Page 99 of Fair Catch
But our defense was impenetrable, not even allowing a single first down, and the crowd roared its approval as they ran off the field and the Louisville kicker went in. He lined up, and I noticed Riley wasn’t even watching. She kept running her own drills on the sideline, focused and ready for when it was her turn.
I looked back just in time to see the ball sail too far left.
It hit the yellow post with a loud thoing that reverberated through the whole stadium.
The crowd went nuts, our sideline mirroring that energy as Coach clapped his hands together and told us it wasn’t time to celebrate just yet. It was Holden’s turn to lead our offense, and he hyped them up in the huddle before clapping his hands and calling the first play.
I scanned the crowd, finding my parents first. Mom looked like she’d been crying, but she and Dad both waved at me, and Dad held up his fist, his eyes telling me without words that he was proud.
And right next to them, Riley’s parents, who were focused on the field.
Gavin sat on the end of the row next to all of them, the wheels of his chair just visible in the aisle. His eyes caught mine, and he gave me a subtle nod, the twinkle in his eyes silently urging me.
Go for it.
I swallowed, reaching into the pocket of my NBU jacket, fingers curling around what waited there.
The blow of the whistle called my attention back to the field, and Riley joined me on the sideline not long after, helmet in hand and ready to go in. When we failed to convert on third down with just eighteen yards to score, offense jogged off the field, and Coach signaled for her to go in.
She glanced at me, tugging on her helmet before I had the chance to say a word and jogging out onto the field.
I couldn’t breathe as I watched her line up for the kick, but like I had a feeling they would, Louisville called a timeout right when she ran up to kick the ball, their attempt to ice the kicker.
And thank God they did — because her kick was a miss.
She stood frozen for only a split second, and I knew her heart had to be pounding out of her chest as she jogged over to join the team near the sideline during the timeout.
Now was the time.
I didn’t have long, so I ran straight for her, grabbing her wrist as she whipped around in surprise.
“Zeke, you shouldn’t be—”
But her words faded when I pressed the little origami star into her hand.
She frowned, opening her palm to survey it before peeking up at me through her helmet.
“Open it,” I croaked, throat raw.
Her fingers trembled a bit as she did, unfolding my favorite picture of us. We weren’t dressed up or doing anything photo worthy. In fact, we both looked like bums, lounging in our sweats, hair a mess, lazy smiles on our faces as we laid together there on our old, sagging couch in the dorm room.
But I knew it meant as much to her as it did to me when she smiled, eyes glossy as she looked up at me.
“Turn it over,” I said.
She did, but before she could read, I recited the poem that I’d memorized now, repeating it word for word preparing for this very moment.
“Somebody who betters you,” I started. “Somebody who inspires and encourages you in love and in life, who pushes you toward dreams and goals you’d otherwise ignore, who selflessly sacrifices their time to help you become a more courageous, well rounded and happy human being. That’s sacred,” I said, swallowing before I finished. “You hold on to a love like that.”
Riley rolled her lips together, staring at the poem before her watery gaze found mine. “Beau Taplin,” she whispered.
I nodded, glancing at the clock and knowing I only had seconds now. “I’m so sorry. For everything. I’m sorry I hurt you, that I risked your scholarship and more in my haste, that I betrayed your trust. I can’t promise you I’ll never fuck up again, Riley. The odds are that I probably will.”
A ghost of a laugh left her lips.
“But I can promise you that I will show up for you, every day, and work to be a better person for you. To be the person you see in me that I can’t just yet.”
Coach yelled for Riley to get back on the field, but I held her for a moment longer.
“I love you,” I mouthed, careful not to say it in case anyone should overhear. But I said the next part out loud. “And I believe in you. You can do this.” I squeezed her hand before letting it go, but not before repeating, “You can do this.”
