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She’d clinked her glass to his and replied, “Ahh, but my prince, you can’t pick and choose lines from the story.” She winked as they both laughed.
As her Uber was pulling up to the hotel entrance, she saw Dwayne bound out of a large black SUV, followed by Jake and a couple of other guys, one of whom she recognized as the team kicker, Chad Buttcap. Rakell suddenly recalled something his wife had said, “Once Chad and I started seeing each other exclusively, I refocused my goals and dreams. I wanted to be there for him, you know, be a family.” She remembered another one of the player’s wives piping in, “I wanted to keep modeling, but it was just too hard with his busy schedule. I can’t imagine missing a game.” Rakell had shrunk back from that conversation at the time because these women had made up their minds, and there was nothing she could add without participating in one of those endless, inane ideas that the woman is destined to embrace the secondary role in life, especially if they are linked to a professional athlete. I am going to pursue my dreams. I made up my mind long ago that I wasn’t taking a backseat to anyone for any reason.
She smiled as she remembered the day she’d been caught on the Jumbotron cheering for Jake while in the owner’s box for the opposing team. The memory of that day, watching Jake get the winning touchdown and then being shuttled out of the stadium among flashing cameras, would remain indelibly imprinted in her brain. Inadvertently, she’d signaled to Jake Skyler that he ruled her mind, and now here they were, a couple, both living their dreams, stepping on each other’s feet from time to time, but still dancing. Incrementally, she had adjusted to social media scrutiny and the request for interviews, which usually focused on who she was to Jake Skyler. Only in the last month had the media seemed to highlight her as an up-and-coming actress. They were both committed to controlling the information that could be leaked about their relationship, but it was becoming harder as their profiles grew—hers a smoldering flame, his a blaze, which fit their personas. She gravitated toward quiet, more one-on-one personal conversations at parties or even his family gatherings. Jake's demeanor reminded her of a flamenco dancer, his fiery presence swirling in circles throughout his audience, consuming the space.
The door flew open, his hungry grin partnering with his blue eyes that simmered like the base of a flame. His mussed black hair flopped in looping curls over his forehead as he extended his hand to her, jerking her up and into his chest, his hands tracing the outline of her body as people milled around them. His lips pressed to her cheek, uttering, “My everything girl wearing my lucky jacket, dressed in our colors. It’s only been a week, but it feels like a fucking lifetime.”
“Tomorrow is your day. Everyone is here to see you. Matt said he and Jonathon were flying in later. I love how close they are with Jenae and Winnie now…I guess they were friends at Rice, and now it’s the four of them everywhere.”
“Yeah,” Jake said, tilting his head back. “Maybe Matt can convince them to move back to Texas.”
Rakell shook her head. “Things would need to change for that to happen.”
“Yes,” he whispered. “But right now, all I care about is you being here.”
“And winning…”
“Well, that would be a cherry on top, but I’m also looking forward to being done and spending more time with this sweetness.” He buried his mouth in her hair, close to her ear. “I want my full-time job to be getting you naked. Maybe reenacting another scene? Makes it a little easier to swallow someone else on the big screen if I know…”
Rakell’s mouth gaped as she noticed the staring onlookers. These folks recognized them, and their presence sparked hushed conversations and pointing from the crowd of people entering the hotel. “Shhh,” she scolded.
Jake returned her admonishment with a scowl, an inch from her nose, her eyes crossing while looking at him. “You’re mine, and I don’t give a shit who knows that,” he growled, then swiveled his head toward the onlookers. “This girl right here, Rakell McCarthy, is mine!” he drawled out loudly and triumphantly. She half expected him to crane his neck back and howl at the moon, which was a shadow hanging above the mountains in the muted light of the sky.
“Jake!” she uttered between clenched teeth, feeling the rubbernecking of passersby as they slowed, forming a crowd.
Then his mouth covered hers, kissing her deeply. She could hear the buzz of whispers intertwining with giggles. Still, she arched into him, letting this moment be theirs, not worrying about the pictures being snapped, the video that would go viral, and all the comments that would populate social media as they poured into each other. She slid her lips from the suction of his mouth, pursing them before smiling. “You’re going to win another Super Bowl, Jake Pretty Boy Skyler,” she hushed so the phones encircling them couldn’t pick up on her voice.
