I could be that player. Hell, in Chicago, I could play year one. I wouldn’t be warming the bench waiting for a franchise player to retire.
“You know, Reiker’s only got a year left in him. Two, tops,” Dad says as if reading my mind. “He’s a good QB, but he’s well on his way to retirement.”
“I know.” I step back, putting some space between us. It’s not exactly a secret. Reiker’s upcoming contract negotiations have been headline news, but I’ve got a game to play. I can’t allow myself to get wrapped up in depressing what-if scenarios. The team needs me to be on my A game. Carter needs me to be on my A game. I hitch my bag over my shoulder and nod toward the locker room. “I need to get in there and suit up. Coach’ll have my ass if I’m late.”
“Go on ahead and remember what I said.” He turns to go, but stops, glancing back over his shoulder. I’m not sure if it’s a trick of the light, but I swear his eyes are a little glassy. “Your mom would be really proud of you, Austin.”
Thanks, Dad. That’s what I want to say, but the words stick in my throat. We’ve never been the kind of family to talk about our feelings—not even when Mom passed six years ago—so I just watch silently as he retreats down the hall.
Then I take a deep breath and stuff all my personal shit—draft pressure, Heisman speculation, Pittsburgh, Carter—down deep. The team needs a leader, and they’ve chosen me. I won’t let them down by allowing distractions in the locker room or on the field. That was my commitment when I accepted the role.
I’ll be damned if I don’t see it through.
An hour later, when I lead the team onto the field, pulse pounding and adrenaline pumping, the stadium erupts, the noise reaching an earsplitting crescendo of epic proportions. Some sports site measured the sound in our stadium once, and no surprise, it’s one of the loudest in the country. It’s so loud I can barely hear myself think, but it’s the best feeling in the world.
The kind of high you can only get from sex and football.
The countdown clock’s ticking. We power through warm-ups, the noise of the stadium a steady roar that dies down only when the national anthem is played. I watch from the sideline, hand over my racing heart, and before I know it, I’m jogging onto the field for the coin toss. I’ve done this hundreds of times, but it never gets old. I shake hands with the Idaho captain, who promptly chooses heads and wins the coin toss, opting to defer until the second half.
No skin off my teeth.
I usually prefer to open the second half with possession, but this’ll give Carter a chance to settle down and acclimate to the stadium. Although she joined the team for a pregame huddle in the locker room, she was unusually quiet. In fact, she didn’t make a single smart-ass comment, come to think of it.
Probably nerves. Can’t blame her. We’ve all been there before.
I watch the kickoff from the sideline with the rest of the team, helmet in hand. It’s a solid return and we’re starting with good field position. The crowd is going crazy and the Wildcat roar damn near rattles the stadium as I slip my helmet on. I give the O-line fist bumps, shouting encouragement as we take the field. The first drive will set the tone for the game—and the season—and I intend to make one hell of a showing.
Once my guys are settled on the line of scrimmage, I call the play. The snap is good, the protection even better, and I fire a bullet downfield to Coop, hitting him right in the hands for a forty-yard gain.
Hell, yeah. Now that’s how you win football games.
Kennedy
Fuckity-fuck-fuck. I cannot believe I’m about to admit this, even to myself, but Reid was right. I’ve been playing in front of a crowd for years, but this? The noise and chaos, the charged atmosphere, the near rabid fans? It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
So much for being a pressure player.
Needing a distraction, I crouch down and check my cleats, making sure they’re tied tight. The last thing I need to do is trip over an untied lace in front of one hundred and three thousand screaming fans. One hundred and three thousand and five hundred forty-eight, to be precise. That’s the total attendance today, according to the announcer.
Not a record for Waverly, but pretty darn close.
So, yeah, face-planting on the field? Not an option. I’d be flayed on social media.
And possibly ESPN.
Nervous energy churns in my belly, snaking out into my limbs. My freaking hands shake as I re-knot my laces, and I silently curse Reid for reminding me about the size of the crowd. Granted, I would have figured it out the minute I stepped foot in the stadium, but now I can’t stop thinking about it, and I need an outlet for all these feels.
Reid’s as good a target as any. Even if his assessment of the noise and fanfare was no joke. Because let me tell you, it’s one thing to witness Wildcat pride from the TV or the stands, but it’s another to experience it from the sidelines.
It’s oppressive, like I-can’t-catch-my-breath oppressive. It’s a feeling that has nothing to do with the dense humidity and everything to do with the weight of expectation pouring down from the stands.
I finish tying my shoes and scan the crowd, taking in the exuberant blue and white painted faces. The
