I woke up on the morning of our first game as if it were my last one.
I was up and showered before Riley had stirred, and I was happy to have my bag packed and be on my way to the stadium before she showed her face. I didn’t have to leave as early as I did, but I didn’t want to see her before the game.
Not after what she’d said.
It shouldn’t have gotten under my skin as much as it did, but she’d hit a soft spot whether she knew it or not. I was already at my wit’s end after a grueling week of class and practice, the fact that I was even thinking about studying last night was a miracle.
When she laughed at me, I decided I was just trying to fool myself.
I wasn’t the star student. I was the star athlete.
And today, I’d remind myself why that was enough.
I didn’t need a 4.0 GPA to get into the NFL. Hell, I didn’t even need a degree at all. I just needed to ball out and stay healthy — both of which were mostly in my control.
So, screw Riley and anyone else who thought I was stupid.
I’d show them all.
A few of the coaches and staff were already at the stadium when I showed up in my game day attire — khaki pants, dress shoes, and our team polo, which was brick red with our mascot and NBU stitched in gold over my chest. I noticed the raised brows as I strode right in and to my locker, and I knew they were silently noting the behavior of every player today, on and off the field.
I ate a hearty breakfast with a few of the other early risers, and then headed to the training room to get taped up for the game.
On my way out, Riley was walking in.
Khaki pants had no right looking that good on anyone, nor should that tiny polo have hugged her slight frame the way it did. Her hair was down and still damp from her shower, her face clean and fresh, and she hung her duffel on the hook in her locker before her eyes flicked to mine.
I sniffed, walking right past her to my own locker to pull out my headphones. I slipped them over my ears and turned on my pre-game playlist, then moved out to the field to stretch before our meeting.
I turned my phone on do-not-disturb, not wanting any distraction. I didn’t want to see the projections they were making on the pre-game shows, or hear them break down the strengths and weaknesses of every team. And when Coach Sanders gathered us in the film room for our meeting, I knew he felt the same.
“There’s going to be a lot of noise today,” he said, hands hanging off his hips at the front of the room. “From the crowd, the other team, the reporters. You’ve got to find a way to turn it off. This is it — this is what we’ve worked for. We’ve got a lot of new blood on the roster, and where many see that as a weakness, I’ve witnessed the chemistry we have over the last month.”
He walked up to the front row of desks, pressing his finger down on the one where Leo Ramirez sat.
Ramirez was a freshman, too — a running back who was an absolute tank from what I’d seen in practice. He was one of the most widely recruited running backs, too, and I’d held my breath as much as the rest of the nation when he’d made his decision on signing day. NBU needed him, but there was rumor he’d go to his father’s alma mater in the south.
No one would have faulted him if he had gone to South Alabama University.
They were undoubtedly the best team in their conference and repeatedly went to — and won — the national championship.
But for some reason, Leo Ramirez chose to come to New England.
Thank God he did.
“Turn off their voices saying you’re too young of a team to perform,” Coach said, tapping on Leo’s desk. “Turn off your own voice saying you don’t belong here.”
His eyes flicked to Riley then, and I noted how her throat ebbed with a thick swallow.
“Today is the start of the season. Today, we leave it all on the field. Today,” he said, eyes scanning the team. “We win.”
Those words were met with a roar, and Clay Sanders popped out of his seat, beating on his massive chest before starting a chant.
Who’s house?!
Our house!
Who’s house?!
Our house!
The room ripped at the seams with our explosive energy, and Coach clapped his hands, directing us all back to the locker room.
It was time to get changed, get on the field, and get warm.
Then, it was time to play.
Riley
It was a distant hum at first.
I heard it building as we warmed up, felt it swelling as Coach Aarons guided me through pre-game kicks and stretches. And though it dulled as we all jogged back into the locker room for any final tapings or touch ups, for eye black and headphone-meditations, it was still there, buzzing under the surface like a ticking bomb.
And when we pulled on our helmets and ran through that tunnel, it exploded.
The stands weren’t even full yet, but they cheered with the vivacity of a sold-out Drake concert as we jogged onto the field, some of the players jumping up and down and waving their arms to entice the crowd, while others stayed zeroed in and focused, ignoring the cheerleaders and the fans in the stands, their arms in a steady swing at their sides.
I was the latter, nerves I didn’t know could exist bubbling in my chest like a chemistry experiment ready to blow.
The morning had rushed by in a blur, and now that I was on the field, my brain kicked into defense mode, blocking out all the noise and commotion. All of its focus seemed to be narrowed on ensuring I was still sipping oxygen.
I blacked out.
That’s the only way to describe how I moved through the motions, my body on autopilot as Holden — our newly appointed captain — and the captain from the other team jogged out to center field for the coin toss.
Their team won, they elected to defer, and the next thing I knew, the Vikings’ kicker was pulling on his helmet and running out onto the field for kick-off.
That will be me soon, I realized distantly.
Eventually, I’ll be on that field for an extra point or a field goal.
The bubbles fizzed in my chest again, and I inhaled a stiff, hot breath that stung my ribs. Panic threatened to seize all motor control as my eyes scanned the roaring crowd, the kaleidoscope of our school’s colors mashing with those of our opponent. I looked for Gavin, realizing too late that it would be impossible to find him in the craziness.
But then, I found Zeke.
