“Ah, fuck this,” Nate mutters as he’s trying to tape his fingers.
“Why don’t you let one of the trainers help with that?”
“Taping my own fingers shouldn’t be the fucking puzzle it is.” He tosses the tape to his side, standing.
I just shake my head. There’s no talking to Nate when he’s annoyed. Unless I’m five foot nothing and named Mia, he doesn’t listen to anyone.
“Bring it in, boys,” Chase announces as he starts walking into the center of the locker room.
Today’s game should be a good one. I’m ready for it. Seeing my father on the other hand is something I could do without, but I do love seeing my brother. Something I haven’t been able to do much of lately.
I hated the interview with Tess, but not as much as I thought I would. To be fair, she asked two questions about him—and more specifically, the questions were about his stats. I can talkabout his stats all day long no problem, it’s when things turn more sentimental. When a reporter thinks that talking about my father in the same breath as football is going to be touching or make me feel some kind of emotional nostalgia—when in reality, I can’t get the dry, boring answer out fast enough.
“This game is a big fucking opportunity today, boys. Let’s do what we know we’re capable of and make sure that, after today, the league hasn’t forgotten how fucking dangerous we are. I don’t care about last week or next week. Focus on now. Today. Come on.” Chase paces in the small circle we’ve created around him as he projects his voice.
I nod, hearing every word and knowing that this game means so fucking much to me. I already know my dad’s up in some suite waiting to see how his former team is going to pummel through my line and get to me.
Once I’m introduced and make my way out onto the field, I hear the roar of the fans and the sound of the announcer echoes through the stadium. My teammates are all lined up as I trot to the sidelines, and I keep my head down as I make contact with my offensive coordinator. We’ve talked about the game plan a lot this week, which isn’t anything out of the ordinary, but somehow I’ve kept feeling like I need the reminder. Our walkthrough the other day had me pumped—fucking amped for this game—and I can’t explain how much of that is merely to shove things in my dad’s face.
Demi’s on the sidelines in the shaded area on the home side of the field. It’s a beautiful day today too. Mid-seventies and kind of cloudy—a miracle mid-October. Her hair is up in a ponytail with black shorts and a black blazer over a white top. I smile at her and she gives me a quick head nod as she sees me.
I just want to get through this game and spend time with her. Our schedules haven’t synced up too much in the last week and I’m just missing her.
“I’ll get you, keep running,” one of Denver’s defensive linemen says as he runs up to me just after I’ve thrown the ball. He braces his hands on my forearms, careful not to push me down and get a costly penalty for his team.
“I’ll be here,” I say, smiling as he jogs away.
My dad was right about Denver’s defense being top notch. But I’m fucking proud to say so is my offensive line. The work these guys have been putting in at practice is translating to game days and I couldn’t be more thankful. I don’t think my body could handle another week of beatings.
“Let’s go have some more fun,” I say to the guys in the huddle as our offense takes the field to start the second half.
And I mean that, because today has been fun. I’ve been able to draw their defense offside twice in the last half, and it’s always fun to get a free play out of it.
“Fuck off with your hard count, Evans,” a Denver defensive player says to me as he lines up at the line of scrimmage.
“Why would I stop when they’re so effective?” I tease, smiling through my helmet as I get under center.
He grumbles, and I take a peek at the game clock. Thirteen seconds.
“Blue 32, One, one, one.” I pause my cadence. “Let’s go, let’s go,” I shout, dragging the last word out. “White eighty. Boulder, Boulder, hut.”
Cribley hikes me the ball, and I drop back quickly.
My eyes scan the field, lingering on the left, as Ford bolts down the sideline. For a tight end, he’s one fast son of a bitch.
I can feel pressure to my right and know that they attempted a blitz on defense. Something my offensive line is doing wellholding off with Nate helping to block, but I just need another second to make sure Ford has some separation from their safety. He’s practically stride for stride with Ford, but I decide to sling it downfield anyway.
All the pressure up front stops as the ball soars toward Ford. He’s an easy thirty yards down the field, and I eagerly look on as Ford extends his hands, towering over the fast young safety and pulls the ball to his chest as he comes down with the catch.
The adrenaline when a play like that happens is instant. It’s a mood and morale booster all around, and the fans erupt in cheers when Ford stands up and starts celebrating.
“Fuck yeah!” I shout as I run toward him.
“Nice throw, baby!” he says when we meet in the end zone.
I glance up, wondering where in the stadium my dad is, only to be caught completely off guard by Demi’s reaction on the sidelines. It’s subtle, but behind a stack of papers I catch her thumbs-up and tip my head at her, smiling.
Who the fuck cares where my dad is.
