ONE
ELI
“Hell yes, we’ve got this, boys.” I slapped McCarthy, a defensive end, on his helmet as we stood in the tunnel, ready to rush the field. The season opener pitted us against Northern Arizona University, a rivalry nearly as fierce as the one against the University of Arizona.
McCarthy gave me a toothy grin from behind his facemask. “Damn right we do.” He hopped on his toes as the guys in front sprinted toward the field, each of their names resounding through the loudspeakers.
I glanced behind me at Casey Carter, our quarterback, as my pulse thrummed in my ears. He’d been on fire at camp this year, probably because he'd found the love of his life. A slow smirk spread across my lips. Someday maybe it would be my turn.
With a clap on my shoulder pad, McCarthy sped off. “Come on, it’s time.”
Holding my head down, I pumped my arms and raced after him. I was in great shape this year. I’d put on an extra twenty pounds over the summer and had increased my speed at camp.
As the tunnel opened to the field, booms and pops filled the air along with the cheering fans as fireworks shot out of canisters at the corners of the field and the Jumbotron screen filled with abursting sun. The September evening’s heat tingled my skin, and sweat already dripped down my back.
My body hummed with electricity as I rushed through our open row in the marching band, playing our fight song. It was the start of my senior year, and the next year, I might live my dream on an NFL team. But I’d always remember my time here, the guys who’d become my brothers. The Desert Dogs.
“Eli Dawson, Linebacker,” the announcer said over the loudspeakers, and the stands erupted in cheers.
I wasn’t as popular as some of the offensive line guys, but students knew me. Mostly for my work in student health services with the LGBTQ helpline.
Jogging toward the corner of the field, I raised and dropped my arms along with the other guys. Everyone was pumped for this game.
The Spirit Squad lined up with their pom-poms smashing over their chests in time with the drum corps’ beat and shouting, “Go Devils!”
With a smile breaking across my face, I pumped my fist, my gaze catching onhim, standing between female cheerleaders, smiling and smacking his pom-poms. No fucking way.
As my jog slowed to a walk, my arm dropped and my jaw fell, my chest clenching as if readying for a tackle. Stopping, I stared. I couldn’t help myself. I hadn’t seen him since high school, after our…horrible fucking breakup. Wren Lewis. The only man I’d ever loved.
His brown bangs bounced, falling to his cheekbones, and those striking grey eyes of his looked straight ahead. Was he purposely avoiding me?
Blinking a few times, I collected myself. He had to have heard my name. What the hell was he doing on the cheering squad? He’d been a gymnast, not a cheerleader.
“Dude, what are you waiting for?” Carter gave my back a gentle shove. “Get over to the bench.” Barking out a laugh, hejogged in front of me and twisted. “Focus. We’ve got a game to win.”
“Yeah, right.” With a shake of my head, I jogged toward the bench. Maybe it wasn’t really Wren, just a guy who looked exactly like him. If I were to play my best, I’d have to remember that.
No,it was Wren. My fucking eyeballs couldn’t stay off him the whole game and now, I was sure. I glanced at the clock. We had a little over five minutes left in the first half. I’d missed a few tackles, and I knew coach would ream my ass when we got into the locker room.
With Casey working his magic, we were ahead by at least a touchdown.
I squirted Gatorade into my mouth as the offensive line jogged off the field and special teams took over for the kick.
Our defensive line coach, Coach Simmons, stepped to me, holding an iPad to his chest. “Dawson, I’m counting on you to stop the run this time around. Think you can do that?”
With a scowl, I glanced at him. Apparently, the ass-reaming would start now. “Yes, Coach. Not a problem.” I had to focus and do my damn job. So what if Wren mysteriously appeared on the cheering squad? Our story had been over years ago.
As NAU’s offense lined up across the field on its own twenty-yard line, I ran across the grass and took up my position behind the rushers.
The NAU quarterback made his calls and handed the ball to his running back, who sprinted and sidestepped toward the center of the field.
As an NAU guard rushed me, I shoved him to the side and blew past him, my sights set on the runner. I had to take the fucker down.
The runner spotted me and pivoted, tucking the ball into his side.
“Not so fast.” With a swivel, I swung my arms out, my fingers landing in the collar of his jersey. Fuck, can’t get a foul. I freed him, and my gaze caught on Wren, watching with wide eyes and shouting at me, his hands cupping his mouth.
I sped up, and McCarthy came out of nowhere, snatching the runner around his hips and tackling him to the ground.
