Consumed: A MMA Sports Romance

by Claire Adams

  I thought about what I should wear. Jess, I know, would have suggested that I dress up for the event—wear something cute, something just a little sexy. Especially since she would assume that I would be waiting for Zack at the end of the game. On the other hand, the very last thing that I wanted was to look as though I was interested in flirting. I decided to dress as plainly as possible; the main benefit to that was also that it would at least be comfortable—but I also didn’t want to look like a scruffy, unprofessional college kid. Not when I had to interview the head coach. I put on my least-ratty pair of jeans and a medium-brown cardigan over a matching camisole. I put my hair in a bun, smoothed back but not overdone. I kept my face mostly clean, just a little powder and lip tint to make me look polished. It was a relief to be going to a game without having to worry about if I would smear my eye makeup or my lipstick. I could focus entirely on the game; I’d be practically invisible.

  The stadium was absolutely packed with people—as it should be, considering it was the last game of the season, with some of the highest stakes. But the team we were playing against wasn’t huge competition—they were ranked third or fourth overall, with more losses than the team we’d been up against the last game. It should have been a decent game, but overall the chances of us winning were pretty good.

  I grabbed pictures of the packed stands, of the marching bands on either side warming up the audiences. I tried to figure out what my angle for the article would be; after all, it wasn’t going to be a massive struggle like it had been for the team they were up against the previous week. There was no real rivalry between our school and the one we were playing. I couldn’t focus on Zack—because I already had in the previous article, and because I frankly didn’t think I could handle it. I decided that I would—without Jess’ flirting to distract me—look at the game as a way to show off my knowledge of strategy and tactics in football.

  Part of my research on the coach had been on football strategy in general. Of course, the skill of individual players came into play with the game—it was unavoidable. And if you had the best possible players in all positions, you didn’t have to worry that much about strategy. But knowing that another team had a particular weakness on the defense, or a lag in their offense because of certain players, could mean the difference between win and loss. I had looked over Coach Bullden’s usual strategies and tactics, the way he put his players to the best possible use. I’d also done a little bit of digging on the strategies of the coach that Bullden would be up against.

  I was starting to feel more than a little bit fidgety as the bands played on, and the crowd of people continued chanting, watching the cheerleaders on the sidelines performing. I just wanted to get the game over with; it would be a definitive win, and then I would get my interview and have a rest from the pounding of my heart.

  The opposing team took the field first, coming out of the lockers with a roar. They may not have been the best team in the division, but they looked energetic, in their white, black, and gold jerseys. They warmed up on the field, garnering plenty of cheers from their fans in the stands. They were clearly hungry to prove themselves—they were up against the number one team in the division, which should have daunted them, but it would be a great opportunity if they could manage to score a few times against us; at least if they put on a good game, they could lose with dignity. They went back to their sidelines, jumping up and down, smacking themselves, and I grabbed a few more pictures of them.

  Our team finally took the field with a burst of enthusiastic musical noise from the marching band, running out of the locker rooms and basking in the cheers of the fuller section of the stadium that belonged to the home team. I tried not to look for Zack while I snapped pictures of the team warming up and showing off. The team looked confident, as they should; they had a winning record, they were on their way to a bowl game, and they were almost certain to win that night’s game. I thought, with a sudden sense of foreboding, that I hoped they wouldn’t take it too easy on the other team—even if they were the best team in the division, they couldn’t afford to become overconfident.

  As the game started, it was difficult for me to try and piece together just what the problem was; the teams had both taken the field full of energy and looking confident in themselves. But from the first play, I was shocked at how disorganized our team was. Zack went down in a tackle right away. I watched in concern, but he got up onto his feet and shouted something, and then they were onto the next play. The other team seemed to sense something different in our team; they took advantage, rapidly getting their first touchdown early in the first quarter and then managing somehow to keep our offensive line at bay through most of the rest of the period. I shook my head, and I wasn’t alone; the people in the stands next to me were murmuring amongst themselves between plays, wondering out loud what was wrong with Zack.

  Someone said that they thought the pressure must be getting to him, but I didn’t think it was likely; after all, the team they were up against had lost several games. If Zack was going to crack under pressure, it would have been the previous game, where we had been up against our greatest competition for the top spot. But it was hard not to argue that something was clearly wrong; we were down by two touchdowns heading into the second quarter, and didn’t manage to even the score by halftime. Zack’s plays were all over the place—he was getting instructions from the coach, but I couldn’t imagine that he was doing what he was told, at least not exactly. The other team became more and more confident of their possibility for a win, driving us back again and again, defending their end of the field more aggressively than I could have imagined.

  I watched the halftime show with my mind full of questions. What was going on? Our team was much better than this, and a win was almost a foregone conclusion going into the game. How could we still be lagging behind by a touchdown going into the second half? I had taken notes throughout the first part of the game, but even with my notations on the different plays I could see, I couldn’t understand just how it was that Zack was consistently missing his passes, or being tackled before he could make the handoff. He was obviously distracted—he didn’t have his entire brain on the game. But surely, I thought, that couldn’t be the only thing going on? It was just as much the other members of the team that would be to blame, wouldn’t it? Maybe they were overconfident, and Zack was distracted.

