Maybe it’s okay to just live in the moment for now.I’ll get myself in check when our happy bubble pops, and we return to the real world.
It’s fine. Everything will befine.
He keeps our fingers interlocked for the rest of the appointment, only letting go for a few seconds to shake the doctor’s hand when she enters the room. There’s no hesitation—no hiding—as he listens intently to everything she tells us. She asks if I’m having any new symptoms, which I downplay with a mumblednot really.It’s not like I can blurt out that my sex drive has skyrocketed, and that my fingers are delivering very lackluster results. I’m just grateful that the showerhead in the upstairs bathroom is removable. It’s already come in clutch once this week, and I have a feeling I’ll be using it again after Theo leaves for Miami.
I keep some distance between us as we leave the building. It’s one thing for the professionals inside to see us touching subtly, but it’s another to be all over him in public as we leave a doctor’s appointment. Even though it doesn’t seem to bother him, I don’t want there to be any repercussions for his generosity.
Theo Calloway isn’t my baby’s father, as much as I wish he could be. But I got myself here, and I need to be ready to raise her on my own.
TEN
THEO
“Let’s go,boys! We’ll get it back!” I shout through cupped hands as I make my way to the sideline. We just gave up our second touchdown of the day to the Miami Rage, putting them ahead on the scoreboard by seven. They successfully ran it right up the middle on third down, obliterating our goal line defense, since their running back is built like a truck. Now, with less than a minute left in the game, we need to get into the end zone.
“Fuck, that was brutal,” Emmett says as he pulls his helmet on, getting ready to take the field with the offense. “You can’t defend Harlow in the red zone. He just bulldozes through.” He’s not wrong. The man is two-hundred and twenty pounds of solid muscle and used every bit of it to get through our line twice today.
“There’s still time,” I say with a smirk. Call it toxic positivity if you want, but I refuse to admit defeat until there isn’t a second left on the clock. I know my guys are tired. They’re banged up and bloody, and they don’twant to add a loss to our record after fighting so hard. If keeping the energy high on the sidelines helps with team morale, I have no problem pumping them up.
“Calloway!” Coach booms, demanding my attention. I waste no time jogging toward where he stands with our special teams coordinator.
“What’s up?” I ask, but as soon as I catch a glimpse of his tablet screen, I have to actively will my dick not to get hard.
Fuck, yes. He’s going to let me tie this thing up.
“You ready to get out there and rip it open?”
“Yes, sir.” I try my best to hide the excitement that’s flowing through me, but I’m practically jumping out of my skin. He doesn’t let me return kickoffs very often, because it puts me at risk of injury, but I guess he thinks I’m the man for the job today. There’s not a chance in hell I’m letting him down.
“Alright,” he replies with a tight nod. “You know what to do.” With that, I’m gone, running onto the turf like a bat out of hell as pure adrenaline courses through my veins. The Miami crowd is loud, cheering as if they’ve already won. It’s a shame I’m going to ruin their afternoon.
The Rage’s kicking unit takes the field, and before I know it, the ball is in the air. I watch carefully, my heartbeat pounding loudly between my ears as it sails right toward me. For a split second, I visualize Finley and Boner watching from home, which gives me even more fuel to make a big play. I want to impress her.
As soon as the football is in my hands, I take off, doing my best to read the movements of the men whoare barreling toward me at full speed. It’s a long field—about eighty-five yards between me and the goal line, but it’s fine. I’ll get there, one man at a time.
The first couple of tackles are easy to avoid, but as I approach the second wave of players, I know it’s going to be a challenge. I’m not going down without a fight, though. Hell, I’m not going downat all.
I decide that going through the swarm is the best route, since there are a lot of purple jerseys ready to push outward and create a path for me. As soon as I see a small opening, I take advantage, tightening my arm around the football in case someone tries to punch it out before I turn up the jets.
My feet pound against the turf, giving it everything I have as I break through the hole without so much as a single hand touching me. I juke past another guy, knowing I only have to beat one man—the kicker—then I’m home-free. Kickers in the league don’t generally need to be fast, since they’re rarely required to chase anyone down, and Miami’s guy is no exception. He closes some of the space between us, trying his best to catch me by diving just as I pass by. He manages to get a hand on my cleat, but it’s not enough to slow me down.
With the last of the Rage behind me, I focus on the end zone, using every bit of gas I have left in the tank to get there. And when I cross the plane, scoring the touchdown my team so desperately needed, the resulting chorus of boos is like music to my ears. Fans are yelling obscenities, several middle fingers being extended over the wall that separates the field from theseats, but I don’t give a fuck. If our kicker, Blake Greenberg, can nail the extra point, we can win this thing in overtime.
Keeping the ball clutched in my hand, becausethis one’s definitely coming home with me, I let my teammates jump on me in celebration before we run off the field, knowing we aren’t done yet. And because Coach Hendricks has bigger balls than all of us combined, he shocks me by throwing two fingers into the air.
This motherfucker doesn’t want to tie. He wants towin.
Going for a two-point conversion when we could just start fresh in overtime is a risk, to say the least. But essentially leaving our fate up to a coin toss isn’t very smart, either. His decision is a statement, telling our guys that he believes in them when the game is on the line.
The offense runs onto the field, readying themselves for the play. I’m still hugging the ball to my chest, my heart thudding against it while the seconds tick by. The snap is made, and as though they could run the play in their sleep, every man does his job flawlessly. The line hits their blocks, giving Maddox plenty of time to find an open man. Emmett is in double coverage, as he should be, but Jett finds his way to the back of the end zone—completely uncontested—as the ball is fired his way. He catches it with ease, and every guy on our side of the field runs his way, screaming and cheering like we just won the championship. It may only be week one of the regular season, but I love being part of a team that never takes a thing for granted. We know what it’slike to lose, which makes each victory that much sweeter.
The Rage offense tries a couple of quick passing plays but ends up running out of time before they can get into field goal range. And as I’m walking down the tarmac toward the team plane just a couple of hours later, I can’t stop myself from texting Finley.
ME:
How are you feeling?
FINLEY:
