As my audience titters and cranes their necks, I inch my way hand over hand along the bar that runs parallel to the ground, my six-foot-five frame dangling over the grass.
“Back up down there, unless you want to get kicked in the head!” I boom to a few guys standing close to my feet. And when I’m sure I’ve got plenty of room to maneuver safely, I start swinging my body back and forth like a pendulum to gain momentum, which prompts the crowd below me to cheer and hoot even more loudly.
Once I’ve got myself going with solid force, I throw my legs up and perform a somersault over the bar with gusto, one that makes the players below me guffaw so hard, several of them immediately crumple to their knees onto the turf.
Oh, man, I’m really flying now. Cooking with gas. As a tide of laughter and cheers sends endorphins rushing into my veins, I perform my signature move—the one that’s always the biggest crowd pleaser: I link my legs on the bar at my knees so I’m hanging upside-down like a bat, flail my arms like I’m totally out of control and about to fall, which isn’t the case at all, and shout out a string of highly cartoonish exclamations. Stuff that’s worthy of Pee-wee Herman, basically. Like, “Whoa-whoa-whoa!” and “Look out below!”
The move kills like it always did back in the day. So much so, a few more guys have fallen onto the ground in uncontrolled laughter, while several others are doubled over and holding their sides.
As I’m just about to change positions and grasp the bar with my hands again, the roaring, gleeful laughter beneath me comes to a sudden and eerie stop, almost like someone’s pressed a real-life mute button. Out of nowhere, it’s totally quiet, other than the distant sounds of fans cheering and shouting.
I turn my dangling head and look below me, trying to figure out what the heck’s going on. And that’s when I discover two unexpected faces staring up at me. Shit. Even from this angle, I recognize one face as belonging to Coach Parker. And I think that pretty white-haired lady standing next to him is the widow who’s notoriously taken over the Mastodons fromher late husband this season. Unlike Coach Parker, who looks pissed as hell right now, the pretty older lady is smiling up at me. So, hey, at least there’s that. Not to mention, the fans in attendance are making it clear they’re thoroughly enjoying my shenanigans.
“Hello, Luca,” Coach Parker says tersely, a vein on his upside-down forehead visibly pulsing.
“Hey, Coach Parker.”
“This is quite the grand entrance, son.” He folds his large arms over the Mastodon on his polo shirt. Plainly, he didn’t mean that as a compliment. But you know what? I’m going to take it as one.
“Yeah, thanks. I’m a huge believer in making a memorable first impression.”
“That you have. I’ll give you that. This is Ms. Williams. The team owner.”
“Hi, Ms. Williams.” I shift my upside-down gaze to the smiling white-haired lady. “It’s great to meet you, ma’am.”
“You, too, Luca. Or would you prefer ‘Monkey Boy’?”
“Call me whatever you like, Ms. Williams. This is your world, and we’re all just living in it.”
Ms. Williams giggles. “Call me Ginny.”
Feeling like the bit has most definitely run its course, I perform a midair sit-up and maneuver myself till I’m hanging from the parallel bar by my hands. Should I inch over to the middle pole and slide down like a firefighter as my grand finale or simply release my grip and tumble several feet onto the grass below? The first option would gas up the crowd, I’m sure, while the second option would probably be more to Coach Parker’s liking.
Before I’ve made up my mind about which dismount is preferable, my attention is drawn by motion in my peripheral vision. A man in a Mastodons jacket and slacks is walking onto the field alongside a young woman with dark hair and arocking body. Like her companion, she’s dressed in Mastodon gear, except she’s wearing a staffer’s polo shirt, shorts, and sneakers, all of which look damn good on her.
Man, that girl totally reminds me of Chelsea the Mathlete. Wait. Holy shit. Is thatactuallyChelsea the Mathlete, after all this time? Oh my God. I think that’s her!
No, it can’t be. There’s no way. I’m being stupid. Pathetic. And yet, as the young woman walks closer and I get a better look at her gorgeous face, every cell in my body knows it’s her. In fact, there’s no doubt about it.
Now granted, I’ve had more than a couple false Chelsea the Mathlete sightings over the years—times when I was positive it was her, but when I sprinted closer, I discovered my mind had been playing tricks on me. But this time feels different than those times—every bit as electrifying and real as that one infuriating time I thought I’d spotted Chelsea in the stands at my game against Northwestern right before the snap and then couldn’t find her again when I had the chance to look again.
“Hey, Chelsea!” Coach Parker shouts to the young woman when he notices her arrival. “I’ve got a job for you, kiddo!”
Holy shit.Chelsea.That confirms it. It’s really her.
“Coming, Dad!”
Dad?
Did I hear that right? Coach Parker is Chelsea the Mathlete’s …father?
As my brain processes this new bit of information, my hands involuntarily loosen their grip on the bar, and down, down, down my big body goes, crashing in a crumpled, flabbergasted heap onto the grass below.
CHAPTER 7
Chelsea
IN THE DISTANCE, Luca pops up from the ground like a jack-in-the-box that’s just been freed. “I’m fine!” he shouts to nobody in particular. To emphasize his point, he yanks both arms up the same way Olympic gymnasts always do after sticking a landing, and all the players surrounding him, along with Ms. Williams and a whole lot of fans watching from the spectator areas, cheer and goad him on.
