Page 196 of Made Better Together

“Here you are, ladies,” I say as I walk back into the room.

“One for each of us?” Avery says. “Look at his manners.”

“Southern boy,” Eden says under her breath, and we share an amused look.

“Did anything happen in the game while I was gone?”

Grace answers my question. “Not really. Jeremy’s about to try for a field goal.”

Which is only going to pull the Waves further ahead. “Alright, back to the kitchen I go. Popcorn should be ready soon.”

There’s still thirty seconds left when I check on it, crackling in the microwave.

“Oh crap,” Eden calls out anxiously from Johnson’s TV room.

I rush in. “What is it?”

Grace turns to me. “One of the rushers had a late hit on Jeremy. It looks like he hurt his ankle.”

I watch the replay of the extra point, and the video is ugly, with Jeremy’s leg going in a different direction than his ankle and foot. When they go back to real time, he’s getting helped off the field, his arms around two trainers’ shoulders, hopping along on his good leg.

“Shit, that’s not good.” I blurt out.

“Well, wait, you’re here?” Rori says. “There’s a whole quarter left. What do they do if they need a kicker?”

“Our punter Ernie will handle those kicks. He’s the emergency backup,” I explain, and then Eden’s face lights up with understanding.

“And you’re the real backup. So for the next game…”

“I would theoretically start.”

“Holy crap!” Grace says. “Not that we want him injured.”

We all stay quiet for a moment as the significance of what happened settles.

Though I purposely included the word “theoretically.” If Jeremy is too injured for the next game, the Waves could sign me to the official roster—or they could look for an experienced kicker who’s not on a team currently, but a known quantity.

“Either way, let’s watch the rest of the game,” Grace says, recentering our focus.

Eden gives me a reassuring smile, like I might be drowning in my thoughts.

Only one question is dominating my mind: am I finally going to get my shot?

Eden tries to keep me distracted when we get home, but it’s a bit of a lost cause.

I don’t get the answer to the question I’m dwelling on until Del calls me the next morning.

“Hey.” I try not to sound excited—Jeremy’s injury is not something to celebrate.

“Hey. So, I won’t beat around the bush. Jeremy’s got a high ankle sprain, and he’s out six to eight weeks.”

Damn. “Yeah, it looked bad.”

Six to eight weeks covers the Super Bowl, if we make it. What does this mean for me? It feels like my chest is in my throat.

Del delivers the answer. “We’re going to offer you a roster spot. It’s a week-by-week call-up, starting with the New Jersey game next weekend.”

I silently pump my fist. Eden sees the movement and stands up, hand covering her mouth. She knows.