But it’s not his call anymore.
They’re sending out special teams.
The stadium buzzes in excitement, even as a knot forms in my stomach. Our special teams is good, but it hasn’t been great since…
Wait. Troy Walsh is jogging out onto the field? How can that be?
His helmet, with the silvery-grey lightning bolt catches a ray of light. The number 7 stretching across his back appears backlit. Ethereal.
Otherworldly.
Like there’s something different about this memory. I tap my finger to my lips, unable to figure it out, but too caught up in the game to pinpoint it. Instead, I focus on Troy.
Since I met him at the rooftop bar, I’ve learned his calm focus. His integrity. His intensity. He’s my friend, despite the discomfort it gives Bryce. And the crowd? Well, they adore him, if the way he was received the moment he walked onto the field is anything to go by. I’ve never experienced a player be welcomed onto the field that way.
Like they expect some sort of transformative event to occur.
Caught in the bubble of my worry, I begin to hope. Can Troy make this happen? Can I believe in him?
I find myself crossing my fingers as he takes his position thirty-five yards out. It’s a kick most can make. Still, some would choke in this kind of high pressure situation.
But Troy doesn’t feel pressure. In fact, he glances in my direction—as if he’s trying to reassure me, he has this. He won’t let me, or anyone else who depends on him, down.
The play clock ticks down to its final seconds. The long snap is textbook. The hold, perfect. Troy steps into it and kicks. The ball flies off his foot in a powerful arc.
End-over-end.
Perfect rotation.
I find myself leaning, along with the rest of the Lightning fans, in the direction of the ball—as if we can guide it through the goal posts.
Then, we see it.
The refs arms go shooting up next to their ears. The field goal is good. There’s no flag on the play.
The stadium descends into madness. Confetti cannons fire. The Lightning’s center boosts Troy up into the air and runs him around in a small circle before the rest of the team races forward—including Bryce, I note. But it’s the unbridled joy on Troy’s face that captivates me, not my fiancé’s. When Troy shouts out, “We did it!” he’s not just talking about his winning kick.
He’s bringing the whole team into his moment of glory.
My smile splits my face even as I lift my fingers to my lips and whistle for him. “Way to go Troy!”
His gaze finds mine over the crowd and he beams at me. With the intensity of that smile, I find myself on the field. The heels of my boots sink into the turf I wasn’t on mere seconds ago. Bodies, cameras, they’re all rushing back but I’m caught in slow motion staring down at something.
My engagement ring.
Despite the chaos that ensues from knowing we’re going to the National Championships, I feel weighed down. Like my scarf is choking me.
Or, I realize suddenly, is it a different circle that’s doing that?
My eyes find Bryce in the crowd, set apart behind the cameras that are focused on where Troy’s receiving his well-deserved accolades.
Bryce’s helmet is dangling from his hand and with it, the mask he wears as the Lightning’s golden boy. The mask has slipped off and nothing in his expression reflects the boy I fell in love with. His eyes are narrowed into furious slits. His cheeks are flushed with an unrighteous anger. Tension radiates from every cell in his body.
How did I never see this before? He’s supposed to be the person I believe in, the one I want to say “I do” to.
I find myself fiddling with the ring on my finger as Troy moves closer. Bryce slithers back into his façade and congratulates Troy on his kick as the cameras roll.
When suddenly, my ring pops off into my hand—intentional or prophetic?
