I snuck another peek up to the box.
Did she ever watch the games when she was with James? Did he really make it an issue? Screw him. I wish I could put her on the Jumbotron in my jersey and send a photo to him.
I stopped stretching and stared at the Jumbotron above me, thinking about the possibilities. I bet Wyatt—our enigmatic techie friend—could manage it.
A groan escaped me as I lowered myself to the ground to stretch my legs, back, and hamstrings.
Jeez, since when did I start groaning like an old man? I attempted to turn it into a growl. It was weak.
Please, God, don’t let the rookies hear me.
“Need some Bengay over there, Shaw?” Our first-round draft had the balls to poke at me.
“Did they make sure your diaper was secure for when the Baltimore defense makes you shit yourself, Thomas?” I shot back, not even looking up at him.
This led to other jabs and taunts among the players, and I phased out of it. When I stood, I stared up at the skybox again then swung my arms out to stretch my shoulders.
“Hey, did Riley make the trip up here with you?” Lance, a young safety, had a not-so-discreet crush on my girlfriend. Most of the male population was envious of my life and the drop-dead gorgeous girlfriend who’d moved in with me.
“Where is Riley?”
“Hey, Shaw, is Riley with you?”
The questions came at me all the time. I was a serial monogamous, one-woman man. If there was a commitment, I upheld it. I never bought a ring or came close, but I’d met some good women who’d tried to persuade me.
“Yeah, she came up for the game.” I pointed my finger at him, half-joking. “So don’t make an ass of yourself.”
After completing stretches and running to warm up, we disappeared into the locker room for final instructions and to mentally prepare. Some guys needed to get in the zone—meditate, use positive imagery, listen to loud pounding music, joke around, or do whatever it took to focus us.
As for me, I switched on my music, adjusted my headphones, leaned back in the chair by my locker, and closed my eyes. I pictured the plays, reaching for the ball, running the ball, blocking the opponents, engaging my body, and pushing them back. I imagined the power in my legs and the weight in their blocks and called on my body—getting old with use and abuse—to do right by me today.
A tap on my shoulder pulled me out of it, and I slid the earphones down to my shoulders. "It's time. Let’s go.”
Time to earn my paycheck.
9
Shaw
At this point in my career, I wouldn’t say I was desensitized to being in front of 70,000 people in the stadium and another 10-20 million televised, but I’d learned to block most of it out and focus on the opponent.
After all the pomp and circumstance of the opening, I stepped into the huddle, shaking out my hands as our quarterback went over the first play—a short jet sweep to Davy. My job was to block for him.
Done.
We gained a few yards in the next two plays but nothing to cheer over.
Back to the huddle a few more times. A few more plays—some good, some not so good.
I got to seven minutes left in the first quarter when I was on the sidelines, and curiosity got the better of me. I turned to look up over my shoulder to see if my gang was out in the seats.
Grace and a few of their friends were sitting by the railing, talking but watching the field. Aaron and Kelcie were in the doorway, Aaron leaning against the frame, my jersey proudly displayed. Kelcie leaned over to him, pointing my way, saying something to him, and waving. I held up my hand and was relieved when he straightened and waved back.
Okay. Things were okay.
Davy smacked me in the chest. “Come on. We’re up.”
After making progress down the field, we finally reached the seventeen-yard line. The coaches called for a play that was my specialty.
