"You know, you kinda look like this guy I know." My breath came in winded gasps. "But his whole life is football."
"That’s not true." He pulled me backward, my shoulder colliding with his chest. "I shouldn't have left. I'm sorry, Ella."
I clenched my eyes shut and willed the churning whirlwind inside me to stop.Cold air, muddy shoes. Don't listen. He'll just hurt you again. Better to pretend…
"I know I hurt you, and?—"
"You're wrong, Mick." I yanked from his grip and stumbled a few steps. "I'm just thankful you left before we made a big mistake." I turned and headed back to the field.
In the last quarter of the game, I took a snap deep in our territory. "Wildcat formation" was a trick play, freeing Maddox up as a receiver. I threw a decent spiral, he caught it and made it just past the half line. Some whoops and hollers rang out as we moved up the field to the new line of scrimmage.
I found myself beside Danny. He gave me some smirky look with an eyebrow waggle. "You two make quite a team."
I shrugged it off like I had no idea what he was talking about. On the next play, I ran my route, turned and got hit in the chest with the football, only to have it bounce out of my hands. Incomplete.
Dammit.I got a couple of, "good try's," and pats on my shoulders. They were being nice, but I didn't want nice. I wanted results. We lined up again, Maddox took the snap. He threw. The ball glanced off my right shoulder.
I gritted my teeth, stormed back to the huddle and pulled him a few feet away from the others. "Are you trying to prove something? Or just get back at me?"
His eyebrows lifted. "No. Or, no?"
"Then what? What do you want from me?"
He leaned down, so close I felt his breath on my cheek. "I want you to catch the ball."
"I don't have to do this." I pushed him away. "I don't even have to be here. Throw to someone else, hand off, or, you know what? I don't care." I turned away. "This whole thing is?—"
"You do care," he said quietly. "That's whyyou're angry."
I wasn't entirely sure we were still talking about football.
"Don't pretend you know me. You lost that privilege." I grabbed the ball from his hand and hugged it.
"I know, but for what it's worth, I've been angry too." I met his gaze. His hand hovered in the air like it meant to touch me.
And this is definitelynotabout football. So, wait, what does he mean?
"Ref, ever heard of 'delay of game!' Where's the penalty?" Seager stomped two feet on the metal bench. The hollow clang could have awakened the dead. "It doesn't matter how long you stand there, ‘Holiday Barbie’ can't catch the damned ball."
A cold pit hollowed out my insides. I set my jaw and squared my shoulders. "You'd better throw me the best damned touchdown pass this field's ever seen." I shoved the ball at Maddox. "I'm going to make him eat those words."
I think he chuckled, and I heard a, "Yes, ma'am." But, I had a job to do.
I found my position on the line, dusted my gloves together and huffed in the air. Took a few deep breaths and eyed the field ahead.
"Hut hut!"
I ran, faking a move inside, like my previous route, then changed direction to get out wide. I pivoted, looked at Maddox, and he put it right in the basket of my arms. I pulled it in then took off—sprinting toward the goal line. I spun and tried not to trip over my own feet as a last hand grabbed for my flag.
And missed.
I crossed the line to the endzone, my heart pumping wildly as a balloon soared in my chest.
"Touchdown!"
Our team celebrated with high fives and fist bumps. Seager threw his hachimaki to the ground. Excitement thrummed through my veins like a drug; not the same kind of high from hitting a home run or stealing home, but it was fun.
It wasfun.
