Game on.
#Chapter59
There’s a pit in my stomach unlike any other I’ve ever had for a football game before—and I’ve sat in the stands while E played in the Super Bowl.
I haven’t been able to sit still since I made it to my seat, keyed up and unable to shake off the confrontation with the asshole.
G and CK both had more than a few choice words when I told them about everything that went down, and I’m grateful JT was the brother to which King decided to relay what happened. JT’s texts had a protective edge to them, but E would have sped up the I-95 to kick Liam’s ass if he heard.
What has me the most nervous is I know my boyfriend. There’s no way he’s going to let an insult against me go unanswered. The way he stalks around the sidelines is downright lethal, and I didn’t miss the white-knuckled grip he had on his helmet when he blew me my pregame kiss.
I jolt as I swear I feel the vibration from Kev’s latest tackle. For this entire set of downs, the Hawks’ defense hasn’t taken any prisoners, pummeling and punishing the Penn State offensive line.
The play is called dead with the blast of a whistle, but Kev remains on top of Liam. Kev’s knee is braced on the turf, the toe of his cleat digging in, his foot arching with the effort. His hands are fisted in Liam’s jersey, the faceguards of their helmets bumping against each other as Kev gets all up in Liam’s face. Granted, they’re too far away for us to actually hear anything, but the subtle flex and pop of Kev’s wrists gives away that it’s not a friendly little chat.
I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until my body sags from my rushed exhalation when the refs step in to separate them.
“Welp.” G claps his hands together as we watch a now smiling Kev jog to the sideline and share a complicated fist-bump, hand-slap bro handshake with Mase. “So much for dick weasel being safe from your boy since he’s on offense.”
“Truth.” There’s a glimmer of approval behind the black frames of CK’s glasses. “Looks like the whole team’s got your back.”
Those familiar warm and squishies I’ve come to associate with our crew, our family growing, bubble inside. I link my arms with CK and G, the first of my brothers after JT, and rest my head on the curve of G’s biceps—because, let’s be real, there’s no possible way for me to reach his shoulder.
The polite thing to do would be to retake our seats, but no one around us complains as we remain standing, watching Mase and the offense take the field.
Trav’s first completion is a fifteen-yard pass to Alex, who runs it for another twenty before finally getting tackled at the Penn State thirty-five.
Holy shit! What did they put in the Gatorade?
I snicker at my inner cheerleader’s colorful commentary on the full steam ahead approach to the game.
The next play is a handoff to Mase. He jukes, finding a hole in the line, and punches through to run the ball in for the Hawks’ first touchdown.
Cannons blast, the band plays the fight song, and the tens of thousands of Hawks fans inside a sea of one hundred thousand cheer ourselves hoarse.
My boyfriend stands in the end zone, arm raised perpendicular to the ground and pointing at the Penn State bench with the football before spiking it in a declaration of war.
7-0 Hawks.
It isn’t until the second quarter that the scoreboard changes again thanks to a broken tackle from a Penn State running back.
7-7. Tie game.
Every single down Liam plays, there’s a Hawks’ player on him, each tackle more punishing than the last. I ain’t mad about it.
The two-minute warning comes and goes with Penn State forced into another punt. With good field position thanks to a solid effort from our special teams unit, Trav gets to work putting more points on the board before the end of the first half.
His voice rings out loud and strong as he calls the play. The center snaps the ball, Trav spinning it in his large hands as he drops back, looking for a receiver. It’s a good thing I’m wearing gloves; otherwise G’s forearm would be sporting a line of crescent-shaped nail marks from the death grip I have on it.
I see the play a split second before Trav, Alex shaking off his defender to free himself for a lateral pass. Bending his elbow, upper arm flush to his side, ball parallel on his forearm, Alex tucks it in tight to his body. He looks downfield for a clear route, but there are none.
Alex pepper-steps, narrowly avoiding a tackle until Mase frees himself, stopping a defensive tackle, creating a hole big enough for Alex to spin through and score.
14-7 Hawks.
The second half is more of the same. Each hit on Liam by the defense—especially from Kev—is more and more bone-crushing. The intensity inside the stadium only increases with each second ticking off the game clock.
A quarterback sneak ties the game in the third.
I wring my hands together, thankful for the gloves keeping them warm. Without them, my manicure would be shot to shit from this nail-biter.
A set of field goals keeps the game tied, one of them a fifty-six-yard bomb from Noah.
17-17.
Fourth quarter.
Two-minute warning.
Penn State has the ball in the U of J red zone.
The quarterback calls an audible.
Our defense blitzes the quarterback. He dumps the ball off to eighty-five.
Kev, reading the play beautifully, goes in low on the tight end, taking Liam down to the turf at an angle, causing the ball to fumble from the douchebag’s arms.
I swear the stadium shakes as the crowd of over a hundred thousand jumps to their feet, screaming in reaction to the loose ball.
The players scramble on the field.
Dogpile on top of the ball.
Whistles blow.
Referees break up
