I’m ready for everything.
Some of what I’m feeling must be on my face because, in a single beat, Maddy’s eyes darken and swirl with an emotion that has me swallowing hard, my heart pounding.
And I know she feels it too.
My eyes stay on hers, and the cacophony of the stadium and the buzzy sideline energy fades into the background until it’s just Maddy and me, and I know she knows what I’m thinking without me having to say a single word.
When, Maddy?
She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, a kind ofsureness building in her eyes that has me reaching up a hand to rub over my chest, trying to settle my racing heart.
Soon, Cam.
The wave of the ref’s hands over his head and Coach’s sharp, “Let’s fucking go!” as he slaps my shoulder pads shocks me out of my Maddy-induced haze. And then, with one more long look at her, I jog onto the field, Drew by my side.
“Holy fuck, dude, you are so gone for her.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I mumble, glancing around to make sure no one overheard, even as I get a little thrill because, yeah, she fucking owns me and I’m here for it. I want to be owned by her.
“I like it,” he says with a grin, bumping his shoulder with mine as we huddle up.
Our special teams was not immune to the total suckage of this game, so we’re taking possession at our own twenty, and we have a long field to contend with. Tyler glances over at where the ref spots the ball and then turns back into the huddle, looking at each of us and opening and closing his right hand methodically, the way he does when the play clock is ticking down. “We’re winning this fucking game,” he says seriously, all traces of my happy-go-lucky friend gone. This is Tyler in do or die mode. The record-breaking quarterback who can conjure a win on sheer determination alone. “A field goal is not an option because overtime is for suckers and not one single one of us is a sucker. We’re getting this ball into the end zone.” He turns to Drew. “You’re getting this ball into the end zone.”
“Fuck yeah,” Drew says, clapping his hands together.
Tyler nods and calls the play, and then we break the huddle, lining up for the snap. Three plays later, we’ve moved one single yard and there’s just under a minute on the clock. The frustration on our side of the line is so intense we’re practically vibrating with it as we line up in shotgun formation to go for it on fourth and nine. I crouch down, my hands closing over therough surface of the football as I wait for Tyler to call for the snap.
“Blue eighty, blue eighty, set, hut!”
I snap the ball into Tyler’s waiting hands and shoot straight up, getting ready to block as one of the Cleveland defensive linemen tries to plow through our offensive line. With a quick look back, I see Tyler with plenty of room in the pocket, looking for Drew far downfield. I hear, rather than see, Tyler fire off the pass.
The second the ball leaves Tyler’s hand, Cleveland’s outside linebacker shakes off his blocker and jumps so high it should be impossible. He gets a gloved hand up in the air, and I watch him stretch, making just enough contact with the football to stop its forward momentum.
Fuck.
His fingers tip the ball right at the line of scrimmage, causing it to wobble and start to fall, straight in my direction. Time slows, as years of training and habits and skills hammered into me by countless coaches over more than two decades take over, my arms shooting up as I shove my body through the scrum of players jockeying for position under the ball.
But no one is any match for me.
Not today.
Not with the girl I want to make mine watching from the sidelines.
Not when I can feel her eyes on me.
The ball lands softly in my hands, and I pull it into my chest, spinning and taking off down the field. The roar of the crowd is background noise to the sound of my heavy, panting breaths. Centers aren’t runners by trade, but right now running is my one and only job. Sweat pours down my face and my heart pumps wildly as I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead, trusting my teammates to do what they need to do to give me the clearest path they can.
As I cross the fifty-yard line, I see Drew throw his body at a Cleveland player trying to get to me.
Forty. I zig, avoiding a near miss.
Thirty. I stumble a little as a defensive tackle gets a hand on my jersey but right myself and keep on running.
Twenty. “Fucking goooo.” Tyler’s voice filters in, and I’m pretty sure he’s right behind me, running with me as I try and finish this game.
Ten. Adrenaline kicks in, and I find a gear I didn’t know I had, amused and awed that even after all these years as an athlete, I can still be surprised by my body’s ability to do the impossible.
Five.