“With my girl by my side, I can do anything,” he boasted loudly, blowing past her whispered voice. Too brash again, she thought. She knew that line, spoken with an exuberant amount of bravado, would be analyzed and scrutinized by the media until every sound bite equaled some profound meaning.
Chapter Forty
The newly built stadium, nestled beside the Sandia Mountains, felt like a museum. I’d walked its perimeter two days ago with the team; Coach Mark had insisted on it. He’d said that the University of New Mexico art students worked with local artists to paint murals that reflected the rich heritage of the region's indigenous people. The structure had been designed to ease into the surrounding landscape. It was one of the most unique sports complexes in the world, its adobe walls juxtaposed against steel and glass, creating an illusion that it was one with the pinkish hue of the mountains hugging it. The sun, relenting to the night sky, tipped the peaks with a harsh fire that turned the soft pink into intense crimson, which reflected off the glass, illuminating the adobe walls without the aid of artificial light. There had been a collective sigh as the team observed the sky shift from day to night.
After two days of running plays in Sandia Stadium, I knew we were at a distinct advantage; our guys’ lungs could tolerate the thinner air. Training in Tahoe was always tough at the start of the season, but our bodies got used to battling for oxygen, making us more physiologically efficient. Passing the opponents on their way out as we entered the stadium for our allotted time, I couldn’t stop the internal snicker, noticing some of the Iowa guys trying to regulate their breathing after they ran their drills.
Sylvia Gonzales pushed off the adobe wall. She was a captivating presence in every way imaginable; her shiny raven hair spilled over her shoulders, and dark denim snugged her ample hips, gliding down her legs before flaring over her boots. She wore a tan blazer over a tight purple ribbed sweater with a microphone clipped to the lapel of her jacket. Two camera guys flanked her, looking a tad uncomfortable, probably not sure what our reaction would be to her impending request, but she was next to impossible to turn down. I knew she wanted to interview us before the Super Bowl, but I hadn’t been prepared for her to ambush Dwayne and me as we went in for one last drill before tomorrow's big game.
“Jake Skyler,” she cooed, or that’s how I heard it; it actually seemed more like a thick purr a ravenous cat would make while eyeing dinner. Her dark eyes, with their heavy eyelashes, traced the muscles of my shoulders, leisurely making their way down my chest, and if my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me, they lingered for a few scant seconds near my groin, my crotch twitching. I felt invincible, so maybe it was just my imagination because I knew Sylvia was married. In my head, she perused my body like an unattached woman or soon to be…Jeepers, Jake! I had to admit I liked it. Even if my whole being was sucked up in that Aussie girl, something about the way Sylvia ogled me puffed me up even more. Dwayne approached behind me, and Sylvia gestured for the camera guys to roll; we smiled, chanting for Sacramento. Shaking our fists in the air, we fixed our eyes on the camera, letting our fans know we would give it our all and bring back another Super Bowl trophy to Cowtown, which is how the rest of California referred to Sacramento.
This year, Dwayne and I sprang for a box so our family and friends could sit together. When we ran out on the field, I looked up and saw Rakell with one arm draped around Melissa’s shoulders and the other looped in Jenae’s…she wrangled her arms free when Dwayne and I, arms linked, took a few steps in the direction of the box and bowed toward the hootin’ and hollering fans. We stood in unison, blowing exaggerated kisses toward the box. Dwayne’s sister, Eva, jumped up and down with Dwayne’s mama, waving manically. I watched Rakell touch her chest and then her lips, tossing the combination of her heart and kiss in my direction. Using my fingers, gesturing that I’d snatched her gift from the air, planting it firmly to my lips, letting her know I was grateful for everything she offered. Every fucking thing. I wanted it all; mine, all mine, stomped through my head when I beamed back to her.
