Page 15 of High Notes & Hail Marys

“Nah. He likes you, I think. He asked me about you the other day.”

“Yeah?” You are dubious.

“Uh-huh. Don’t think he likes you as much as I do, though.”

You’re glad it’s dark in the bedroom, because you might be blushing a little. Probably not. But maybe.

“Will I get to see you after the game?”

“I was hoping so.”

In that exact moment, your plans slot into place. You mentally change several aspects of your day. You aren’t picturing the field, but there’s that feeling: flying. Not touching the ground.

“It’s a date, then.”

***

@stersbbygrl325:ZOOOOMMMG #GRAYLINGS this is not a drill!!!! Guess who just got spotted entering the stadium for the Cyclones game??? Can anyone ELI5 how football works??? #STERMERGENCY

***

The first Sunday after Labor Day is picture-perfect. Humid as hell, but otherwise ideal for football. The sky is a cloudless blue, and the new grass on the field is such a vivid, fragrant green that you think somebody should bottle it. You’re playing the Bombers, a divisional rival on a rebuild. The Cyclones are heavily favored, but betting lines are another one of those things you never listen to.

You’re in the locker room bouncing on your toes like a kid before recess when someone tells you that Sterling is up in one of the boxes, and the crowd is going crazy. You barely have time to think about it before you are called into the pre-game circle for prayers and pep talks, and then you are holding your helmet and running through the tunnel into the blast of hot sunlight, the fans screaming in your ears. The Cyclone Girls are in formation with their boots and poms, their hair shining and makeup perfect. There’s the National Anthem and the coin toss. The Bombers win the toss and defer, so Sandy and the offense take the field. You make your way to the sideline, and that’s when you see him.

Sterling is projected across the fan-cam. He’s wearing a fancy-looking Cyclones jacket that’s either vintage or custom. Underneath, he’s got a blousy white shirt unbuttoned low, and jeans tight enough that they look like they were slicked on. There’s a 99 adorning his cheek in green paint. He’s got his arm around the waist of a thin, sleek-looking brunette who has his same exact jawline… oh! That must be Noemi, his sister. Just to his left, leaning over a rail behind the glass and scanning the field intensely, is Gabrielle Rose. The suite is full, what with it being opening day, and a bunch of the wives and girlfriends are in the box as well. You wonder how many autographs Sterling has had to sign. He looks laid-back and happy, though, sipping a mocktail and waving at the fans.

The harsh blast of a whistle breaks your concentration on Sterling. A ref has just called a foul on New York for off-sides. Somehow, while you weren’t watching, Sandy and the O-line havemarched down to the Bombers’ forty-yard line. It was the second down, but the penalty gave you guys the few yards you needed for a first. The Cyclone Nation is going crazy. The stadium is a sea of chanting, stomping gold and green. The guys huddle, with Sandy pointing emphatically at the play sheet on his wristband. They line up.

The ball is snapped, and in Sandy’s hands. The offense fans over the field, the Bombers’ defense in hot pursuit. Sandy’s under pressure, but he’s calm. Serene, like there aren’t three enormous guys barreling down and trying to sack him. His eyes scan the chaos. He pulls his arm back, unleashing a perfect spiral through the air and into the waiting arms of GoGo. GoGo’s double-covered, but he jukes the defenders and takes off like his ass is on fire. This is the part when the commentators mention that GoGo ran a 4.31 in the 40-yard dash at the Combine. Nobody’s catching him.

He takes it to the house, and the crowd explodes. Six points go up on the scoreboard. Dettweiler, your kicker, knocks a perfect kick through the uprights, and the score is officially seven-zip. The clock is still at 13:37 in the first. Things are looking very, very good.

They stay good from there. The early score seems to have demoralized the Bombers, and they go three-and-out on their first possession, your squad holding them to only about six yards accumulatedin bits and pieces.

The first half goes by quickly. A last-minute field goal by the Bombers saves the half from being a total blowout, but the score is still 24-3 as the clock clicks down to zero on the second quarter. You’ve been trying not to stare at the box theentiretime, but you’ve snuck some glances. Sterling seems to be having an excellent time. Each time you look, he’s chatting with another WAG, arms around waists, phones snapping selfies. At one point, he hugs Jamie, and you smile around your mouth guard at the thought of how geeked she must be. When the Cyclones score, Sterling goes nuts, jumping up and down. There’s a touchdown where he seems to forget the fact that he’s holding a drink and laughs stupidly as he spills it on himself. Noemi hangs back; you don’t see much of her. Gabrielle seems to be watching the game intently, like she actually understands what is going on.

When you are running back into the tunnel at the half, you crane your head back and are lucky enough to catch Sterling’s eye. He blows you a kiss. You smile big, pantomime catching it like an enormous goober. Your heart is as light as a feather as you head back to the locker room.

Coach is smiling as he addresses the team, but warns you not to be complacent. Week One jitters are common, he reminds you, and just because you guys don’t have them, it doesn’t mean the Bombersdon’t. They could very well get their shit together and readjust for the second half. He gives each squad some brief individual notes, and then lets you all catch your breath.

You are slurping back measured slugs of Gatorade when you catch Dettweiler eyeing you from across the room. Initially, you look away, but his steady stare is compelling you to address him.

“Yo,” you call. “Everything good?”

Dettweiler comes over. Puts his hands on his hips. It’s not his fault that he’s a kicker and therefore a comparatively small guy, but you can’t help thinking that he looks like a chihuahua trying to imitate a pit bull.

“You guys should dial it back,” he says bluntly.

You can feel your forehead wrinkling as you slowly take another sip. “Come again?”

“You and Sterling Grayson.” He looks around the locker room, at the guys hanging around. GoGo is holding court in one corner, hooting over a Twitter video of his first-half highlights. Nobody else is really paying attention to the conversation. “I can’t believe I’m the only one thinking about this.”

By now, you think you have a sense of where this discussion is going. But you smile guilelessly.

“What’chu talking about?” you ask.

He lowers his voice. “Kai, the Association is afamilyorganization. You are killing it, honestly. I’m just looking out for your livelihood! It’s this business with Sterling. It’s… you know. You do get what I’m trying to say, right?”

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