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Beau nods, hopping up and slapping his hand. “We got this,” he promises.
“You goddamn better,” Coach says, watching while I slowly rise like lead is in my veins. “Hawke!” He barks, “Light a goddamn fuse. It’s time to hustle.”
“He’s acting,” Beau says.
No, I’m not. I can sprint, but I can’t run. I can’t escape this ache in my heart.
We take the field, still three points down. Our defense did the job. Philadelphia didn’t score, but now we have to.
It’s all on the line. The roar in the stadium sounds like a jet plane.
I glance again after we huddle, after Beau calls the play to the offensive line.
The crowd in the club area shifts. They gather near us at the forty-one-yard line.
I don’t see him.
I squat into position. I put my nose down, my eyes up. Beau takes the snap, and we’re off, but I’m not. I make it look like I have nothing left in me because sometimes… it’s how I feel.
I’m so full of love, but the lies drain me.
Beau throws the first down to Goodwin, and we rush to huddle again, the clock running down. I search the club sidelines while Beau calls the second play, “Phili. Bagel. Lucy. Sixteen. Discount.”
That call is all gibberish code except for the third word—the play—and the fourth word—the player. “Lucy” is a left throw. “Sixteen” is me for my favorite movie, Sixteen Candles. It’s also Martinez’s number and decoy if the other team overhears.
I knew what Beau would call for our second down, so I glance up, searching again.
And my chest, heavy with pads and worry, falls, relieved.
There he is.
I spot Forrest’s little tawny head peeking over the railing. I see Reese behind him, her long, blonde hair tucked into a ponytail under a black Atlanta baseball cap.
I see Forrest watching me, and light explodes in my heart. It lifts my chin and shoulders, too, and I smile…
Because it’s fucking on.
Let’s win this.
We jog into position and hold, my muscles pulled like a rubber band to snap. Beau takes the hike, and I bolt, my peripherals clocking the blur of players while I block. They pivot away, assuming Beau will throw right again, but he falls back.
He’s the Pope In The Pocket.
It gets tighter and tighter around him, but he’s calm. He won’t crack under pressure.
He shifts his shoulders right, and the defense runs that way, covering Goodwin and Martinez.
I’m wide open as Beau, lightning fast, switches the ball to his left hand, throwing fifteen yards into my waiting hands.
There’s no stopping me. All my stress from before explodes through my muscles. I use it to drive down the field, shucking the cornerback before I juke the safety with a quick right, claiming the end zone with a subtle swagger, but not enough to get fined.
The crowd erupts, their roar deafening. A mob of players pile on me, slapping my helmet and pads. Cameras and boom mics rush the field, surrounding our cheering huddle, while Beau huddles in, smacking my helmet, too.
“Fuck yeah, man!” he shouts. “That’s how we win, baby! That’s how we win!” He’s on fire. So am I.
More press and players storm the field. Proud slaps hit my pads and ass as Beau turns to run to the visitor’s sidelines. He always shakes the hand of the opposing team’s quarterback first, then other players.
Usually, I do, too, but not today.
