Even so, I’d trade him places in a heartbeat right now, because the anonymity of that mask? It’s looking pretty good.
My attention settles on the scoreboard and my heart leaps into my throat. It’s a close game. Waverly’s down by three. The offense has been strong, but the defense has been a little shaky. It’s just a matter of time until I have to make a field goal attempt. I know it in my bones. Even Reid can’t score on every possession.
Although right now I’m sure as hell pulling for him.
I stand and my gaze darts to the QB who told me not to worry, who promised to play hard today. Not that I’m naive enough to think Reid made the promise for me, not entirely anyway. He’s a freaking powerhouse and a Heisman contender.
Of course he plays to win.
Despite my lifetime ban on football players, it’s hard not to admire his commanding presence as he drives down the field. The guy’s unflappable, appearing cool and confident despite the pressure to tie this game up. Probably why his teammates voted him captain. Plus, he’s a versatile player, looking equally comfortable running and passing. It’s no wonder he’s so highly regarded within—
Oomph! One minute I’m watching Reid, the next I’m doing a pirouette reminiscent of my DDR days as an athletic trainer blows past, our shoulders colliding as he dodges a player with a more intimidating stature than my own.
“Sorry,” he calls over his shoulder, not stopping to see if I’m okay.
Note to self: be aware of your surroundings at all times.
Because the sidelines? Total anarchy compared to soccer. Every square inch is packed with players and trainers and coaches. And yes, the proverbial bench, where I should be sitting except I’m too nervous to sit still.
Even during halftime I couldn’t shake the nervous energy racing through my veins. I stood through Coach Collins’s entire motivational speech, most of it lost on me, kind of like when the teacher talks in those Charlie Brown vids. Wah-wah-wah.
So, yeah, turns out it’s a blessing my mom couldn’t get time off work for the game. The experience is proving stressful enough without worrying about letting her down too.
Shit. Smith is tackled short of the first down. I glance at the scoreboard, confirming what I already know. The offense is third and long, which means—
“Get that helmet on,” Coach Jackson barks, coming up beside me. He’s got a Waverly hat pulled down low on his forehead, and the man does not look happy. “If they don’t convert, we’re going to need that leg for about thirty yards.”
I stare at him, but I can’t do much more than blink. Like some fucked-up Morse code. Blink twice for yes, once for no. I think I blink twice, but I can’t be sure. The roaring in my head is too loud. Or maybe that’s just the stadium noise.
Coach shakes his head in disbelief. Right there with you, dude.
“It’s only thirty yards.” He levels his eyes on me, like he can will me to greatness. “You’ve got this, Carter.”
Right. Thirty yards. I could hit it in my sleep. There’s not even a breeze going. Perfect conditions, assuming my heart doesn’t beat right out of my chest. And right now? Definite possibility. My palms begin to sweat as I slip my helmet over my head, fingers fumbling with the chinstrap like the rookie I am. When I finally get the stupid thing secured and look up, a chorus of “Boo!” fills the stadium.
Reid’s been sacked for a loss of five yards and there’s a look of disgust plain as day on his face, like he can’t believe he allowed himself to go down.
“So, thirty-five then?” I say, hoping I sound more confident than I feel. Thirty-five is well within my range. I’ve made ninety-three percent of my kicks from thirty-five or better.
Piece of cake.
Jackson moves to slap my ass, but seems to think better of it, instead clapping me on the shoulder. “Just like practice, Carter.”
Words to live by.
I jog onto the field, passing Reid on his way to the sidelines. He looks far too calm and collected for a QB who just got stuffed. How the hell does he do that? He nods and calls a passing greeting. “You’ve got this. Tie it up and we’ll bring it home on the next possession.”
Coop rushes up behind him and gives me a wink. “Yeah, just pretend you’re smashing Langley’s face.”
I grin, unable to help myself despite the circumstances. “That I can do.” And with that, they’re gone. Relegated to the sidelines to watch and wait, as I’ve been doing for most of the fifty-two minutes and thirty-eight seconds of game play.
Breathe! Still seven minutes and twenty-two seconds left on the clock. More than enough time for the offense to make another run down the field, just like Reid said. This is not do-or-die.
Except it kind of feels like it might be.
I line up with the upright and walk off the steps. The punter, James, marks the spot I’ve indicated, the one where the ball will be placed after the snap. I keep my eyes fixed on the upright, doing my best to block out the roar of the crowd. It’s deafening, the volume no doubt driven by the close score and excitement of a new kicker. After all, not only am I a walk-on, I’m a woman.
Which, it turns out, is a big freaking deal.
After the interview yesterday, I cracked and totally Googled myself. In hindsight, I realize it was a stupid thing to do. The stupidest, actually, because right now all I can think about is the speculation. The speculation Coach was shielding me from by closing practice up until yesterday.
Too bad the interviews are only likely to fan