The coach’s first play of the game was a genius call. They were going ‘old school Jake Skyler,’ and I’m guessing nobody saw it coming. On the snap of the ball, Dwayne, Jaxton, and Grady took off on what appeared to be every one of our receivers on a ‘go’ route. They must have thought we were going to send a message by trying to score on the first play of the game. The secondary of the Tornadoes bought it, and then every one of them followed our guys downfield. Our O-line and two running backs ran to the left, so on second look, it seemed that we were setting up a screen pass. I faked the ball to the trailing running back; their defensive line and linebackers collapsed toward the left side. I looked to my right downfield and saw….no one…I tore into a sprint. By the time the defense caught on, I was already fifteen yards into my run. I got thirty-five yards before going into a slide to avoid getting hit. The next play looked like a pass, and again, the Tornadoes' defense was lining up to defend our passing game. I dropped back, and as the receivers ran their routes, I handed off to the running back on a delayed run. We picked up another twelve yards. They were clearly on their heels. I had to chuckle while watching Dwayne and Jaxton line up on opposite sides of the field, knowing what was coming next. It was like watching a human ping-pong machine; both ran crossing routes after the snap. When they got close to each other, the cornerback covering Jaxton had to step around his teammate, affording Jaxton a distinct edge on the guy. Watching Jaxton was sort of like observing a human calculator on the field; I was sure he knew exactly how many steps he was from the endzone. I hit him with a pass in stride, Dwayne and me chest pumping as Jaxton scampered to the end zone for a touchdown.
I watched their quarterback shift on the sidelines, his legs squiggling like someone had dropped a fucking firecracker down the back of his game pants. Randall Adams was one of the most famous quarterbacks in the league. He was known for keeping his head and had acquired the nickname “Zen Cyclone,” yeah like some badass Buda, and he reveled in the description. Yet he was rattled, and the Tornadoes couldn’t muster any offense, so they had to kick it back to us after a three-and-out. Randall Adam’s being neutered was especially satisfying as he has been the bane of my existence since I entered this league. Damn, I could taste the sweetness of a little public vengeance coating my tongue; not only had Randall Adams refused to look at me as a potential backup quarterback when I was a young, albeit misbehaving player in the league, but also knowing that he had been my girl’s original football crush. I snuck a peek at the box just as she took a swig of something, thinking to myself, God brought this girl from Australia to Texas, and now she’s seeing me beat the team and the quarterback she used to watch with her dad. A ripple of emotion ran through me as I thought about her dad, but I shook it off, loving that she saw her far-away infatuation stumble against me as I reigned supreme.
The rest of the first half continued like the first few possessions. We entered halftime leading 40-0. I had already passed for 320 yards, Jaxton had 120 receiving yards, and Dwayne 95. Our defense only gave up 110 offensive yards to the Tornadoes. Safe to say we were having our way with them, and damn, was I eating it up. Everybody always talks about the exhilaration of winning a tight game because you fought for each yard before eking out a win. You know you earned it. Yeah, that felt great, but there was something altogether super-hero when you’re wiping the field with the other team, especially an uber-popular team like the Iowa Tornadoes. Their quarterback had been interviewed more than any other guy in the league, and there was an intellectual pretentiousness mixed with spiritual yogi bullshit about him that twisted my gut when we faced them, so yeah, I was savoring this moment.
At halftime, I approached Jaxton and put my arm around his shoulder. He flinched as if he expected me to attack him. I said to him with a slight smile, “I didn’t come over here to choke you. I came over to congratulate you on a spectacular first half. You’re making them forget all about that other receiver we line up out there.” I chortled, knowing I had said it loud enough to capture Dwayne’s attention.
Just then, Dwayne sidled up to me, a cheesy grin on his face, obviously having heard the last sentence. “I see that you are appreciating the accomplishments of my protégé,” he chuckled, making sure he emphasized ‘my.’
Twisting my head toward Dwayne, I said, “And who are you?” as I side-eyed Jaxton with a smirk. The ends of Jaxton’s mouth curled; a smile? Then it disappeared into a straight line, but I saw it. This was the first time I’d registered any happiness or amusement since the San Antonio game, and I had been leaning in, trying to make sure Dwayne saw me giving this kid a chance. I’m not going to lie: it made me giddy. It was sort of like when I knew I’d connected with Cameron; that thought made me still for a minute.
I walked toward the other side of the locker room with Dwayne, stating, once we were out of earshot, “I may not remember your name, but you’re gonna have to stick around anyway ‘cause having a conversation with that one is practically impossible.”
Dwayne lamented, “Believe me, I know. I can spend hours with him, and we barely share two words. I think he might be on the spectrum.”
“Like Cameron? He doesn’t seem that involved,” I said. God, I’d been an ass to Jaxton, not trusting him, sensing something was off when maybe he just processed the world differently.
