Staring in disbelief, I shook my head. “You’re still wearing your shoes. And, well, everything.”
He reached down and cupped my cheeks. “There’s the smile I adore. Power play is hard to pass up.” He kissed my nose. “Get a good night’s sleep.”
Rolling over, I stretched across the bed. “You too.”
By the time I had my pajama pants back in place, Fin was gone. Locking the door, I leaned against it with a smile I wouldn’t have predicted an hour earlier. With my gaze toward the ceiling, I said, “Don’t let him get caught.”
It was then I noticed my water bottle was missing. After turning out the lights, I crawled into the large bed and sent Fin a text.
* * *
“DID YOU STEAL MY WATER BOTTLE?”
* * *
His answer came right away.
* * *
“IT WAS A PROP. I WAS OUT OF THE ROOM FOR WATER. Smiling emoji. IT WORKED. NO CONFESSION NECESSARY.”
* * *
I shook my head.
* * *
“IT FEELS LIKE WE’RE KIDS SNEAKING AROUND.”
* * *
“KEEP SMILING. I’LL BE WATCHIING YOU TOMORROW ON THE SIDELINES.”
* * *
“WATCH THE BIG GUYS WHO WANT TO KNOCK YOU DOWN.”
* * *
Closing my eyes, I fell sound asleep.
Chapter 26
Fin
The on-field warm-up was over. The rush of adrenaline was flowing, a familiar feeling that I wasn’t certain I was ready to stop experiencing. Back in the locker room, Coach Tilson’s pregame peptalk was more of what we’d been hearing since Wednesday. The Raiders’ defense was better than good. Our offense had to be even better; it could be, it would be. Our offensive line—the tackles, guards, and center needed to be impenetrable. Our eligible receivers were to run their assigned routes and guard against the interception. My assignment was to read the defense, call the plays accordingly, and avoid turnovers.
Their offense was equally good. Their 4–1 record showed it. That meant our defense had to push them out of their comfort zone. Read the plays. The Raiders were known for their ground game. While the tackles and ends needed to rush, the secondary couldn’t let down their guard for a long pass. Our linebackers were the quarterbacks of the defensive line. Their primary role was to stop everything—block the run, cover receivers, and blitz the quarterback.
“We’ve got this, Coach,” came as a testosterone-fueled pledge.
“You’re the Coopers,” Tilson screamed. “You’ve got this. You’re going to show those fans out there that Lexington should never be underestimated.”
“We’ve got this, Coach.”
The locker room doors opened, and we followed Coach Tilson through the tunnel and out to the field. Each player had their own pregame ritual. Some players prayed while others meditated. Others hyped the adrenaline with jumps and grunts, often with their special playlist blaring in their ears. There was no right way to prepare yourself mentally for the start of a game.
As the national anthem resonated through Allegiant Stadium, I closed my eyes for my ritual. Ever since I played Division II, my thoughts at the beginning of a game went back to my father. Dad was my and Zane’s coach when we were young. He wasn’t coaching elite athletes. Dad was coaching children. While he wanted them to learn, what he sought more was sharing the love of football, of the game. His pregame mantra was a directive to accomplish three objectives throughout the game.
