“HEY.” I snap my fingers and try to get the guys in the huddle to pay attention to the play I’m drawing up. They turned their backs on me thirty seconds ago, and it feels like I’m talking to a brick wall. “Why is no one listening to me?”
C.J. Miles, star running back and former Heisman trophy winner, laughs. He switches his helmet from his left hand to his right and pops his hip out to the side. “This guy still won’t kiss her. Why won’t he kiss her? I would. She’s so hot.”
“Dude’s an idiot,” Peter Bellamy chimes in, and there’s a rousing murmur of agreement.
“I don’t give a shit about who’s not getting kissed or who’s hot,” I say.
“Are you sure about that, Coach? It’s—”
“I don’t care who it is. We’re down by a field goal with four minutes to go until halftime. We haven’t trailed in a game all season, and we’re lucky to only be down three. Can we remember why we’re here, please? It’s not to watch an episode of The Bachelor. It’s to win a Super Bowl, right?”
“Yes, Coach,” eleven men say, and I nod.
“Good.”
I draw out the next series of plays I hope we can execute well enough to get us into field goal range before we head to the locker room for halftime. Twelve minutes away from the crowd to regroup will do us some good.
We’re playing like shit today, with sluggish legs and soft tackles. An interception, a missed extra point, and more penalties than we’ve had all season haven’t given us a great half. Nothing is going our way, and if we don’t fix our mistakes after the break, we’ll be walking out of the stadium with our first loss of the year.
I cap the red marker and stand. A chant starts to run through the stadium, and it vaguely sounds like asshole, asshole. I’ve never heard it so animated in here during a timeout; I can barely think.
“What the hell is going on now?” I ask, having to yell over the crowd.
“It’s the kiss cam,” Kristen, one of my assistant coaches, says.
She gestures to the jumbotron that should be showing our guys hustling back to the line of scrimmage. I don’t see jerseys but Lacey, her face as red as fire and her hands trembling at her sides. The guy next to her shakes his head and crosses his arms over his chest, refusing to look her way.
“What the fuck?” I grumble. I push a water cooler out of the way, and it topples to the ground. Yellow sports drink soaks into the grass, and plastic water bottles roll to the left and right.
“This is the eighth time they’ve shown them,” Dallas Lansfield, my kicker, says. He claps his hands together and practically skips in place. “Fuck, I kind of hope she punches him.”
“I hope she kicks him in the balls,” Odell Sinclair says from the stationary bike he’s riding to keep his hamstrings warm. He pedals in place and wipes his face with a towel. “Dude deserves it. Lacey is hot as hell. Have you seen her ass? I want to bend her over and—”
“Odell,” I snap. “Shut the hell up. One more word out of your mouth, and I’m benching you for the rest of the game. Aaron.” I point to another assistant coach who springs to life. “Come here.”
He fumbles with his headset and pulls the microphone off his ear. “Yes, Coach?”
“Tell whoever’s in charge of that shit to knock it off. No more kiss cam. If they give you pushback, you say it’s a direct order from me. Got it?” I bark out.
“Got it,” he says, hurrying away and leaving his clipboard behind.
I put my hands on my hips. Anger burns in my chest and works its way up to my shoulders and neck. Annoyance and irritation prick my vision, and I don’t remember the last time I was this pissed off. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to block out the image of Lacey’s mortification broadcast for all to see. For all to laugh at, making a mockery out of something she was so excited about.
She sent me a text this morning thanking me again for the extra ticket. She followed it up with a long voice memo, an emphatic and passionate but sleep-fogged rant that told me she wouldn’t hesitate to have security escort her date out of UPS Field if he even dared to cheer for the other team.
Titans forever, she said through a yawn. I listened to it four times while I sipped my coffee, smiling at the way she trailed off halfway through, clearly dozing back to sleep for a minute or two. I think she was snoring at one point.
I kept it for prosperity.
And blackmail.
“Coach.”
An elbow nudges my ribs, and I snap my eyes open, lost in the last few minutes.
“What?” I say.
“It’s fourth and one. What do you want to do? Go for it or kick?” Kristen asks. She’s staring at me, and I rub my jaw, uneasy under her unyielding gaze.
How the hell did I miss the last three plays?
“Kick,” I say roughly. “With how poorly we’re executing today, I don’t want to give them a shot with the ball with any time on the clock. Dallas, let’s go.”
He jogs past me and buckles his helmet as the offense runs off the field.
“Are you okay?” Kristen asks, and I shoot her a sharp glance.
“I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know. Your shoulders are up at your ears and you look tense.”
“Nervous,” I say, and she hums.
I don’t think she believes me.
I don’t think I believe myself.
