Page 37 of Final Down

We clasp hands, our shared nerves making us both a little sweaty. I pick at my food, the rumbles in my tummy a cautious warning that keeps me away from the turkey slices. I slip out for one more bathroom trip and a refill on crackers and water before the team takes the field, and thenit’s on!

Wyatt’s warm-up tosses take me back, not just to college but to that first year we met. He was special, even then. My dad saw it early, and was terrified of it. And then, when Wyatt broke his records, he respected it. Now, Wyatt’s family.

“He looks good,” my mom mutters from the seat behind me. I nod, too busy chewing on my nails to speak. She squeezes my shoulders a few times, then sits back in her seat, urging my dad to finally take his. He’ll be pacing by the first set of downs. I’m certain.

The national anthem and coin toss are a blur, and before I know it, the Cyclones are on the field and Wyatt is lined up ready to count it off. I close my eyes and breathe out slowly, my lips puckering as if there’s a straw in my mouth. I watched my mom do this when I was little and my dad played. She said she was able to block out everything but him. Now, it’s my turn.

When my eyes open, everything sounds muted. Wyatt takes the snap and falls back a few steps before hitting his running back with a short pass that he carries for seven yards. I clap, then hold my clasped hands to my lips, keeping my peaceful bubble intact.

“Come on, baby. Let’s go,” I mouth, not even certain the words are aloud.

Wyatt hands the ball off two more times, gaining a first down before taking his first hit on a pass that barely misses his receiver’s hands. My teeth gnash, and my mom’s hands land on my shoulders.

“It’s okay. I’m okay,” I reassure her, hoping she understands what I’m doing, that I’m closing out the noise the same way she did.

Wyatt takes a teammate’s hand as he gets to his feet, and my eyes scan every single muscle on his body looking for limps or hesitations. He seems whole. Unscathed.This time.

I’m so intent on bracing myself for another hit that I don’t see the signs until Wyatt scrambles to his right, buying time for his receiver to sprint downfield before he launches the ball forty yards. He hits his guy mid-stride, and nobody’s even close. He’s in the end zone and we’re up six with only two minutes off the clock.

I finally breathe.

My dad’s pacing seems like a good idea by the time the second quarter starts, so I join him, popping in and out of the suite depending on whether we’re on defense or offense. Wyatt threw a pick his last time out, which I will fight anyone to the death arguing it wasn’t his fault. It literally bounced out of the tight end’s hands. And other than the big hit during the first set of downs, he’s been lucky. Or rather, the pocket’s been good. Tasha says it’s because Whiskey’s protecting him, and I tend to think she’s right.

Phillips has been warming up the third and fourth string quarterbacks for the last few minutes, so my gut tells me Wyatt’s done before the half. My dad and I are about to head into the suite and hit the buffet to eat somerealfood when the monitors on the concourse show Wyatt’s slow jog out to the huddle to close out the half. This time, there’s something about the crowd that begs me to stay out here, to let the noise in—all of it.

“Dad, I’m gonna . . .” I gesture to the tunnel leading to the second level seats, and my dad nods.

We slip in without anyone noticing, which, when I’m with my father, is often a feat. It’s cleared out up high, partly because this is preseason, but mostly because everyone up here is making a dash for the bathrooms and the beer lines. A guy a few rows behind us seems to be well versed on the team, and when he rattles off Wyatt’s college stats, messing up his total passing yards, I grip my dad’s forearm to keep him from turning around and correcting him.

“It’s my damn record he broke,” my dad grumbles, and I laugh softly while patting his arm.

“I know, but when Wyatt’s their all-star in a few years, that guy will know better,” I say, letting myself go there mentally for the first time since Wyatt started camp.

He really can do this.

The first few plays are running routes, one for a loss, the next two for the first down. There’s a mad swap of players dashing on and off the field as the clock winds down, and I suddenly feel thankful that Wyatt got an entire half to prove himself rather than a few dwindling seconds. I’m also a little uneasy seeing Whiskey peel off for the final play.

Unfortunately, the new center isn’t going to win over anyone as he snaps the ball over Wyatt’s head. My husband scrambles to pick it up, and I brace myself for him to take a hit. But rather than crumpling under the two-hundred-plus pounds that try to wrap him up, Wyatt spins out and tucks the ball in tight, ready to run.

“Oh, fuck,” I let out, getting to my feet. My dad joins me, echoing my words as we simmer on our toes.

Please keep his legs intact. And please let those tendons hold. And his head . . . God, please protect his head.

About a dozen more requests buzz through my mind while Wyatt breaks three tackles before clearing the field and sprinting forty-seven yards into the end zone for the score. My hands fly up along with my dad’s, and we turn to face one another for a double high five while we shout nonsense so loud that both of our voices break.

Wyatt spins the ball on the grass, then skips toward a few of his teammates, bumping chests with two of them before rushing to the sidelines, where Whiskey waits to wrap him in a massive bear hug.

And then, somehow, he finds me. I blow him a kiss that he grabs out of the air, and when the clock hits zero, I flop down in the miserable plastic seat and wonder how the hell I’m going to keep this up for an entire season.Or more.

Chapter Fifteen

Ihurt more than I’ll admit; I’m sure Peyt can tell. Nothing gets by that woman. She reads my eyes like one of her Kennedy Ryan books. Cover to cover.

Her dad probably knows too, but of all the people in this room I need to suck it up and be tough for, it’s that guy. He took plenty of hits on the gridiron. He’d probably tell me today was child’s play and I better toughen the grit.He’d be right.

“My boy!” My dad’s old fire captain, Jeff, stretches out his arms the second I spot him.

“What is this? I had no idea you were coming. Did you do this?” I point to Jeff as I look Peyton in the eyes. She shakes her head and her brow ticks up in the direction of my mom, and well . . .shit.

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