Full Contact: A College Reverse Harem Romance

by Cassie Cole

“No,” I said. “But it’s the spirit of the thing. Every call that goes against us is bullshit, even if it wasn’t.”

  “Got it.” Aly cleared her throat. “That call was horseshit, ump! What are you doing!”

  “Ref, not ump,” I said.

  “Same thing.”

  Lance caught the next kick-off. He didn’t fumble this one, but he looked a lot more protective with his return before being tackled. Understandable, but it meant we started on our own 30-yard line.

  Despite his great pass to Lance on the first drive, Mark started to look like the shaky rookie quarterback again now that we were down 7-14. San Antonio blitzed him on the first play of this drive, and he quickly dumped the ball to keep from taking a sack. He handed the ball off to the running back on the next play for a short gain, and then missed his pass on third-and-long. Feña and the punt team jogged out onto the field.

  “Damnit,” I muttered.

  The thing about San Antonio’s offense was that it wasn’t big and flashy. There were no deep passes to a star wide receiver, or any other long plays for huge gains. They just made slow, careful passes over and over for five or six yards. Wearing us down a little bit at a time.

  They marched down the field at an excruciating pace. Once they were in the red zone—that is, 20 yards from the end zone—the stadium noise grew louder and louder to try to keep Nicky and the San Antonio offense from hearing their own plays. On third-and-goal, Nicky was sacked from the side by our outside linebackers. That made it fourth down, and they brought out the field goal kicking unit. Holding them to a field goal instead of a touchdown felt like a huge victory.

  APPLETON ST: 7

  SAN ANTONIO: 17

  On the next drive, our quarterback tried more running plays. Since San Antonio was covering Lance so heavily, it worked for a little while. An eight-yard gain, then a seven-yard gain. Nine yards rushing after that. Then Mark tried a deep pass down the middle, but his aim was off and the ball sailed two yards behind Lance’s reach.

  On second down, we rushed again for four yards Then on third down we rushed again, this time only gaining three. Feña came out for the punt.

  Then it was the Nicky Tarkenton show again.

  It was exhausting to watch San Antonio’s offense because Nicky’s slow, methodical strategy wore down our defenders. When a team gave up an 80-yard touchdown, the defense got to leave the field and rest on the bench while the offense took over. But with this type of attack, a few yards at a time, the defense had to stay on the field for a long time. It was obvious that our linebackers were huffing and puffing with exhaustion just after Nicky reached the 50-yard line.

  He chipped away at Appleton’s defense, piecing together a drive that lasted over seven minutes long and resulted in a touchdown. They’d chewed down the clock, exhausted and demotivated our defense, and then walked away with seven points on the board.

  APPLETON ST: 7

  SAN ANTONIO: 24

  “This isn’t good,” Aly said questioningly. “Right? This is bad?”

  I took her flask. “Yeah. This is bad.”

  The second quarter of the game was like trench warfare. Both defenses got into pretty good grooves as the moon rose high in the Texas sky, constantly putting pressure on the opposing quarterbacks. A long punt-return by Lance set up a 49-yard field goal attempt from Feña, who drilled it right down the middle.

  APPLETON ST: 10

  SAN ANTONIO: 24

  Nicky marched down the field after that, but the clock was against them and they eventually ran out of time. On the 40-yard line with three seconds left on the clock and fourth down, they sent out the punting team.

  “Okay,” I said. “We’re only down two touchdowns. Plenty of time for us to make some adjustments in the locker room and come out swinging.”

  I hadn’t gotten the last word out when suddenly the crowd collectively gasped. “Oh! It’s a fake punt!” the announcer said over the speakers.

  The field was chaos as the two special teams tried to figure out what was happening. All I saw was the punter along the sideline, ball tucked under his arm and running like his life depended on it. A line of San Antonio players set up ahead of him to clear a path, and he jogged into the end zone and spiked the ball like it was the first time he’d ever done anything in his life.

  “And San Antonio stuns the Appleton home crowd with a trick play to end the first half!”

  APPLETON ST: 10

  SAN ANTONIO: 31

  San Antonio celebrated with the punter like they had won the game. Which they might as well have now that they were up three touchdowns.

  I swung my eyes to the Appleton sideline. Lance rolled his head back and stared at the sky like he couldn’t believe it. Most of the team shuffled around in shock.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said.

  “Are you going to get something to eat?” Aly asked. “I’m starving.”

  “No. I’m going to even things up.”

  *

  I wound my way through the bowels of the stadium, past the crowds getting in line for food and beer and snacks. I fished out my kinesiology department badge and scanned it on one of the doors marked “Restricted Access.”

  Down two halls I went until I neared the visitor locker rooms. Just around the corner, I could see the shadows of players shuffling down the hall and into the locker room. They were full of energy and bravado now that they were up 21 points on the road. I couldn’t blame them.

  I wanted to run in there and start throwing girl-punches at Nicky Tarkenton. The whiskey had made me tipsy enough that I considered it for a heartbeat. But instead, I hid around the side of the hall and waited, listening.

  Their coach talked about a few things they could improve on. Putting more pressure on the Appleton quarterback. More running plays in the second quarter to keep the clock ticking down.

