Blair Miller, #7, possible extra point kicker, at your service.
This can’t be happening.I look at my jersey, pinching the inside of my arm to prove I’m actually awake.
I keep finding Joey in the stands because bothering Tyson isn’t the move. This is his actual job and I’m over feeling like some PR stunt experience maybe gone ridiculously wrong. The butterflies in my belly flutter about and keep stealing the air from my lungs—it’s kind of rude, to be honest. When I see Joey, he claps and gives me an enthusiastic thumbs up.
I wish I could just be around Tyson but I don’t want to be more of a distraction than I already am. The buzz around the stadium is almost tangible—like you can reach out and grab it—which tells me people are on to something. Believe me, I’d wonder why the random ass woman from the pre-game shenanigans is now donned in complete Cosmos gear, too. Like, who gave this rando a helmet?
The players line up and I’m trying to figure out if I do this? Where do I go? Just as I’m about to panic, internally of course, Zack lightly pushes me in front of him. Since he’s the long snapper, and a key part of a successful kick after a touchdown, he’s sort of made me his problem. He stays close, almost like he’s ready to answer any questions that might come my way.
I turn and give him a small nod, but in my head it’s like a mountain of forehead kisses and perfect coffee color and the cool side of the pillow whenever you need it. Zack seems to be as sweet as I’ve heard. I know he’s one of Tyson’s favorite teammates. Honestly, it’s kind of reassuring that I’m not bothering Tyson—he can do his job while others check in on me.
When the burly head coach comes and stands next to me, I forget how to breathe.
“I don’t know you but I think we’re going to get along just fine. You’ve got bigger balls than some of the guys on the team. And if that’s harassment, I’m sorry, but I want you to know how impressed I am.”
The comment is borderline but we give the pass to the self-aware coach making his point.
“You already won today. You said you’d try something that’s never been done and I want you to know that, before any points are scored. You seem like someone who might need to hear that.” His hand finds my shoulder, now covered with a shoulder pad, and the softness from him calms the anxiety zipping through my bones.
When Coach offers the tiniest of one-sided smiles and walks away, Zack, who feels like my personal cheerleader, leans forward and says, “You know you got this, right?”
***The Cosmos are hurting—I’d be yelling at the TV if I was watching this game at home. We’re down by six in the fourth quarter and it feels like I’ve been here for days. Time seems like it’s walking through the sludge that is nervousness and anxiety.
Today was the perfect time for the Cosmos to test the two-point conversion play calls after scoring a touchdown. Today was also the perfect time to learn that this is a significant gap for the team. They’re 0 for 4 on two point conversions and weren’t able to convert on two fake punts they tried on fourth down–lining up for a field goal with a decoy kicker, to try and get the first down instead.
During halftime, I stood in the doorway of the locker room until someone waved me in. It truly didn’t feel like I should be allowed in there. After the quick message from Coach, which was simply a longer version of “Get your shit together,” some of the special teams’ staff took me back to the net, having me kick a few more times.
Now, we’re on defense in the fourth quarter, trying to get a stop. I feel Tyson slide next to me.
“How do I get one of those?” He points to my jersey, sweat dripping down his face.
“I’m not sure if I'll even get to keepthisone,” I joke, even though the staff told me I could a hundred times, because that’s how many times I asked.
He bumps his shoulder into mine, “So, I feel like you’ll appreciate the heads up. If we can stop them here, we’re going to try and score and have you kick the extra point. If you miss, it goes into OT, and if you make it, we’ll win.”
I can’t lose the game.
“Everyone is buzzing about how cool you are. The guys especially. But, I know you want to go out and show them how fuckingstrongyou are.” His smile hits me like a punch to the gut—good thing I’m wearing full pads.
Then his voice lowers, just enough that it gets lost beneath the roar of the crowd. “Hey,” he presses, like he’s afraid I won’t hear him. When I turn, he’s closer than I expect—helmet off, eyes soft in a way I’ve never seen from him before. “No matter what happens… I’m proud of you.”
It’s quiet, like it’s only for him and I, but it lands like I’m being tackled. My throat tightens instantly. All I can manage is a nod, because if I try to talk, it’ll break something open. His lips tug up on one side, offering a smirk, before bumping his shoulder into mine.
Shaking my head, I let out a smile. We both stand without another word and keep moving our bodies while we watch the defense.
They stop the team. No additional points scored. Still down by six. There’s only two minutes left when Tyson jogs out with the offense. Zack has found his way to me, still taking me under his wing. I’m fairly certain they had Tyson come and mentally prepare me that I might actually be going out.
I can’t help the excitement running through me. It’s like when you know penalty kicks are coming in soccer—win or lose.
This is just like a penalty kick but less stakes. I repeat that mantra over and over as I bounce between my feet, keeping my legs ready.
The Cosmos offense seems to come to life, everything clicking and whirring like the machine they’ve built and quite literally paid for. Lineman block while running backs find gaps to sprint forward, collecting first down after first down. It’s a twenty-six yard touchdown pass to Tripp Owen which has the clock running out and the Cosmos tying the score.
Coach calls a timeout and everyone huddles together. Zack playfully taps my helmet as I pull it on, waiting for the thing I know is coming. Coach looks at me, mimicking taking a deep breath, and gives me a thumbs up.Everyone looks at me and it’s like the world is tilting and my legs don’t know how to manage the incline–even though I work at a fucking spin studio.
I know it’s the anxiety. The stress. The nerves. But before I can let it consume me, Tyson stands next to me and says, “Those fucks think this is going to overtime.” He points to the opposing team captains, waiting near the fifty yard line to run out for the overtime coin toss. “They think we have no shot. Do withthatwhat you will.”
Blame it on my brothers, or just being a woman in this climate, but I’m ridiculously competitive. I want nothing more than to make this extra point. Tyson knows it, too. I’m thankful for the extra fire, for the chance to prove someone wrong.
