The semester had started in the usual way—massive syllabi filled with reading until my eyes crossed and projects and papers coming out the wazoo. Nothing about my last year was going to be easy, so I truly didn’t need the additional complication of Danny Chambers.
Zoe narrowed her eyes. “If he’s playing you, he’d better be making friends with the big guys on his team is all I’m saying.”
“Since classes started, he hasn’t been by the coffee shop, so maybe he was testing himself out on a friend.” I stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Union at the students passing on the sidewalk.
“As if he needs to practice flirting.” My friend snorted. “Danny is the king of flirts. He probably flirts in his sleep. You of all people know that.”
With a sigh I slumped back in my chair. I did know that. All that touching when we were playing mini-golf was about him being bad at losing and trying to distract me not about him having any romantic interest in me. I needed to shut down my fantasy life pronto, especially with the semester I was facing.
“You’re right. As usual I was convenient.” Sitting up, I said, “I still want to go to the game on Saturday. Wanna come with?”
She shrugged. “Sure. What the hell? It’s going to be warm and sunny. I can work on my tan and enjoy the halftime show.” The puckish smirk on her face drew an answering smile from me. “The band is doing a tribute toGhost Busters. Should be entertaining.”
“I swear you’re the only person I know who pays to attend football games so you can watch the halftime show.”
“What can I say?” Her eyes twinkled over the rim of her Diet Dr.Pepper. “I’m a woman of refined taste.”
“Hmmph! You like football as much as I do. Don’t pretend you don’t.”
“Yet for someone who enjoys it as much as you do, you’ve seen far fewer Wildcats games since we’ve been at MSC than I have.” The tinge of accusation in her tone reminded me of how many Saturdays I’d spent studying or working rather than going to games with my friend.
“Yeah, well, it’s our senior year. I’m going to make an effort to enjoy college more, starting with going to a game this weekend.”
She put up her hand, and I smacked it in the air as we exchanged a grin.
Game day was glorious. Definite suntan weather. Zoe and I showed up in Wildcats tank tops and shorts. The blanket she insisted on bringing served both to cushion the hard metal seat and to save our legs from sizzling on it. Hidden in the folds of the blanket was a cowbell, which she rang vociferously whenever our guys did something good on either offense or defense. For someone more interested in the marching band’s halftime show, she sure cheered hard for the team.
The second the Wildcats burst onto the field behind a phalanx of riders mounted on horseback and the tumbling gymnastics of the cheer squad, I spotted Danny in his number 82 jersey. Up close and personal, he was a big man, but in his pads, he was massive—and so sexy. It wasn’t only his size but the way he moved, with the grace, purpose, and aggression of a wild tiger. He’d certainly walked on to the right team.
Throughout most of the first half, he stood on the sidelines always near the coaches. It was a trick he’d learned from bouncing from high school to high school. When it was time to put someone new onto the field, the coaches often called the name of the first guy they saw unless the scheme or the play demanded someone specific. Since this was a nonconference contest against a team from a lower division, it was an opportunity for the second and third-string players to show off their skills in a live game situation. Knowing Danny the way I did, I had no doubt he was going to snag as many chances to be on the field as he could.
Sure enough, with about a minute left in the first half, the coach called his number. A little thrill ran through me as I watched him race out to the huddle. When the huddle broke, he lined up in the slot. My entire focus was glued to him and his first opportunity to catch a pass in college. Instead, when the center hiked the ball to the quarterback, Danny sidestepped and blocked a linebacker while the quarterback handed the ball off to the star of the Wildcats run game: Tarvarius Johnson. For a second, I wondered if Hailey was even paying attention to the game on the radio at work to know her current love interest was burning up the field due to a hole Danny had created for him in the defense.
The defense tackled Tarvarius on the twenty-five-yard line, and Danny stayed on the field for another play. This time when he lined up in the slot, he slipped past the linebackers, and the quarterback arrowed a pass to him as he crossed the middle of the field. A defender met him at the ball, but he held on even as he absorbed a brutal hit. Though I tried to curb my reaction, I couldn’t help but cringe behind my hand covering my mouth. Beside me Zoe clanged her cowbell like a madwoman for Danny’s forward progress.
With seconds left on the clock, the coach called a time-out. When the team ran back onto the field, Danny was on the sidelines while Callahan O’Reilly, the Wildcats’ star tight end, won the glory of catching a pass in the end zone for a touchdown. I was sure Danny had to feel good about his contribution.
The team went into the locker room at halftime with a substantial lead.
I had an urgent need to use the ladies’ room, but Zoe told me I could hold it until the end of the marching band’s routine. “You’re going to stand in line for as long as it takes these guys to wow those of us left in the stands who know entertainment isn’t limited to tanking up on alcohol at the halftime tailgates in the parking lot,” she intoned as she linked her arm through mine.
“Sadist. If I wet myself, your blanket will pay the price.”
“I’m willing to take that chance.” The dare in her eyes was only marginally more wicked than the smirk on her lips.
As advertised, the band entertained the hell out of us. By the end of their show, I’d forgotten my bladder emergency as Zoe and I danced to the upbeat sounds of one hundred musicians having way too much fun on the field. By the time they’d marched off, we’d laughed as we asked each other, “Who ya gonna call?” over and over again.
At last we made our way to the concession area where my friend’s prediction proved true. The line to the ladies’ room had thinned down to the point I only had to wait behind two other people to take care of business. We grabbed a Coke from the concession stand and returned to our seats in time to see the other team punt to us. This time when the offense took the field, Danny was part of it.
He lined up in his usual place and beat the linebacker to his spot. But this time when the ball landed in his arms, O’Reilly was there to block the defender. Instead of some defender pancaking my friend to the turf, Danny turned upfield and kicked in the afterburners. In a split second it seemed, he’d put fifteen yards between him and the nearest defensive player. But the safety had a good angle on him and ran him down after he gained about thirty-five yards.
In my excitement, I grabbed Zoe’s wrist—the one she was using to clang her cowbell—and doubled her efforts. “Way to play, Danny!” I screamed.
When the offense lined up again, Zoe tugged her arm from my hold and with a rueful expression rubbed her wrist. “Next time, you should bring your own cowbell.” A thought struck her, and she said, “Matter of fact, they sell them in the concession stand. You should go buy your own right now.”
“Can’t.”
She lifted a sardonic brow.