  “Fuck these Appleton losers,” I heard Nicky say a little later. “They never deserved to be at the top of the standings. We’ll knock them out of the regular season championship, and then go on to sweep the playoffs!”

  A deep cheer went up in the locker room. I tried not to gag.

  And then the San Antonio players began shuffling back out of the locker room. Now I slipped farther down the hall until I could see around the corner. They filed down the narrow hall in a line, single-file. Like big ugly lemmings.

  I was looking for someone in particular though. I scanned the numbers on each jersey, looking for number six…

  “Nicky!” I shouted when I saw it. “Nicky Tarkenton!”

  He turned to face me. His helmet was in his hand, giving me a view of his sweaty, greasy face. He frowned when he realized it was me, and he kept his distance.

  “The fuck do you want?”

  I held up my palms. “I wanted to apologize to you. You’re twice the football player Danny is. I can see that now. I was blind before.”

  He sneered and took a few steps forward. His cockiness wouldn’t allow him to ignore me.

  “Yeah, about time you realized it. Danny’s not much to look at when he’s not on the field, huh? Give my regards to that big pussy Overmire. I’m not sure I want their sloppy seconds.”

  I made myself smile lustily. It wasn’t easy. “You might change your mind when you hear what I’ll do to you.”

  That got his attention. He licked his lips, which looked like two pale worms writhing together. “I’m listening.”

  “Tarkenton, you coming?” someone called.

  I took a step forward, leaning in. I ignored the smell of sweat as I put my mouth next to his ear…

  “I’m going to put you behind bars for a long time,” I whispered.

  He flinched and stepped back. “Yeah, fuck you for—”

  “We have the video,” I quickly said. “Of your break-in at the athletic building.”

  He searched my face for a moment before answering. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said cautiously. “But I’m certain you don’t have my face on c
amera doing anything like that.”

  He thinks he’s in the clear because he wore a hoodie. It was almost cute.

  “The janitor is cooperating,” I said with my smuggest smile. “He told the police everything. The key to the athletic director’s office. The drug test. The bookie you two share. All the wagers you’ve been making all season, betting heavily against Appleton while they were favorites leading up to this game, knowing that you were scheming to take out Danny and Lance and Feña. Felony breaking-and-entering, conspiracy to defraud the NCAA, illegal gambling.”

  “I don’t know what you…” he tried to say, but I talked over him.

  “You’re lucky the cops are waiting until after the game to take you in. Yeah, you might win this game. But you’d better enjoy it. Because it’ll be the last time you ever set foot on a football field again.”

  Terror and anger filled his eyes. For an instant, he wore the expression of a defeated man. Of a fugitive who had finally stopped running and had nowhere left to hide.

  “Tarkenton!” one of the coaches shouted up the tunnel. “The hell is taking you so long?”

  I turned and left him standing there without another word.

  I climbed the bleachers to my seat with a huge grin on my face. There was an excited buzz in the air all around me, one that I couldn’t quite place, but I was too busy savoring my own psychological victory over Nicky. Hopefully that stayed in his head during the second half.

  Aly was on her feet along with everyone else, peering down at the field. “Roberta! Roberta! You almost missed it!”

  “What, did Nicky Tarkenton piss his pants in front of everyone?”

  “No! Look!”

  I reached my seat and finally turned to look at the field. It took me just a second to realize what she meant.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  51

  Danny

  Our locker room was a pathetic sight at halftime.

  “You’ve got more time than you think,” I told Mark, keeping my voice calm and soothing. Like a parent consoling a wailing child. “You don’t have to get rid of the ball so quickly. Take an extra second to set your feet.”

  “It’s the pressure, man.” Mark tapped his foot on the ground as he talked. “It’s getting to me. This is the game against San Antonio! The winner of the game decides the regular season championship. And there are scouts here, I heard? Oh God…”

  I made a fist with my hand to keep from snapping at him. “Forget the scouts. You’re a freshman. You don’t have to worry about them for a few more years. Right?”

  He rolled his eyes at me. “Easier said than done, Danny! Not everyone is as cool as you under pressure!”

  This kid was rattled. I was that way when I was a freshman too. It took time to get over. Experience on the field. A few tough-luck losses.

  But we didn’t have that kind of time.

  Coach Mueller gave a speech to the team about perseverance and guts, and never giving up. It was obvious his heart wasn’t in it. He looked defeated, like there was no way we could come back from a three-touchdown deficit.

  He was probably right.

  I tuned him out and looked down at my knee. The soft brace I wore circled the knee on the bottom and top, stabilizing the patella and keeping me from pivoting the wrong way. It felt fine.

  I thought about my whole football career. Years in peewee football. The Texas Junior High League, followed by high school. Now I was in my final year at college. At each level I was always pushing forward, thinking about the next step. Improving so I could move on.

  The NFL was the next step, now. The National Football League! It was within reach. With it came fortune and fame, real fame, fame that extended beyond the city limits of Appleton. Beyond this college football stadium.

  It was everything I’d ever wanted. But at what cost?