He was lined up and waiting at the five-yard line, bouncing back and forth as he cracked his neck to one side. He paused, jumping straight up into the air and tucking his knees to his chest in a feat that stunned me no matter how many times I watched him do it. He could easily land on top of a five-foot box with that tuck jump, which was a testament to how explosive he was.
His biceps bulged where his jersey cut into the flesh, the crisp white contrasted against his black skin. Pants of the same color embraced him like a glove, and I had to work harder than I cared to admit not to notice how well they hugged his ass. He looked good in our university colors, the white, brick red, and gold.
Then again, the asshole looked good no matter what he wore.
As if he could sense my eyes on him, Zeke’s gaze snapped to mine.
It was only a split second, but he caught me staring at him, and as he bent low into a running position, his legs split in a lunge and his hands splayed at his sides, he winked at me.
My cheeks flamed.
The ball was kicked.
And just like that, the game had begun.
Zeke
With three minutes left in the fourth quarter, Riley pulled on her helmet and jogged out onto the field for a twenty-two-yard field goal.
If she made it, we’d go up by ten, virtually ensuring our win.
If she missed, the Vikings would only need a touchdown to tie us and send the game into overtime.
I couldn’t focus on anything else when she lined up for the kick, drawing a line with her arm up to the middle of the posts, her feet in place where Blake Russo waited for the snap before she backed up and angled herself for the run.
I couldn’t think about how she’d successfully kicked two extra points and a field goal already. I couldn’t think about my own stats, though I knew without doing the math that they were impressive for my first game. I’d ran nearly sixty yards on one return alone in the second quarter, leading our offense to our first touchdown of the game. I couldn’t even remember why she’d pissed me off the night before with her comment about me studying being a joke.
None of it mattered in this moment.
All I could do was watch her fingers wiggle, her chest heave, her eyes focus on Blake’s hands that would hold a football in three… two… snap.
Blake caught the ball, turned the laces toward the goal post, and held it upright with one sturdy, well-placed hand as Riley wound back and kicked it perfectly.
The ball sailed right down the middle, referees on both sides holding up their arms to indicate the kick was good, and we erupted on the sideline.
Riley jogged back all calm and collected, but I saw the grin splitting her face. She was met with hard claps on the helmet and her shoulders as she rejoined us, and she took off her helmet with a waterfall of damp hair meeting her shoulders. Even with pads on and her cheeks red from exertion, she was sexy — and maybe the fact that she didn’t realize it was what made it all the clearer to me and every guy on that field.
And there were plenty of them with their eyes on her, just like me.
I watched her down a cup of water and hastily tie her hair up in a loose ponytail before I finally tore my gaze away and back to the field where the Vikings were receiving.
And promptly cheered when our guys took down the returner at their twenty-yard line.
They ran an impressive drive. Even with their timeouts already spent and not being able to get out of bounds to stop the clock, they were able to score again — but not with enough time to get the ball back again. We took a knee, running out the last twenty-two seconds, and that was that.
We won.
I jogged out onto the field with the rest of the team, shaking the hands of opposing players while reporters shoved microphones and cameras in my face. We’d been trained for this, and still, the sheer amount of chaos had my heart pounding more than it had all game.
“Remember your training!” Giana shouted at each of us as she ran through the crowd, curly hair bouncing as she did.
I stopped to talk to a few of the reporters, all the while keeping an eye on Riley as she was swarmed in the same manner. She was much smaller than the rest of us, and I could see the panic in her eyes as the space around her filled, the air becoming thinner.
After a few more questions, I shoved through the crowd, stopping long enough to grab Holden in a hug and clap hands with a few members on defense before I swept in and picked Riley up onto my shoulders.
“Whoa!”
She yelped, hands flying up in surprise before they gripped my head tight to catch her balance. I waited for her to smack me and tell me to put her down, but surprisingly, she let me carry her all the way back into the tunnel before protesting that I drop her.
As I did, I took full advantage of the moment, making the descent slow and holding her hips firmly in my hands as her body dragged down the length of mine. She was warm and shaky as I held her, her hands fixed on my shoulders and her eyes skating to mine as I gently sat her feet back on the ground.
Both of our breaths were shallow, but I didn’t know if it was from the game or the media frenzy or something else entirely.
Riley’s hands still gripped my jersey, eyes fixed somewhere around my jaw as little puffs of air escaped her lips.
Then, she shoved me back hard.
“What was that?!”
“A free ride out of the media circus,” I said, tapping her nose. “You’re welcome.”
She swung at me, but I dodged it, jogging off toward the locker room with her on my heels.
“That was…”
“Overwhelming?” I asked.
“Yes,” she agreed, but then her lips spread into a satisfied smile. “And incredible.”
I only had time to smile in return before more players crowded in around us, breaking us apart, and we all filed into the locker room, peeling off pads and jerseys as we went. Music was blasted as soon as Ramirez made it to his Bluetooth speaker, and Robbins was already live-streaming with half the offensive line gathered around him to have their shot on camera.
Kyle hooked an arm around Riley’s neck as she passed, spinning her toward the camera, and even she couldn’t help but play along for a minute before shoving Kyle off with a smile and heading for her locker.
I watched her drop her helmet, struggling to get her pads and jersey off and taking her tank top halfway up in the process. She yanked it back down to cover her stomach once she was free from her jersey, and then she stood there in a daze, her lips curling up as she shook her head in disbelief.
But me?
I wasn’t surprised at all.
You did it, Mighty Mouse.
