Page 46 of Against the Clock
“You watching the game tonight?”
“Yeah, I’m headed out to pick up my friend Cameron. Do you remember her? We’re headed to Wilmington to watch it right now, actually.”
“Okay, Kelsey. Makes me happy to hear you’re watching my favorite thing in the world again. Have fun, honey.”
“I will,” I say, and it tastes bitter, like a lie. “Have a good night, Dad.”
The line goes dead and I stare at my phone long after the screen’s turned dark. The car’s become uncomfortably hot.
I put the car in reverse, making myself drive to the bar to watch the man I’m dating put his body on the line to play a game I hate.
CHAPTER 19
DANIEL
Fuck, I love this.
I soak it in. Despite the time of year, Miami’s balmy as ever, the night sky clear and the air thick on the field. The grass seems greener against the white stripes, my senses heightened.
We’re playing great. The Miami Reef Sharks are too, but we have an edge we haven’t had all season. Every fucking pass feels like gold, the football an extension of my body.
The Matthews brothers are on point too, sticky hands and somehow always finding the perfect opening in the sea of orange and teal uniforms.
It’s the fourth quarter and adrenaline still rages through me, beating out exhaustion and even pain from a hit in the first minute of the second quarter. We’re down by three, but the guys aren’t quitting yet. The clock’s running down and we’re in possession. Their hope’s palpable, radiating from each of them, evident in the brightness that’s more than the reflected stadium lights.
They think we could still win.
Our first win of the season.
I can fucking taste it, too, and damn, it is sweet.
This is the reason why I do this. This feeling is why I throw myself into a sea of muscle and bone to get chewed up under the lights and the scrutiny of millions of people who wish they could be in my cleats. Because of moments like this, fleeting moments that no one will remember but me, where the men on my team look at me like we’re about to make fucking history.
Inhale. Exhale.
The defense repositions itself, and the x’s and o’s of the playbook flash through my mind. The play the coach called isn’t going to work.
“Fuck,” I mutter, the word somewhat garbled by my mouthguard.
They’re doubling up defense on Ty. Jacob is on the sidelines, icing the fuck out of a nasty ankle injury.
One look to my right tells me they’ve doubled up defense on the other wide receivers too, and my tight ends look locked the fuck down. A second slides by, sweat dripping down my neck in the hot Florida air.
Miami’s made a mistake, though.
They’ve left me open, save for one lineman who looks more interested in number forty-nine than me.
It’s obvious why they’ve done it. They think I’m too old to run it into the end zone.
They saw me avoid the hit last week, must have watched the tape over and over again when I careened into Kelsey.
I smile into my helmet, and it’s a fucking ugly one. They’re going to regret assuming shit about me.
I call the audible, the word slamming from my mouth with an intensity that rattles my teeth. Forty-nine flicks his head towards me, and I see the doubt turn into determination as he rolls his shoulders, ready to pull attention to himself. Ready to take the heat from Miami’s defense.
I don’t want to yell hike, I don’t want to draw any attention to myself. Our center’s holding the ball, ready to snap it to me. Chances are with the sound of the Miami crowd, he wouldn’t hear me, anyway.
I lift my foot for the leg cadence, and the world slows. The ball snaps back, and the sound it makes on my hands is fucking glorious. Defense is firmly focused on everyone else, and I see the opening like it’s happening at half-speed. I tear through the line of orange and blue, their helmets whipping towards me as they belatedly realize what’s happening.