking and dodging defenders and lining up the shot on goal.

“Shot! Shot!”

It sounds like the whole universe is screaming it. I’m gasping for a deep breath to join the rallying cry when Taryn finally releases the ball and sends it, bending the ball high and tight into the upper corner where the keeper’s gloves miss it by inches.

The crack of bodies colliding is loud enough to register over the roaring cheer of the spectators who have traveled to watch us play. Taryn crumples under a late tackle from a defender with more momentum than she could rein in. I sprint on jelly legs to her side in time to help the other player carefully untangle herself from my best friend.

“Taryn, don’t move! You could be hurt. Wait for coach!” I demand.

She never listens. I swear, the girl’s more brat on her best-behaved day than I’ll ever manage. Instead of obeying my plea to stay still, she rolls over onto her back and clutches at her knee.

“Owwww! I think I’m really hurt!” she cries.

My heart’s in my throat, tears erupting from my eyes like her words are a remote control turning the volume up. Taryn writhes on her back, her hands clutching at her knee in an almost theatrical agony. I drop to my knees, ready to hold her in place and stabilize her until the medics can arrive.

“It’s my kneeeeee!” she wails as Coach Vanderman, Taryn’s boyfriend Bhodi, and the paramedics skid to a stop beside where we’re on the ground.

“Try to be still so we can help you,” a paramedic commands, snapping latex gloves on as he kneels next to us.

“But it huuuuuurts!” she howls dramatically.

Hands cup my shoulders, pulling me away from the EMTs working on my teammate and bestie. I thrash and fight them, trying to get back to her side when a firm swat on my backside shocks my attention away from the commotion in front of me.

“Shhh, it’s okay. Settle down, little lush. It’s me.” Deke’s got me. I hadn’t even known he would be here today until right before the match began when he walked out and shook Coach Vanderman’s hand. He’s been pacing the sidelines with my coach the whole game. If that’s not making our relationship obvious to Director Franklin, who also traveled to be here, his hand on my backside just now surely did.

“Da—uhhh—Deke! You can’t do that here!” I whisper-shout, though it’s not like anyone’s paying attention to us.

“Trust Daddy to know when and where to touch his baby.” The iron in Deke’s voice warns me not to push him. Ever since he found out I’d been ghosting him in a misguided attempt to protect his reputation, he’s been adamant that I stop trying to be the Daddy in this relationship.

It’s funny when he scolds me. Not so funny when he reminds me with his hand on my tush. My hand itches to creep back and protect my ass but exhaustion hits so hard my muscles feel locked and frozen.

“Is Taryn okay?” I’m crying and I don’t know whether it’s just fear for my friend, or a culmination of all the stress of the past few weeks, worry, and postgame endorphin crash. But I am full-on losing it. Deke wraps me in his arms, lifting me and shifting until I’m perched on his hip. My legs wrap around him and his hands go to help my noodly muscles keep their grip.

“I’m too noodly to hold on, Daddy,” I whisper in his ear while he carries me to the sideline. I peek over his shoulder to see the stands are emptying now that the game’s over, but my whole team, as well as all the coaching staff, are clustered near our bench. Everyone’s attention is ping-ponging between the scene with Taryn and me with Deke.

“Is that a word now? Noodly?” Deke asks. I can feel him smiling against the side of my head. He’s walking and peppering my temple with kisses even though I know I must taste like a salt lick.

“It is if I say it is,” I declare.

“No energy left to walk but you got enough gas in the tank left to be a sass-mouth, I see,” he teases.

“I know what you’re doing.”

“You do, huh?” He carries me to the bench and sets me down so I’m facing the field, then sits next to me.

“Mmmhmm. You’re distracting me so I won’t be worried.”

“It’s working, too,” he says.

He’s right. Mostly.

I look over to the field in time to see Taryn picked up and put onto a stretcher that the paramedics wheel toward the ambulance that’s always parked just off the field for every sporting event.

“Is she okay?” I’m so scared for my best friend I’ve all but forgotten we just won the game that puts us into the championship series.

“Remember when you told me you trusted me to handle things with Franklin? That you didn’t need to know all the details?” he murmurs softly, leaning close enough no one can hear or even read his lips.

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