Page 26 of Fair Catch
And today, I’d remind myself why that was enough.
I didn’t need a 4.0 GPA to get into the NFL. Hell, I didn’t even need a degree at all. I just needed to ball out and stay healthy — both of which were mostly in my control.
So, screw Riley and anyone else who thought I was stupid.
I’d show them all.
A few of the coaches and staff were already at the stadium when I showed up in my game day attire — khaki pants, dress shoes, and our team polo, which was brick red with our mascot and NBU stitched in gold over my chest. I noticed the raised brows as I strode right in and to my locker, and I knew they were silently noting the behavior of every player today, on and off the field.
I ate a hearty breakfast with a few of the other early risers, and then headed to the training room to get taped up for the game.
On my way out, Riley was walking in.
Khaki pants had no right looking that good on anyone, nor should that tiny polo have hugged her slight frame the way it did. Her hair was down and still damp from her shower, her face clean and fresh, and she hung her duffel on the hook in her locker before her eyes flicked to mine.
I sniffed, walking right past her to my own locker to pull out my headphones. I slipped them over my ears and turned on my pre-game playlist, then moved out to the field to stretch before our meeting.
I turned my phone on do-not-disturb, not wanting any distraction. I didn’t want to see the projections they were making on the pre-game shows, or hear them break down the strengths and weaknesses of every team. And when Coach Sanders gathered us in the film room for our meeting, I knew he felt the same.
“There’s going to be a lot of noise today,” he said, hands hanging off his hips at the front of the room. “From the crowd, the other team, the reporters. You’ve got to find a way to turn it off. This is it — this is what we’ve worked for. We’ve got a lot of new blood on the roster, and where many see that as a weakness, I’ve witnessed the chemistry we have over the last month.”
He walked up to the front row of desks, pressing his finger down on the one where Leo Ramirez sat.
Ramirez was a freshman, too — a running back who was an absolute tank from what I’d seen in practice. He was one of the most widely recruited running backs, too, and I’d held my breath as much as the rest of the nation when he’d made his decision on signing day. NBU needed him, but there was rumor he’d go to his father’s alma mater in the south.
No one would have faulted him if he had gone to South Alabama University.
They were undoubtedly the best team in their conference and repeatedly went to — and won — the national championship.
But for some reason, Leo Ramirez chose to come to New England.
Thank God he did.
“Turn off their voices saying you’re too young of a team to perform,” Coach said, tapping on Leo’s desk. “Turn off your own voice saying you don’t belong here.”
His eyes flicked to Riley then, and I noted how her throat ebbed with a thick swallow.
“Today is the start of the season. Today, we leave it all on the field. Today,” he said, eyes scanning the team. “We win.”
Those words were met with a roar, and Clay Sanders popped out of his seat, beating on his massive chest before starting a chant.
Who’s house?!
Our house!
Who’s house?!
Our house!
The room ripped at the seams with our explosive energy, and Coach clapped his hands, directing us all back to the locker room.
It was time to get changed, get on the field, and get warm.
Then, it was time to play.
Riley
It was a distant hum at first.
I heard it building as we warmed up, felt it swelling as Coach Aarons guided me through pre-game kicks and stretches. And though it dulled as we all jogged back into the locker room for any final tapings or touch ups, for eye black and headphone-meditations, it was still there, buzzing under the surface like a ticking bomb.
And when we pulled on our helmets and ran through that tunnel, it exploded.
The stands weren’t even full yet, but they cheered with the vivacity of a sold-out Drake concert as we jogged onto the field, some of the players jumping up and down and waving their arms to entice the crowd, while others stayed zeroed in and focused, ignoring the cheerleaders and the fans in the stands, their arms in a steady swing at their sides.
I was the latter, nerves I didn’t know could exist bubbling in my chest like a chemistry experiment ready to blow.
