Imagine how Reid feels.
I glance at our team captain, who’s standing a few feet away. Sweat pours from his brow and he watches the defense intently, unwilling to miss a single play.
Football is his legacy—his future—so maybe it feels different for him, but I doubt it.
Reid doesn’t talk about the pressure, but it’s got to weigh on him. How could it not when his father is an NFL legend, and he’s basically been groomed to play ball his entire life?
I love the game, but when it’s time to hang up my cleats next year, I’ll be ready.
Beside me, Vaughn upends a water bottle over his head, grinning as the cool liquid pours down his face and beard. “With any luck, Coach will give us a break in the fourth quarter,” he says, shaking his head like a wet dog and sending water droplets flying.
“Anything is possible.” The underclassmen rarely see much playing time this early in the season, but unless the Spartans put together one hell of a rally, this game is already over. “Why is it so damn hot, anyway? It’s almost October. Where are the falling leaves and cooling temperatures?”
Vaughn spouts off some shit about global warming, but it’s too loud to hear much of what he says over the roar of the crowd.
Our defense makes a stop on the thirty and the fans go nuts as the Wildcat roar echoes through the stadium. I scan the stands, pride filling my chest at the sight of Wildcat Nation on their feet, cheering us to victory.
Okay, maybe I’ll miss this a little.
When else in my life will one hundred thousand people cheer me on?
That would be never.
So, yeah. Enjoy it while it lasts and all that.
Vaughn nudges me and jerks his chin toward the cheerleaders. I follow his gaze and see the Wildcat strutting down the sideline with some sort of blue and white contraption, a couple of cheerleaders trailing behind with a rolling cart.
“What do you think they’re doing?” I ask.
“Beats me.” Vaughn shrugs his broad shoulders, but his eyes remain glued to the mascot who’s making his way toward us.
Can’t say I blame him. Last year, the Wildcat got it in his head to fuck with the gentle giant and harassed him nonstop for the entertainment of the fans. Needless to say, my man wasn’t impressed.
Vaughn’s the kind of guy who likes to put in the work and stay out of the spotlight.
He’s consistent as hell, but he doesn’t have a showboating bone in his body, and constantly seeing his face on the big screen made the big man grumpy as hell.
Now that I’m thinking about it, it’s a wonder the Wildcat hasn’t resumed his antics, given the popularity of last year’s shenanigans.
We watch as the mascot holds up the contraption and, upon closer inspection, I know exactly what it is.
Vaughn grunts “T-shirt cannon,” at the same time the word enters my mind.
“That’s new,” I say, unable to look away as the fans raise their arms and clamber for the Wildcat’s attention.
The things people will do to get free shit.
The mascot raises the cannon in the air and when he pulls the trigger, there’s a loudthwumpas a white projectile sails into the stands. A tall guy in the lower section catches it, snatching the t-shirt from the air before the little girl next to him has a shot at grabbing it.
“Asshole,” I mutter. “Should’ve let the kid have it.”
The mascot must agree because he shakes his head at the dude celebrating and rubs the back of one furry forefinger over the other in the universal sign for shame.
Vaughn chuckles and we watch as the mascot moves to the next section, firing off three more shirts. When he approaches the section before the bench, the Wildcat lowers the cannon and points to the crowd, arm swinging like the pendulum on a clock as it sweeps back and forth, encouraging the fans to call for the next shot.
And call they do. The sound reaches a fever pitch and then the Wildcat roar explodes from the sound system.
There’s a loudthwumpand the next thing I know, I’m doubled over, the air sucked from my lungs as white-hot pain detonates in my balls.