  The team tried to rally in the second half, but it was an uphill battle. A wave of relief moved across the stands when we finally managed to close the gap at the bottom of the third quarter, getting a miraculous touchdown when the other team’s defense left a gap—pure chance. I was shaking my head, grabbing pictures where I could, trying to understand what was going on in front of me. It was as unlike the previous two games I’d gone to as anything could possibly be, and I dreaded having to interview the coach if we lost—he would be pissed, I knew.

  My heart was in my throat throughout the fourth quarter. Both teams—ours and the other team—were playing their hearts out, trying to break the tie. The clock continued its downward count, and it seemed as though it might go into overtime—the disorganization of the first half was still present, but not as glaring, and it seemed like the team was trying to just keep Zack from being tackled long enough to get a pass. The line of scrimmage moved from one end of the field to the other, back and forth; it was exciting but dreadful at the same time, and I knew that by the time I got back to my dorm—even if everything else went the right way for the rest of the night—I would be exhausted from the stress of the game. There was a near moment when Zack went down, thrown to the ground by an overzealous offensive lineman, when he laid there for a long time after the whistle was blown. My heart pounded in my chest—what if he was injured? It wouldn’t just mean the loss of the game. In my mind I chanted at him to get up, get up, get up. I couldn’t stand the thought of him being seriously injured, even if I had cut him out of my life for the duration of the season.

  But then he got to his feet and shook i
t off, and I sighed with relief. Everyone in the stands was screaming, shouting, cheering, trying to get the team to a final touchdown by any means they possibly could. Of course, it would be exciting if the game went into overtime—but if we could get a definitive win before the clock ran out, that would be much better. I was clenching my fists as the end of regulation time came closer and closer, rocking on the balls of my feet, staying quiet but wishing I could make myself scream and shout to get rid of the nervous energy that filled me.

  With only a couple of minutes left on the clock, the final play of the game started. Zack handed off the ball successfully just before being tackled—and the player he’d handed it to managed to dodge and evade, spinning away from the group that had gone straight for the QB and exploding into a desperate full-pelt run. I stared at the field, without even the presence of mind to take the pictures I knew would be the most dramatic of the game, as the clock came to the last minute of regulation time. Everyone was silent—all the screaming and shouting down to nothing, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife—until the instant right after the player got to the touchdown line, with just seconds to spare. After a brief sigh of relief, everyone in the stands on our side erupted in an enormous, shrieking, shouting cheer.

  I sank down onto my seat with relief, closing my eyes and breathing as slowly as I could. At the very last, we’d managed to eke out a win—that would make it easier to interview the coach in a few minutes, once everyone was done with the post-game celebration and started to clear the stadium. Zack was uninjured, and the team would go on to Nationals. The cheering went on and on; I looked up to see that the team was cavorting about the sidelines, congratulating themselves on the narrow victory they had managed to eke out in the very last moments of the game. A few of the players grabbed up cheerleaders and got kisses or hugs from them—or simply lifted them up into the air. I smiled to myself; I could easily understand their excitement.

  After several moments, though, people in the stands realized that there were better things to do. It was chilly out and there were parties to go to, other celebrations with free or at least cheap liquor. As the people started to slowly trickle out of the stands, the band played on, the players kept to the field, and I tried to decide if it was worth the risk of confronting Zack to get my interview without missing the coach. I was sure that in spite of the team’s apparent desire to keep jumping, running, and shouting, they’d be corralled into the locker room soon—and the coach would follow, to congratulate them and to critique their performance. I needed to get out onto the field before Coach Bullden left. I looked around and spotted Zack talking to some of the other members of his team; I hoped that if I could just slip out onto the field and pull the head coach aside, he might not even notice me at all.

  I took my pass out of my purse and took a deep breath, moving in the opposite direction of the steady flow of students and fans who were heading to the exits. I got down to the field level and showed my pass quickly to the security guard standing there and he nodded, giving me a little smile.

  “You were here last game, too; I remember cute faces like yours.”

  I smiled in return but felt more than a little strange at that compliment from the source. I dashed out onto the field. Bullden was calling out to the players to finish up their celebration and start heading in.

  “You have plenty of parties to choose from, guys—get yourselves cleaned up so you can get out of here.”

  I slowed down as I got closer, determinedly not looking for Zack. If I spotted him, he might feel my gaze and look in my direction. Of course, even without looking at him, he managed to see me.

  “Evie!” I heard my name in his voice and determinedly looked anywhere but the direction it had come from. “Evie! Do you need another prime quote? C’mon, Evie, I won’t even make you go on a date with me for it this time!”

  I squared my shoulders and tried my best to ignore the calls.