Chicago calls a timeout like I expect them to. Dallas uses the two minutes to stay loose, swinging his leg back and forth and staring down the goalposts. He mumbles something under his breath and raises his arm to check the direction and speed of the wind. Satisfied, he picks up the ball and tosses it between his hands. He looks over and gives me a thumbs up, nothing but confidence on his face.
I wish I could say the same.
I feel like I’m going to throw up. My heart is stuck somewhere between my stomach and my throat, and I don’t know why I’m so worked up over a kick.
A whistle blows, and the guys line up. Our center, Bryce Bigby, snaps the ball perfectly to our holder, Justin Rodgers. Dallas pulls his leg back and punts the shit out of the kick. I watch the ball soar through the goalposts with yards to spare as time expires.
“Thank fuck,” I say, and I tap Dallas on the helmet as the team runs off the field. “Nice kick, kid.”
“Thanks, Coach.” He grins at me, a clump of grass stuck to his face mask and his eye black smudged on his left cheek. “And thanks for trusting me.”
“You know I have your back. Always.”
We shake hands and the team disappears to the locker room, more enthusiasm in their voices than they had ten minutes ago. My assistant coaches follow them and I’m left alone, anxiously waiting for the interview I have to do before I can head off the field, too.
A reporter approaches me, and I smile. “Shawn?” she asks and I beckon her over.
“Remind me of your name,” I say. “I’m better with faces.”
“Courtney,” she says, and I snap my fingers.
“Courtney, right. I’m sorry. I try to make it a point to get to know everyone, but there seems to be too many people these days.” I nod toward the camera in front of her. “Are we on?”
“In ten seconds,” she says, and I nod again.
“I’m sure the guys upstairs are roasting us right now,” I say, and she suppresses a laugh.
“You said it, not me.” The light on the camera turns red. “Coach, Dallas knocked down that field goal to tie the game heading into halftime. What are you going to work on in the second half?” she asks and extends the microphone she’s holding my way.
“Well, Courtney, we need to be more aggressive. We were slow off the line of scrimmage—again. It’s the same thing that plagued us last week. We had guys who were open and dropped the ball, and that interception really hurt us. That’s why there are two halves, though. We’re going to clean it up and come back better after the break.”
“This is the first time all season you found yourself in a deficit. How do you think the team reacted to being down three?” Courtney asks.
“Being down three is a heck of a lot easier to come back from than being down fourteen or twenty-one. It’s a sixty-minute game. They outplayed us the first thirty minutes, and that’s why they were able to take that lead late in the second quarter,” I say. “We’ll bounce back.”
“What do you—” she laughs. “Hang on. I can barely hear myself. What is that?”
I hear it too, the noise loud enough to ring in my ears. I whip my head toward the stands and my eyes zero in on Lacey. Her face is buried in her hands and she shakes her head from side to side. That goddamn camera is on her again, and my eyes narrow.
“For fuck’s sake,” I say. Courtney’s mouth pops open at the vulgarity, and she nearly drops the microphone. “Excuse me.”
I jog toward the stands and the row of seats my friends sit in every game. The distance isn’t far, barely fifteen yards, but it feels like miles.
“Shawn,” Maggie says as I approach them, and I hear her desperation for me to do something. Anything. I’m going to find the cord to that camera and snap it in half.
Lacey looks up. She stares at me with red-rimmed eyes and tears on her face. I’ve never wanted to take away someone’s hurt before, but when I see the pain etched into her frown and the way her shoulders curl in, I want to burn the world to the fucking ground.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Lacey says. Her voice is thick with emotion, and my heart lurches further up my throat with the sound. “He won’t… he hasn’t… It’s fine. I’m okay.”
I turn my attention to the guy next to her and his hoodie and jeans. The stupid hat he’s wearing that covers his blonde hair. I could bench press him if I wanted to. Easily. The twerp can’t weigh more than a hundred fifty pounds soaking wet.
“What’s your deal?” I yell, and he scowls.
“None of your fucking business,” he snaps. “Your stadium fucking sucks.”
“It’s not nice to make a lady wait,” I say.
I jump onto the concrete blocks that separate the stands from the field. I pull Lacey toward me by her pigtails and settle my hand against the side of her neck. Her heart races under my palm, and I run my thumb down the column of her throat. Teardrops catch on her eyelashes, and her nose is as pink as a peony in spring.
Lacey grabs a fistful of my shirt and clutches the cotton like it’s her lifeline. Maybe it’s to keep me from falling headfirst to the turf. Maybe it’s to pull me closer. Maybe it’s to steady herself, because if she’s feeling anything like I am, it’s dangerously close to levitating high above the crowd.
I bring my mouth to hers, slow enough so she can stop me if she wants, and her breathing hitches.
When she doesn’t pull away, I smile big and wide. She gives me a shy grin in return and I press my lips against hers, kissing my best friend in front of seventy thousand people without a damn in the world, just as snowflakes start to fall from the sky.
