Page 112 of Near Miss

“What do you think?” I mutter, taking my hat off and running a hand through my hair.

“You got this?” He knocks a fist against my shoulder in what’s supposed to be a comforting gesture.

“Always.” I nod.

I don’t know if I do.

I don’t know if I have anything.

I don’t check to see if those seats I got her are occupied when I run out onto the field.

I make the equipment manager set up the practice net facing the opposite way during warmups.

I don’t look up before kickoff.

I revert back to the Beckett Davis who couldn’t have her. He plays well through the first half—two field goals, and every extra point he’s asked for.

He delivers. He’s reliable. Likeable, if the screaming of the crowd is to be believed.

All the old Beckett Davis ever wanted to be.

But as it would turn out, none of it fucking matters without her.

“We’re going to win.” Coach Taylor drops beside me on the bench, pointing first to the score and then to the play clock: 28–13 with just over twenty seconds left. “Big win for us after last season. And at home, too.”

I try to grin, but it catches on something. Could be anything really—pieces of old me, pieces of new me, the cracks left behind when Greer asked me to leave. Whatever hangs in shreds in my chest.

He taps his clipboard. “There’s a few things we could do here. But we’re in range.” He points to the field. “Beckett Davis field-goal range.”

“Are we?” I bounce my knee up and down, shrugging, like we’re talking about something benign. The weather, maybe.

Not the thing I built my entire life and career around.

“Record-breaking range.”

I nod thoughtfully, like I haven’t been watching the offense inch forward, yard by yard.

Sixty-seven yards.

“What do you want, Davis?”

I glance at him, a crooked grin on my face this time. “Believe it or not, the only thing I want is a girl.”

“Well, I can’t help you with that. But I can help you with this.” He points back to the field and claps me on the shoulder before standing. “Start warming up.”

I scrub my face before grabbing my helmet off the bench beside me and pushing to stand. My leg’s fucking killing me.

Coach Taylor watches me, one eyebrow lifting as I pound my fist into my quad. He shakes his head, like he was standing there beside me last night, watching as I put ball after ball through the kicking net and pushed my muscles way beyond their limit. “If you’d pull your head out of your ass, you’d realize you still have fans. That you’re an important part of this team. There’s been some idiot waving a sign around about that fucking Gatorade commercial all game. They’ve had her on the screen more than they’ve had the game on, for Christ’s sake.”

My fist stills against my leg, and my eyes finally snap to the crowd.

The sign definitely wasn’t her idea.

She’s not even holding it, actually. I can see her swatting it away each time her sister gets too close with it.

It’s covered in rhinestones, elaborate swirls in different colours, with poorly drawn arrows pointing towards Greer, and it says something pretty stupid.

Beckett—she loves your Gatorade commercial.

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