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It takes several swallows to find the strength to answer. “Because it has to end. He’s going to go out there and have the world in his palm, while I’ll struggle just to find a nine-to-five job. And when it does end, I won’t recover.”
Silence greets me. Filled with the chirp of late fall crickets and the distant motor traffic. I want to crawl away and die. Especially when George sighs.
“Shit, Anna.”
“Yeah,” I say, knowing what he really means: I’m screwed.
He puts an arm around me and tugs me against his sweaty shoulder. I lean into him, registering even now that his comfort isn’t half as relieving as Drew’s. Which just makes it worse.
I don’t see Drew all week. He texts me to say that, thanks to his away game, he’s behind on his classwork and has to catch up. No one I know has a schedule as intense as Drew’s. Up at dawn to work out with his team, classes afterward, then practice, then meetings, then classwork and studying. Frankly, I’m shocked he ever finds the time to see me.
When Drew finally is available to hook up, I’m the one stuck working. As if the universe is conspiring against us, our one class together is canceled when Professor Lambert sends an email telling us that she’s got the flu.
But late at night, when I’m in my bed and he’s in his, he calls me. We talk of nothing too deep, just small things. I now long to hear his voice as much as I need to feel his body against mine. All of which winds me up and makes me twitchy. But maybe a little space is for the best.
eighteen
Drew
Home game. Seconds on the clock, and we’re sixty yards from the end zone. One touchdown and the game is ours. The noise of the crowd is a jet engine revving up for liftoff. It rushes down the sides of the stadium and washes over me with a power that vibrates my bones. The hairs on my skin lift. My balls draw up tight. Go time.
Heart in my throat, I bend close to my guys to call the play. I can barely hear my own voice and use hand signals as well to make myself clear.
“Crabapple Betty. One.”
“Hut,” they shout in tandem. A clap of the hands and they break and get into formation.
A sea of fans in red surround us, cresting high like a breaking wave. Many swing plastic battle axes back and forth, their chant a rhythmic pulsing: Battle, Battle, Battle.
Before me is a stretch of endless green and a wall of hulking linemen twitching with the need to crush me. Grunts and stamping feet. Under the lights, it’s brighter than midday and hot as hell.
Adrenaline surges, and I tamp it down. Quick check toward Coach. Good to go.
“Hut!”
Dex snaps me the ball. Players burst into action. The thuds of flesh against flesh ripple through the air. Handoff fake to Gray, then I step back into the pocket. Footsteps pound. Linemen rush in when they realize the fake. My boys hold them off.
Rolondo is going deep, but a safety and a cornerback are all over his ass. I duck a tackle, cut right, duck again. Gray’s covered. Diaz worse. Energy pulses, the crowd screams. I check Rolondo again. He’s pulling clear with a burst of speed.
Everything slows down inside me. It’s just me and the spot ’Londo needs to be in. Breathe deep, pump my arm back. Fly!
An arm hooks my middle, I crash into the turf with a bone-jarring thud. My eyes following the ball as it arcs through the air. And it’s damn beautiful when my baby drops from the sky to land in the cradle of Rolondo’s fingertips like I’d personally placed her there.
Right in the end zone. Perfect.
The victorious roar is deafening.
“Yeah,” I shout, my voice lost in the chaos.
My guys swarm in, pulling me up, bouncing me around like a pinball.
“That’s what I’m talking about!”
My head rattles in my helmet from all the slaps.
“That’s right, bitches. Whoo!”
I jump high, punch the sky, then run toward ’Londo. He meets me halfway, bumping his chest to mine.
