Page 67 of Plays Well With Others

“That’s true. Every now and then you nab a first down,” I say, then we get to work.

* * *

Down by two. Less than a minute and a half left in the game. Third and long. I’m in the huddle as Cafferty calls the play. With a quick nod, I get in position, and I’m in motion at the snap.

I fly downfield, getting open, darting away from a safety when Caff lobs the ball my way. I’m racing, fifteen, now ten feet from the end zone, and holy fuck, it’s coming in hot and fast.

My arms are over my head and the ball is threatening to sail past me. I leap and grab that motherfucker with one hand.

It bobs in my palm.

Not today, football.

I haul it down, hugging it to my goddamn shoulder, then bring it to my chest right in the end zone.

That’s how you do it!

A few seconds later, Hamlin smacks palms with me. “Dude, you caught that ball with your fucking shoulder.”

“I fucking did,” I say, then we bump chests. Some plays just fire you up. I steal a glance at the fifty-yard line. I swear, I can make her out from here. Cheering, hollering, getting hoarse from excitement. Yeah, I hope she saw that touchdown catch. I hope it fired her up like it does me.

Cafferty joins me next, high-fiving too. “Ringleader! You and your circus catches,” he says.

A few years ago in our last Big Game appearance, I caught one of his passes on the side of my helmet.

“I am the End Zone Ringleader,” I say, taking that new nickname and owning it.

And I’m also all energy as we head to the sidelines for the extra point. “Let’s do this, D. Fucking lock it up,” I say when the point is good and the kickoff return team heads to the field.

“Maybe there’sanotherreason Hendrix is extra excited today,” Hamlin drawls.

I shoot him a look in question.

“Yourfans,” he says with a smirk, then nudges Cafferty’s arm while looking my way. “I think it’s becausesomeoneis here.”

“That so? Who is this special someone, Hendrix?” Cafferty goads.

This convo with the guys is as normal as high-fives, spotting your bud in the weight room, and talking trash in the locker room.

But for a few seconds, I’m more speechless than I’d like to be. Rachel’s a friend. She’s always been a friend. They bothknowRachel. She’s been a fixture on the sidelines for most of our home games this season.

Trouble is, I don’t know what to call her as I fashion my comeback.

No onefeels all wrong.

Someoneis too much.

Andjust a friendfeels like a lie.

I choose option D, sidestepping it. “It’s hard, isn’t it, that my cheering section is so fucking big,” I say, then gesture to my crotch, since, well, size is the easiest way to tackle any trash talk.

“Like your ego,” Hamlin retorts as the special teams leave and the defense takes the field.

We’re all business now, focused on the game. The defense has to hold off the Wolves. But the Wolves are gnashing, and two big plays later, they’ve scored a touchdown.

I groan in abject misery. We only have thirteen damn seconds to get in field goal range.

We start deep in our own territory, so Cafferty goes long and hurls the ball my way. Like a hawk, I track it as I run. I can feel it in my fingers. I’m this close to hauling it in and getting out of bounds with enough time left.

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