Fingers crossed, she’s right.
55
OLLY
Music blasts in the locker room. Everyone has their war face on to play Miami. The Hurricanes are a hell of a team to play in my first game back. They struggled last year, but added seven defensive transfers to their roster and revamped their defensive coaching staff as well. It would be wrong to underestimate them.
Case in point, they pummeled Boston College last weekend.
You’ve faced tougher. I close my eyes and a highlight reel of great matches plays in my mind, times we were down and everyone had written us off, but we scraped together a win.
That’s what I need to do today—ignore the cynical voice that’s vying for time in my head and focus on what I know I can do. On what I’ve done before.
Standing, I test my knee. My brace is locked and loaded. ACL rehab is all about controlled power. It means not blasting out of the gates the second your foot hits the ground. Running backs are supposed to be explosive, but my trainers and I have worked a lot on a controlled acceleration that should help me not get re-injured.
I remind myself that I’ve done the exercises and trained and prepped and stretched and planned. I’ve done everything in my power to be at a hundred percent. But until I take that first real hit by an opponent, who’s not gonna go easy on me because I had ACL surgery almost nine months ago, I won’t know whether my knee will hold.
No one has more riding on this season than me. My parents just took out a second mortgage on their farm so they could afford the insulin for Gramps, Maggie’s property tax bill went up, and our twins are due in less than three months. I need a win. I need a whole series of wins so I can afford the life I want for my family.
“You ready to kick ass?” Diesel asks me, holding out a fist.
I tap back and nod. “Born ready.”
There’s no place for doubt in the locker room before a game. I’ll go hard or die trying.
As we head out to the field, I spot our quarterback, Ezra Thomas. He may be young, a sophomore, but he’s got some decent chops and a great head for the game.
“I got your back, bro,” I tell him as we do a little hand-slap-fist thing. “Don’t forget to check all the routes.” He tends to rush sometimes. As he gets more confident, he’ll do a better job of checking the third and fourth options.
Our stadium is packed, and as “Paradise City” blasts on the speakers, the crowd goes insane when we rush the field.
My attention should be on football, but I scan the arena for my girl.
When I spot her, I hold up my fist, and Maggie sees me and holds hers up too. It feels fucking awesome to have her here today.
We needed to reconnect last night more than I realized.
Focus, shithead.
I’ve never been distracted by a woman before. Usually, when I play, I’m able to shut down everything but the game. Except Maggie’s not just any woman.
Coach Santos takes me aside. “Remember what I told you.”
I need to speak up if my knee starts to hurt or if I feel off. He doesn’t want me to push it my first game back. “Yes, sir.”
“I’m proud of you for coming this far. You got this.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
The whole stadium goes quiet before the first snap. Either that or my hearing shuts down. For a brief moment, I focus on being grateful. Grateful for my parents who sacrificed so much to help me get the surgery and rehab I needed. Grateful that my body has bounced back. Grateful for being on this incredible team with great friends and a coach who cares about us. Grateful for being in a relationship with a woman who understands what football means to me.
When the ball snaps, everyone springs into motion. Thomas jogs back a few steps and surveys the field. Our tight end is open, but in a flash, defenders fill the route. As I sprint by, he hands the ball off to me.
The horizon is filled with the Hurricanes’ green and orange uniforms as they shift to descend on me, but I’m determined to make something happen.
I juke one way. Then the other. Leap over a defender who hurls himself at me. Strongarm another one until I shake myself loose, and then blast forward, gaining twenty yards and a first down before I’m tackled.
The crowd roars their approval, and my heart is hammering in my chest, not from the tackle or sprinting downfield or even the excitement of the game.
