Yeah, but the hits are not so playful. Seeing a tackle in real life, hearing the dry crack of plastic on plastic, the solid, ugly smack of a body slammed to the ground, the collective inhale from the stands before the tackled player bounces up, is a jarring experience.
The quarterback slaps his helmet and jogs back into the huddle to the cheers of the crowd. These kids have the grit of professional athletes, slamming into each other with terrifying force.
I can’t look away from a vicious collision near the sideline. I don’t know how a mother could watch this and not cry, or a wife, or a girlfriend. Taylor Swift has my utmost respect.
By halftime, the score is 21–3 for us, and I’ve bitten my nails down to nubs.
“Having fun?” Liam asks, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“I need therapy.” But I’m smiling when I say it. “Do they ever lose?”
“Not much,” Faye pipes up from beside me. “It’s a point of town pride. And a massive budget drain, if you ask me, but nobody does. All this money could go to things that don’t literally damage the brain but nurture it, like books.”
“Yeah?” Liam asks. “And are video games good or bad for the brain?”
“RPGs have proven cognitive benefits,” Faye answers sweetly, her smile razor sharp.
And there’s that current again.
Ryder stares at Liam as if he might get in the middle, but then he looks down at Faye, and his girlfriend gives him a short glare that clearly means she can fight her own battles.
The tension dies as the halftime show kicks off with the marching band taking the field, followed by the cheerleaders who launch into a high-energy, acrobatic routine, executing Olympic-level gymnastics: basket tosses that fling girls ten feet in the air, back handsprings across the turf, a human pyramid that defies gravity.
I gasp as a tiny blonde gets flung skyward, spins twice, and lands in the arms of her teammates like it’s nothing.
When the dance is over, the cameras sweep through the crowd, projecting faces onto the Jumbotron. Fans ham it up, waving signs and giant foam fingers, flexing for the screen.
Then, the commentator’s voice rolls across the field. “Alright, folks, you know what time it is! It’s time for the Kiss Cam!”
A graphic of a heart frame appears on the Jumbotron.
And for the first time, the entertainment reveals that this isn’t an NFL stadium after all, but only a small-town high school putting on a good show. The commentator doesn’t scan for random victims; he calls out specific couples.
The camera finds an elderly couple near the twenty-yard line.
“Let’s hear it for Giovanni and Kelly Marino, celebrating thirty-three years of marriage!”
The crowd cheers as Aurora’s parents, I assume, share a sweet, lingering kiss.
Next, the camera swings to a young man with a buzz cut sitting with a pretty brunette.
“Welcome home, Colton Glenn! Thank you for your service. Give Mira some sugar!”
The soldier dips his girlfriend dramatically, and the crowd goes wild.
I’m smiling at the sweetness when the commentator’s voice cuts through my pleasant bubble.
“And finally, let’s see some love from our newlyweds—Liam Rockwood and his lovely bride, Peyton!”
The camera pans toward us, and my shocked face fills the Jumbotron. Beside me, Liam looks effortlessly cool, though the line of his mouth tightens a fraction.
Thousands of people are watching.
I can’t breathe.
Liam turns to me. His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing along my cheekbone, grounding me.
“It’s okay,” he whispers. “A quick peck will be fine.”
