Page 21 of Sneak Attack

It’d calm down as the season progressed, pick back up if they made the playoffs again.

I knew this, because while I’d sell my soul before admitting it, I’d watched every game over the last five years, too.

When they played Tampa Bay, I’d made the seven-hour trip to attend, to see Cole reach his dreams in person. He’d been a backup then, and I’d been stupidly obsessed with watching him on the sidelines as he stood and cheered for every play despite the lack of chance he’d ever had of going in that game. But that was Cole.

Always the team player, always ready to step in if necessary. Always intense when it came to the game. Seemed he was still that same guy off the field too considering our last conversation I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about.

He should have hated me, wanted nothing to do with me except twice he sought me out. Tried to talk.

And both times, I’d run like the coward I still was.

Time marched on, but some things never changed.

* * *

Cole only played the rest of the first quarter. He didn’t score another touchdown, although he helped his team get the ball down to the ten-yard line before Pittsburgh’s defense managed to stop them from scoring. Fortunately, the Steel had one of the best kickers in the league and his field goal was easily made. Since it was preseason, most players with secured starting roles took to the bench after the first quarter, allowing back-ups and those the coaches would still have questions about take to the field.

Marley sat in her chair, drinking sweet teas I continued to bring her along with a tray of veggies and hummus she scoffed at.

“It’s a football game. I should at least be able to have a hot dog.”

They absolutely weren’t in her diet plan, but maybe I could find turkey dogs or something. Although she’d probably smother them with cheese and chili and condiments making the healthier option irrelevant.

“Next week,” I promised her, and replaced her ignored veggies with pickled okra, crackers, and cheese slices.

“Better,” she hmphed, “but not great.”

I went back to keeping one eye on the game, while planning our meals for the week. Scribbling hot dogs and frozen pretzels, corn chips, and ingredients for homemade queso onto the list.

Maybe that’d help her feel like she was there.

It was the fourth quarter, Nashville was up by seven, and while preseason games didn’t affect a team’s regular season standing, a win in the first game, especially at home, helped set the tone of the season. The crowd was electric, on their feet with only four minutes left, although even I knew a lot could happen in those four minutes that could stretch to twenty with timeouts and the two-minute warning, when Pittsburgh’s offense threw a pass.

The pass was only ten yards, easily getting them a first down. A defense player for Nashville was right there, went to make the tackle and Pittsburgh’s wide receiver dodged at the right moment. Nashville’s number ninety-two lost his feet, tripped and went to his knees giving Pittsburgh’s receiver an opening.

“No!” Marley gripped the armrests of her chair, leaning forward as far as she could in her chair. “Get him! Take him down! Stop…ugh.” Her groan that followed was quieted by the stadium’s noise and mayhem as Pittsburgh scored.

Twenty seconds later and the extra point kick was good, leaving the game tied at seventeen with three minutes to go.

The teams lined up for the kick, Nashville’s kick returner lining up deep in their territory and as the ball sailed through the air, I found myself bracing my hands at the back of Marley’s couch, fingers digging into the cushion.

“Come on,” I whispered, and Marley barked out a laugh. “What?”

“You been actin’ like you haven’t been payin’ attention to anything in this game, but I knew you were. You keep holdin’ on to my cushions like that and I’m gonna need to get my old sewing kit out.”

She was right. My knuckles ached and I shoved off the couch as Nashville’s returner was downed at their thirty-yard line.

“I only got into it because you’ve been yelling so loud, Marley.”

“Hmph.” She rolled her eyes. “What’d I say about lying to me?”

That I’d regret it when she was gone. Probably true, but I’d add it to my growing list.

Seventy yards to go with a rookie quarterback, Sam Denmark. It wasn’t impossible. And all they needed was a field goal, but overtime was looking possible assuming we didn’t go three and out.

We?

This wasn’t my team. At least, not vocally. Fortunately for me, dogs and cats and birds didn’t care what I talked about so no one in my life, smallest circle of people possible, as it was, knew I cared about football.

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