Today is game day,so I try to get my shit together even though I grapple with focus, imagining her in the stands calling my name, wearing my number. That pumps me up with new energy, rewiring every cell in my body.
I have always given my best on the field, but now it’s more than just proving I’ve earned my place or the love for the game. I want her to be proud of me.
Getting ready, I pick up my phone and smile at her text.
Good luck tonight. I’ll be cheering for you.
When I open my door, I see a cup and a note. For energy.And a wink.
Oh, flower girl, I am brimming with it. I could fuck you into the new millennium and still have stamina left.
In the car, I tap on my wheel, music sounding from the sound system. Rap music always helps me put my head in the right mental space. All in, ready to fight and win.
I park in my allotted spot at the stadium, breathing in and out in a soothing rhythm to anchor myself.
Playing at home is always mixed with more expectations. I won’t lose. I’m so close, I can visualize the third ring on my finger.
Focused and calm, I walk into the locker room, changing into my gear.
There’s a humming energy as I call my teammates around me.
“We want this win, so what are we going to do to get it?”
“Fucking smash them,” my teammates roar.
The energy pumps us up as we leave the locker room, and Levi and I exchange a nod. It’s comforting to play with your best friend, sharing this experience and going through all the highs and lows together.
Down the tunnel, we storm out onto the field, and a celebratory fog explodes in our faces. Cameras click and the fans roar when they see us.
I search for Lilly in the VIP suite. She’s glued to the glass, and when our eyes lock, her gaze burns up my blood, heating me up.
“Make me proud, guys,” Coach says, and the whistle signals the start of the game.
I keep my word, determined to pack this win.
Every pass I throw, every touchdown I make is for her.
Whenever I am playing, time flies and everything else fades away, but the desire to secure the game remains.
The fans go crazy when Roman secures the winning touchdown. This guy doesn’t run; it’s like he flies over the field. It’s impossible to keep up with him.
Sweat beads at my nape and my muscles scream of abuse. Nothing new to feel exhausted after the game.
We do the interviews, and a reporter makes note of my performance. “That was the best game you played.”
It is. Lilly motivates me to be better. What a surreal experience.
Back in the locker room, a shit-eating grin stretches on my best friend’s face. I groan, already expecting he’s going to give me shit.
“Sexual frustration becomes you.”
“Fucker,” I mumble.
After I pat each one of my teammates on their backs, Coach Parker sweeps his gaze over us with glistening eyes, but I can’t hold eye contact for long. The guilt is real.
“I am proud of you. And now go celebrate.” He arches a brow in warning. “But not too hard.”
Some of my teammates groan, but still dip their heads in acquiescence.
