I’ve beento a lot of pep rallies over the years, but this one is wild. There must be thirty-thousand people in attendance. The music is loud, the cheerleaders are high on life, and even Coach is in rare form, mic in one hand, clipboard in the other. Despite the cold weather, the old man has the fans on their feet, whipping them into a frenzy with a promise to kick Clemson’s ass on New Year’s Eve.
“Am I tripping or did Coach just guarantee a win?” Coop asks.
“Think of it as a vote of confidence.” Reid grins. “No pressure, princess.”
Normally, I’d be the one to crack that joke, but, despite the charged atmosphere, my heart isn’t in it today.
“Please.” Coop scoffs. “Those southern fuckers—no offense, Parker—won’t know what hit them.”
“The way Coach is carrying on,” Vaughn deadpans. “It might just be his clipboard.”
“I know that’s right,” Smith adds, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “We’re gonna own their asses.”
We’re all lined up on the field, game ready, helmets tucked under our arms. Coach wants to give the fans one last look at us before bowl season starts, but I’d just as soon head back to the locker room. Finals week wiped me out. Between practice and late-night study sessions, I haven’t been getting much sleep. I took my last exam this morning, so at least that’s over.
I stare out at the crowd, searching for a familiar face, for that bright cobalt hair.
Wishful thinking, asshole.
Probably. Sutton’s never been a fan of football. It’s foolish to think she’d brave a twenty-nine-degree windchill, especially after the way things ended between us.
Hell, I don’t even know if she’s still on campus. For all I know, she’s already gone home for the holidays. I haven’t seen her around the apartment complex.
She’s probably avoiding you.
And I can’t even blame her.
But what’s done is done.
It’s like Vaughn said. It’s better to focus on the present.
I emailed Mac a few days ago, and he responded to say he’d be discussing my situation with the Sports Stream selection committee. He didn’t make any promises, but he didn’t shut me down either, so now it’s just a waiting game.
Coach finally passes the mic to the sound of a roaring crowd and one of the cheerleaders directs the crowd’s attention to the jumbotron. We turn in unison as a highlight reel fills the screen, and the band kicks off another peppy song.
The first clip is from Homecoming and in it, Coop pulls down a pass that should’ve been impossible to catch, giving us the lead.
“Hell yeah!” Coop shouts, jostling Reid. “That was our best play of the season.”
He’s not wrong. I still don’t know how he made that catch.
Several more clips roll past, a mix of offense and defense. There’s even a shot of Carter, our new kicker smashing a field goal from the forty-five. Whoever put this together understood the assignment. It’s a mashup of all our best plays and the crowd is loving it, stomping and roaring.
When the Wildcat appears on the screen, my gut hardens.
Sutton tumbles down the sideline and then the clip changes and she’s holding the t-shirt cannon. I know what’s going to happen before I see it, but that doesn’t lessen the impact. The cannon goes off, a white blur bursting from the tube and then the camera cuts to me, doubled over in pain.
Just the memory is enough to have my boys crawling up inside my groin.
“That shit never gets old!” Coop says, clapping me on the back as a bunch of the guys howl with laughter.
“I’m so glad my pain and suffering provide you with endless entertainment.”
Reid shakes his head, but the hint of a smile tugs at his lips.
“Fuckers.”
I shake Coop off just as the Wildcat jogs across the field with a half-dozen cheerleaders, t-shirt cannon in hand.
