“It’s stupid, yeah,” Marty agreed, as Dawson did his final stretches before kickoff, “but it’s pretty cool that we’ll get a long break after this.”
Dawson couldn’t deny that. In the three weeks since Shane had shown up in Toronto and he and Cam solidified their relationship, they’d been working on finding a happy medium between Cam spending time with his dad, DawsonandCam spending time with Shane, and Dawson and Cam having enough time to indulge in the alone time they both desperately craved.
Playing earlier in the week, on a Thursday, meant that they’d have a nice leisurely ten days before their next game, and two extra days off next week.
“We’re looking forward to it,” Dawson admitted.
He’d already told Cam they were spending one of those days doing absolutely nothing but lazing around in bed—and if absolutely necessary—on the couch.
Maybe figuring out what this thing between them looked like had been a little bit of a challenge, especially with Shane around and the additional time demands of the football season. But despite all the possible pitfalls and the fact that Cam had never had a relationship before and Dawson’s last one had ended catastrophically, he wouldn’t trade it for an easier road. Dawson was sure he’d been happier, at some point in his life, but if he had been, he couldn’t think of when that was.
“Good conditions,” Marty pointed out, glancing around.
“Marty, it’s a fucking dome,” Dawson said dryly.
“Yeah. You wanted to push your distance, a good time to try something, maybe. Just throwing that out there.”
In the weeks since missing the fifty-nine-yard field goal against the Bills that would have sent them to overtime, he’d been working hard on upping his personal best distance. Trying to get more comfortable and more consistent in the upper range of the 50s. It was hard, but Dawson was also determined that he wouldn’t fail to deliver. Not again.
It was a work in progress, but Dawson felt reasonably certain he could kick anything under sixty yards in a game, but in the last three weeks, he’d barely been tested.
Kicked plenty of extra points. Even some field goals. But nothing over fifty yards.
Dawson was still afraid he might miss—and what missing might mean for this team and for his career—but he wasn’t letting fear dictate his life anymore.
He’d won the guy, and now he was going to own this new professional opportunity too.
“Tell Aidan to be less spectacular,” Dawson said, trying not to sound whiny and only mostly succeeding. Special teams guys around the league would roll their eyes if they could hear him complaining. Teams with great offenses who didn’t need their kickers to bail them out or their punters to play a field position battle were the best kind of teams to play for.
But Dawson still craved a chance to try a long field goal again. To have it be the difference between losing and winning. To put that fear to bed, one last time, with the kind of decisive act that made it really fucking hard to rise again.
“Sure,” Marty said wryly. “You wanna tell him or are you gonna let me do it?”
Dawson just chuckled and picked up his helmet to head out onto the field for the kickoff.
Cam intercepted him before he left the sideline. “Kick some ass, baby,” he murmured to him, the touch of his hand lingering on Dawson’s shoulder.
It felt like he’d spent the first two or so months of the season terrified of distractions on game day, and how they might negatively impact him and his performance, but Dawson was discovering that some distractions actually weren’t distractions at all. Cam was the best and brightest of those.
“Love you,” Dawson murmured back. He reached out, squeezing Cam’s waist.
“Love you more.” He swatted him on the ass, grinning. “Now, get out there.”
Dawson jogged out onto the middle of the field for the opening kickoff.
From the beginning of the game, it was obvious that even though the Thunder had five more wins on the season than theCowboys, they’d shown up today determined to show out for their holiday crowd.
They pushed defensively, causing Jaden to fumble the ball, setting the Cowboys up with a short field and their first touchdown.
Then one of the corners—who was notorious throughout the league for his interceptions and who Aidan had spent the last week sweating over—picked off one of Aidan’s passes, even though it had been a hard-fought ball with Mo.
And just like that, the Thunder were down fourteen to zero, barely into the second quarter.
Dawson watched from his usual spot on the sideline as Aidan prowled back and forth in front of the bench, extorting not just the offensive line to do better, but all the position guys, too. Lane and Trevor. Mo. Jaden.
On the next drive, the Thunder drove farther down the field, Aidan actually using his legs to run for one of the first downs, something he rarely did anymore.
They made it to the fifteen-yard line. Second and three.