  As I looked around the locker room, I realized most of my teammates weren’t going to the NFL. Lance would, and maybe Jamal the running back if he stayed healthy for three more years, and maybe even Feña had a shot as a walk-on kicker in training camp. But everyone else? The linebackers who protected me in the pocket? The defensive backs who wore themselves down to the nub each game trying to stop the opposing quarterback?

  Not a chance.

  Every one of them had put in just as much hard work as me, for as long as I had. But they didn’t have the NFL waiting for them at the end of this season. For most of them, this was as good as it got. The end of the line. And we were going to lose this game, and the regular season championship, because I was selfishly protecting myself against a hypothetical scenario.

  And it was with that perspective that I decided what really mattered to me.

  Coach ended his speech to a smattering of claps and halfhearted cheers, and then we were jogging back out onto the field. Rather than walk, I allowed myself to jog, feeling the stress it put on my knee. My calves were tight, but I felt good. I felt fresh.

  Lance and the special teams unit went out on the field to receive the kick-off from San Antonio to start the third quarter. While Coach was distracted by that, I went over to Mark and put my arm around him.

  “How you doing?”

  “I’m terrified,” he said. “Though I guess I shouldn’t be. We have no chance to come back.”

  I nodded. It was what I’d expected him to say. And it was the final thing that pushed me over the edge.

  “Why don’t you sit this one out.”

  He nodded, then flinched when he realized what I said. “What?”

  Lance caught the kick-off and ran out of bounds. I smacked Mark on the butt and grabbed my helmet.

  “I’ll take care of it from here.”

  I jogged onto the field with the rest of the offense. A couple of linemen glanced over and did a double-take when they saw me. The crowd noise shifted to a different tone. One of confusion.

  “Armstrong?” I heard Coach Mueller call from the sideline. “Armstrong! What the hell are you doing?”

  I huddled up with the players, which was when they realized it was me instead of Mark. “Bro!” Lance exclaimed.

  “Don’t tell me this is stupid, because I already know,” I said.

  He shrugged in his pads. “As long as you’re aware, consider me fully on board. Let’s kick some ass.”

  The rest of my teammates all added their agreement. Some of them grinned.

  “We’re going to have to rely on the shotgun formation, because I can’t drop back with my knee.”

  “Not a problem,” the center said.

  One of the guards nodded. “We’ll drop back and protect the pocket, Danny. Ain’t nobody getting through me.”

  I called a play and we broke up the huddle. That’s when the announcer finally realized what was happening.

  “Number eight Armstrong is checking in at the quarterback position! I can’t believe my eyes! With a knee that’s not at full strength…”

  The crowd noise shifted, mutated, and then turned into a constant roar. I let the sound wash over me, seeping into my body like manna from heaven.

  The San Antonio defense looked confused as they lined up. They’d probably spent the entire halftime talking about how to put more pressure on Mark, and the running game we would probably try to shift toward. Now I was here, and they didn’t know what to do.

  “Overmire!” one of the defenders shouted, pointing at Lance. “Double him up!”

  It was what I hoped they would do.

  We snapped the ball, and I handed it off to Jamal the running back. Since they were double-teaming Lance, Jamal was able to dart in and out of their vulnerable line and gain eight yards.

  I handed it off again on the next play for 14 yards. Then a third time in a row for 12.

  On the fourth play, I gave Lance a look. He gave me one back.

  The free safety came rushing up at the snap to defend against the run, which gave Lance all the room he needed. I faked the hand-off, then looked toward the right side of the field. But it was all a
fake to give Lance enough time to gain separation.

  One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.

  I turned and found Lance exactly where he should have been, running the slant up the middle of the field. I planted my feet and hurled the football deep down the field. I didn’t get all of my arm behind it, and Lance had to slow down to catch it. But it didn’t matter because he was wide open regardless. He caught the pass and jogged into the end zone, arms spread wide like Jesus.

  “Touchdown Appleton!” the announcer called.

  80,000 voices all screamed as one.

  Feña jogged onto the field to kick the extra point. He high-fived me as we passed one another and said, “You crazy son of a bitch!”

  “You know it!”

  The look on Coach’s face when I reached the sideline was death incarnate. “Coach…” I began.

  “I assume you’ve thought about this?” he said icily.

  “Yes sir.”

  He sighed. “Then don’t make me regret this.”

  “No sir.”

  The rest of the team came running up to slap me on the helmet and celebrate. Feña’s extra point sailed through the uprights.

  APPLETON ST: 17

  SAN ANTONIO: 31

  While the kick-off team went onto the field, I gathered around our defense on the sideline. “That’s only one,” I told them, holding up a finger. “We’ve got a bunch more we need to get if we’re going to crawl back in this. So help me out by putting Nicky Goddamn Tarkenton’s face in the turf. Then maybe we can win this thing.”

  52

  Roberta

  First I was freaking out because I couldn’t believe Danny was out on the field.

  Then I was freaking out because I was certain his knee was going to spontaneously explode on the very first play.

  Then I was freaking out because Lance was celebrating in the end zone after scoring a touchdown.

  This is incredibly stupid, I thought. But a voice in my head said, But it’s also amazing.