My good humor is short-lived when Iowa comes back with a vengeance, but our defense eventually finds its footing.
With two minutes left on the clock and a six-point lead, I’m itching to make this a decisive win. We played too well to take this by such a small margin.
Just before we jog back onto the field, I elbow Ben. “B-Rod, be ready to work your magic.”
He gives me a stoic nod. Even though he mostly rode the bench last year, Ben’s shaping up to be a hell of a tight end. Bonus that he’s a humble dude. Not everyone on this team is.
Two plays later, as I drop into the pocket, I find Ben through the defense. He catches the ball with one hand, cradles it, shakes off two defenders, and blazes into the end zone.
The crowd erupts, and I let out a roar as the clock runs out on our opponent.
That sharp rush of euphoria blasts through my veins, and I swear I could walk on water. I give my boys some high-fives and grin for the cameras. When I lock eyes with Tank, we leap up to chest-bump.
The whole team is riding the high, one that’s well-deserved.
And then I make the mistake. The one I make every damn game.
I look to the stands.
I don’t know why I do this, somehow expecting things to be different.
But still, I look. Isn’t that the definition of insanity? Repeating something over and over, expecting a different outcome?
Just like that, I slam back down to earth because the truth is I’ve never had any family at a game and likely never will.
* * *
In an attempt to abide by Coach’s “no shenanigans” rule this season, we’ve kept celebrations mostly out at bars since restaurants limit capacity, and this way I don’t have to worry about people jumping off my roof into the pool and breaking their necks. It’s not the same as the hedonist free-for-alls we tend to host, but at least we’re staying out of trouble.
The Yellow Rose might qualify as a dive bar, but the owner loves the football team, and I like giving them our business. Besides, beer is beer.
“What can I get ya, darling?” Our waitress winks at me, and I smile. We had a class together last year.
“Hey, Sherry. Another one of these, please.” I hold up my bottleneck.
Miranda squishes closer to me. “Honey, I asked for another shottwenty minutesago.”
“Calm down. It’s busy in here.” I mouth “sorry” to Sherry. “A shot for the lady when you get a chance.”
I lean back. Any closer and Miranda’s tits would be in my face.
Annoyance prickles my skin. Mira and I have been hanging out more socially lately, and I’m starting to think we should’ve kept our interactions to the bedroom.
I slide out of the booth. “I see someone I need to talk to.”
The place is packed, and I get some congratulations on my way to the pool table where my roommates are taking bets on who can eat the most chicken wings.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her.
Gabby.
She’s sitting at the bar, slowly stirring her drink, looking like she’d rather be getting a root canal. Her thick black hair is down, and she’s wearing this shimmery little dress that hugs her curves. When she looks up, our eyes lock, and just for a second it’s hard to breathe. Damn. She’s beautiful.
Despite the fact that we’re neighbors, I haven’t seen her much this semester. I swear, she’s hotter every time I see her, which seems impossible. But despite having some damn good reasons for creating space between us, I’m tempted to cross the bar to talk to her.
Then he walks up to her, that scumbag I inadvertently introduced her to when I called for the ambulance last May.
But what was I supposed to do? Let her lie there on the concrete, pale, passed out, and bleeding, and not do anything? How was I to know Jason would show up like a fucking white knight?