  “Coach Bullden,” I said, moving quickly to intercept him as he turned to head for the locker rooms. “Do you have a few minutes? I’m from the campus newspaper—I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about tonight’s game.”

  The coach stopped and gave me a quick, polite smile. “You spoke with Zack last game, didn’t you? That was a fine article. I don’t mind at all.”

  He turned towards the stragglers—and following his gaze, even though I knew better, I saw Zack among them, watching me intently. He ran up, stopping a few feet away from me, staring at me with so much hope in his eyes that I felt my heart lurch.

  “Does she need another interview, coach? I’ve got lots to say about the game.” Zack was talking to Bullden but he was looking at me, and I felt my cheeks getting hotter and hotter. I kept my lips pressed together to keep from saying anything at all to him.

  “Nah, Zack—you did well enough last time, but this lovely lady wants to talk to the man in charge. Hit the showers.” The coach gestured for me to walk with him to the bench, and I sat down next to him. He was an older guy—it seemed like there were no young head coaches in college football—in a windbreaker spattered with our school colors, with good-quality embroidery on the sleeves and the lapel showing the school’s mascot. In the corner of my eye I saw Zack reluctantly heading back to the lockers and put my mind firmly back on the task at hand: getting good quotes out of the head coach for my feature article about the game and about him.

  “Thanks for agreeing to the interview—after a game like that you must be exhausted,” I said, smiling politely as I took my recorder and my notebook out of my bag.

  Bullden grinned. “You’re right about that,” he said, shaking his head ruefully. “Are you a fan of football, young lady?”

  I shrugged. “Please, call me Evelyn. I watched a lot of football in high school; one of my boyfriends was on our school’s team.” I somehow suppressed the blush that threatened to give me away at the thought of Zack. “I would have been a pretty terrible girlfriend if I didn’t go, you know. So I appreciate the game.”

  “Probably got your fill of training routines too,” the coach said with another smile.

  “Oh yes, definitely.” I laughed and set down the recorder between us. “Now I need to get your agreement that it’s okay for me to record. I want to make sure that everything that ends up in the article is exactly what you said, exactly how you said it.”

  “Good to see a responsible journalist. Of course I’ll give my consent.” I hit the button to start the recording and the coach cleared his throat. “This is Head Coach Charlie Bullden, consenting to be recorded by Evelyn here, so that she can write another great article about the team. That okay?”

  I grinned. “More than okay, Sir,” I said, opening my notebook.

  “Please, just call me Coach. I get too used to it from the players—even my own kids call me Coach.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Coach. Now, this was a rough game—why do you think that was? The odds for a shut out for our team were really high.”

  “Well, of course you never fully know what you’re going to be up against when you play another team. You can prepare for weeks, and look at their games—their style of play, you understand—and then when you get to the actual game, they might have changed everything up during their practices.” I nodded. “In this case, we were as ready for State as we could possibly be, but they were ready for us too—they knew about the few weaknesses the team has, and more power to them for exploiting them.”

  I consulted my notes. “It’s unusual for our team to lag behind at the half, isn’t it? What did you see going on there on the field to explain it?” I licked my lips, looking up from my notebook.

  The coach smiled wryly. “We had good plays; I think there was just some miscommunication. Between me and Zack or between Zack and the other players—it happens. There was a lot of pressure this game, even if we weren’t playing rivals. The last game of the season is always tough—everyone gives it all they have.” The coach paused a moment to reflect. “Especi
ally if a team’s going up against one like ours—where we’ve won almost our whole season—they have something to prove. They may not have the record, but they knocked the top team down a peg.”

  “I was thinking that when the other team came out,” I said with a smile. “They looked hungry for it. They looked like they at least wanted to go down having scored some points on us.”

  The coach laughed. “You’re a shrewd woman. Of course, we had those issues in the first half, and we struggled in the third quarter, but we all came together in the fourth.”

  “Do you think it was more an issue with offense or defense?”

  The coach picked a piece of lint off of his chinos. “I think our defense was doing all they could. There was some scramble-up with the offense. Timing was off. Guess I’ll have to focus on that in the next couple of practices leading into the nationals.”

  I found myself becoming more and more at ease with the coach the more questions I asked—it helped that he praised my thorough research on his strategies and the other team’s coach. In the back of my mind, however, the whole time I was getting the information I wanted and needed to write the best possible article about the game, I kept thinking about Zack. I had hoped to avoid him; but of course, he had seen me—and he would have to have noticed the way I ignored him. It was too obvious. I felt a minor irritation at the fact that he had shouted across the field to me—in effect creating another spectacle of himself even after he had told me he wouldn’t do that. But then, I thought, I had sort of goaded him into it by ignoring his texts and calls and the note on my door. I hadn’t given him any reason for my sudden break-off of contact.

  I finished up the interview as quickly as I could, thanking the coach profusely for giving me so much to work with. “I look forward to your article, Evelyn,” Coach Bullden said, shaking my hand firmly and professionally. I smiled up into his weather-beaten face and said I’d email him the finished article before I submitted it to my editor.