Page 47 of Nothing Less Than Everything

WREN

There was a certain energy that lit me up during the first game of the season. Sure, it was a preseason game, but it still counted. It was the first time that I donned my tall red boots, squeezed into my four-inch hot pants and long-sleeved bikini top, and had a game day face of makeup on. It was the first time in months that we performed in front of a packed stadium.

Eighty thousand fans screamed and cheered as we danced on the field at halftime.

For the first time in five seasons, I performed to AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” while on the fifty-yard line, at the point of our triangle of cheerleaders. There was no comparison to the rush. The thrill—it was larger than life. The roar of the crowd did nothing to dull the rapid pounding of my heart.

I knew my dad was watching the game on his TV at home. I knew my mom was smiling down on me. I would have done anything to have her back, but being here...it was healing. It was a place she loved, too. There would always be a piece of her at the Reds Stadium. It was like going home.

The cloud I had been fighting my way out of for months had finally broken. On top of that, I was dancing without a knee brace, and I had never felt stronger.

The first three quarters flew by in a breeze. For a few hours, at least, I didn’t have to think about anything except which dance to lead my ladies in for the song that was playing through the sound system.

But as the fourth quarter drew to a close, I couldn’t help but let my mind wander to Tatum. Had he seen his penthouse yet? I had worked well past when I should have gone home to get all the finishing touches in place, especially since he decided to throw a housewarming party and invite his colleagues over.

Butterflies flurried inside of me. One of the sideline cameras turned and aimed my way. The operator gave me a thumbs up. I flashed a bright smile and swished my poms in front of me.

My group of cheerleaders had been assigned to the left corner of the Reds end zone. Jewel and her group were opposite us, on the right corner. We were well outside the pylons, facing the fans. But every so often, I would glance over my shoulder to get a peek at the action happening on the field.

The Reds had a three-point lead over Tennessee, but the day was still young. Tennessee’s corner back tackled our wide receiver into the turf. They rolled, then hopped up and started walking back down the field.

“Who’s the starting wide receiver?” Priyanka, one of my rookies this season, asked. “I know Seth McBride was on the roster, but he’s on the sidelines.”

I couldn’t remember either. There were so many players, and adjustments to the roster happened nearly every day while they were in training camp. The list we had in our season binders was a guess at best. It would be updated when the season officially began. Before I could get a peek at the back of the receiver’s jersey, he joined the offense’s huddle.

“I’ll look it up and let you know after the game,” I said. The moment I looked back at the line of fans cheering from the seats above us, Cole Swindell blared through the speakers as the chorus to “Flatliner” picked up. I shimmied my poms in front of me. “Five, six, seven, eight!”

My group of nine cheerleaders exploded into larger-than-life choreography. I caught a glimpse of Jewel, doing the same dance as I turned in my pirouette. My red boots squeaked with the newness of the leather as I threw my arms up and rolled my pelvis in what we called “sexy hips.” By Week 5, the boots would be completely broken in and I could stop buying stock in Band-Aids.

As the song neared the end, me and the other ladies in the front row switched with girls in the back row. I caught another glimpse of the camera aimed at me. I smiled brighter, danced bigger, and tossed my hair like I was a damn rockstar.

Action on the field neared us as Tennessee’s cornerback chased down our wide receiver again.

I spun on my toes and stomped my boots into the turf as I finished the dance with a flourish. Eighty seconds left on the clock, a quick shower, the I’d be home free to see Ta—

“Shit!” A pile of pads and muscle careened toward me. I felt myself falling. I shrieked as I slammed into the ground. Air exploded out of my lungs as the player collapsed on top of me.

A hand cradled the back of my head, catching me. His helmet smacked my forehead with a sharp thud. Warm brown eyes stared into mine. Dark skin and a smile that I had been dreaming of peeked out from behind the mask.

Everything started to get fuzzy. I blinked, trying to get my bearings straight. Did I just get tackled? All the noise of the stadium began to fade, and it was just me and Tatum.

It couldn’t be him. I was hallucinating. “Tatum?” I whispered.

I faintly remembered him saying, “What are you doing here, Little Bird?”

Then everything went black.

* * *

The stadium was eerily quiet.

“MEDICAL!” Someone shouted in the distance.

I felt the weight lift from my chest, but I couldn’t open my eyes. Great. My knee was probably busted again. I groaned as someone pressed on my nail beds. Pain, sharp and hot ripped down my spine.

“Ma’am, can you hear me?”

“Wren?” That sounded like Catherine Trumble.

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