Page 96 of Fair Catch
I smiled, holding up my pinky, but I held it away from him. “Even if it would make me happy to try to play in the NFL?”
Gavin’s brows shot up at that, a loud belly-laugh echoing through the room. “Especially then.”
I laughed, too, hooking his pinky with mine before I rested my head on his shoulder, looping my arms around his.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“For helping you pull your head out of your ass?” he asked. “Anytime, Sis. Anytime.”
Riley
Lights, bright and blinding, buzzing with electricity that mirrored the vigor of the fans. Their cheers were deafening even before the game started, rumbling like thunder. The stadium was a sea of North Boston University’s brick red and gold colors warring with the cobalt blue and black of Louisville. Signs and flags and rally towels waved in the air, the sidelines littered with more cameras and media crew than I’d seen all season.
The energy at the Blackberry Bowl game was unlike anything I’d ever experienced in my entire life.
It was a little discombobulating at first, especially how fast everything happened. One second I was waking up in my hotel and showering in the peaceful quiet. The next, I had a microphone and camera in my face. I blinked, and Coach was pumping us up in the locker room, warm-ups complete, Holden starting our team chant with all our hands joining force in the middle.
There was only one moment where everything slowed down, where time snapped back to its natural speed and I found my breath easier.
I was finishing my stretches, and at the sound of the whistle blowing, I jogged with the rest of our team back through the tunnel to the locker room. And in that dark hallway with nothing but the sound of cleats against pavement and the steady pants of my teammates, there was Zeke.
He jogged up beside me silently, slowing once he was at my side, and his bicep brushed my shoulder as we filed in. My next breath was strangled, and when I peeked up at him, he met me with a calm, comforting, steady gaze in return.
Even through the darkness, I saw the corner of his mouth lift in a smile, though his eyes were still swimming with pain.
“Give them hell, Mighty Mouse,” he said, just loud enough for me to hear, but so soft I knew no one else did.
My heart squeezed, and I opened my mouth to tell him I was sorry, to tell him I forgave him, to ask for his forgiveness, too — but it wasn’t the time, nor the place, and so I snapped it shut again.
And then, seemingly without warning or preparation, the game began.
All my senses were heightened with the spike of adrenaline that I realized must only come from playing in a game with such high stakes. Every crash of pads from our offensive line colliding with their defensive one reverberated through me like an earthquake, the smell of the turf and dirt dizzying, the vibration from the crowd so thick I could taste it.
When I jogged out for my first field goal, I didn’t even have the ability to get nervous. I was in a dream, lining up my foot with where the ball would be before I took two large steps back and two to the left.
The snap came, the ball was caught and placed, and I kicked with such a distant awareness that I didn’t even register the way my foot made contact.
The kick was good — I knew only by the sound of the crowd, and I let that roar bring my first sip of oxygen since jogging out onto the field as I made my way back to the sideline.
The game was a rush after that, their team scoring only to have ours score in return. Defense played their ass off and held them when we needed, giving us a ten-point lead going into the locker room at the half.
“The game isn’t over yet,” Coach reminded us as we recovered, re-taped, and rehydrated. “There’s still a whole lot of football left to play tonight. Don’t get lazy. Don’t get comfortable.”
Clay stepped up with a chant when Coach wrapped up, and then we were back on the field for round two.
Again, I found myself walking in a hazy dream, even when I secured another extra point kick. Every kick I’d had was solid, sound, calm and collected. It wasn’t even confidence — it was just… natural. Like breathing.
But that breath came harder when Holden was picked off in the third quarter, a Louisville cornerback running in a pick six that had them behind by only three points.
Zeke brushed past me as he jogged out on the field for another kick return, and the touch lingered on me in a way I couldn’t explain. I felt him there even after he was gone, when he was standing at the fifteen-yard line in a crouched position, fingers wiggling at his sides as he waited for the kick.
