Page 19 of Who's Saving You
The ball hits my palms.
Bounces off.
Incomplete.
The crowd erupts not just with disappointment this time, but with hate. The boos are louder than they've ever been. But the boos are drowned out by the sound of my own heartbeat in my chest and words from years ago…
“I can’t believe it! Papas has never dropped a pass.”
“Maybe he’s not ready after all.”
“He choked.”
I stare down at my gloves like they’re the ones who betrayed me and run back to the huddle with my team. I swore that one game was it, I would never change another outcome, and I never did since then. And I’m sure as fuck not about to do it tonight. My team shows me grace, clapping me on the back, but I watch as Jameson is called to the sideline. I turn my back on him and Coach Gage, focusing my eyes on anything but them.
A moment later, Jameson jogs to the circle and comes up beside me. “Coach wants you out, but I told him no way you’d drop a third. Don’t make me a liar.”
We break on three and get into formation. The crowd's hum disappears, and I lock in on the voice of my quarterback. “Blue eighty! Blue eighty! Set, hut!”
The ball snaps clean, and I explode off the line, shoulders low, arms in tight as my legs carry me past the corner who tries to jam me up. I get a lead and whip my head back, locking eyes with Jameson as he wrenches the ball back by his ear.
He lets it sail, and I see the ball gaining on me. I glance back as I run, arms extended, fingers soft. The ball drops straight into my hands as I continue my stride. There’s no bobble. I just catch it smoothly, tuck it into my side, and turn up the gas. The other team can’t catch me, already trailing behind me by twelve yards and counting. I cross the goal line, only slowing when the whistle blows. I let the ball drop and turn to jump into the arms of my teammates who chased me down.
“That’s the Papas I know!” My team celebrates, and I’m feeling on top of the world again. We set up for the kick, it easily sails through the goalposts, then jog to the sideline together. Garrison and Starks are waiting for me.
“Keep catching like that, and Starks said he’d buy steak dinners for the team,” Garrison says and bursts into a laugh as Tristan Starks punches his arm.
“Sounds good, I like mine medium-rare.”
Jameson’s voice cuts through, steady and sharp: “Focus, Papas. We’ll order dessertafterthe win.” The team oohs and aahs, and I smile as Jameson comes closer and whispers in my ear, “I knew you weren’t a fraud.”
He laughs, and I slow my stride, letting those words wash over me.
~~
Post-game, we’re in the locker room celebrating the win and the fact that we are one step closer to the playoffs. Reporters crowd the usual stars, and when they come to me, the questions avoid the two drops, like they’ve been told to stay clear. Ignore and bury it,like it didn’t happen, just like old times,instead focusing on the final run that continues to secure our seed position.
“Nik, how does it feel? Rookie year and making a catch that pushes your team ahead once more?”
I give them the smile they all want and add a bit of charm to tease the newswoman. “Feels like I cashed a winning ticket with a second left on the clock. Rookie or not, pressure’s just another kind of spotlight, and I don’t mind the heat.”
I give her a wink, and her blush creeps up her neck. A second reporter pushes through.
Noelle.
I’m suddenly very aware I’m shirtless, with all eyes on me, and the woman I don’t want to want is leaning in with a mic in my face. Her hair in a ponytail, her face flushed from the wind on the field, I can still smell her sweet scent lingering around me despite all the sweat and testosterone in this locker room.
“How does that heat affect next week, Saint?” she asks.
My lips twitch, and I raise a brow at her calling me Saint. I make a point of dropping my eyes to her name tag hanging on her lanyard. “It doesn't, Ms. Moreno. I made the catch tonight, so I’m a hero. Next week, I could drop it and be branded a choke artist. Either way, the act is forgotten the minute the next snap is taken.”
The next reporter pushes through, and voices rise as each tries to get their question heard, but heads turn when Jameson enters the room. I laugh quietly to myself, feeling relieved they’ve moved on.
Tristan Starks, another WR who shares the locker beside me, snaps my leg with a towel. “That reporter was looking for more than just an answer to her question.” He shakes his head. “Damn, bro, all the women want the rookies.”
He laughs when I puff my chest. “When ya got it, ya got it.”
“Mm, well, you better get it from her. Do you know who that is?” He drops his voice.
