by Tillie Cole
33
BCS National Championship
Rose Bowl Stadium, Pasadena, California
POD’s “Here Comes The Boom” pumped out of the locker room’s speakers as the team—the University of Alabama’s famous Crimson Tide—prepped for the biggest game of the year. Some guys were shouting in excitement; some were quietly listening to earphones; some were puking in the john; most were simply waiting for the referee’s whistle to start the game.
Ally and Cass were using my game tickets. They had flown out to California, along with thousands of Bama fans, to watch the showdown against the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame. As a senior, it was my very last game for the Tide. Fuck. It was my last game with a group of guys who were my family. I had to win the ballgame for them. I had to get in the zone and play the game of my life.
Coach entered the room and slowly surveyed the scene. We all fell silent. “Take a knee. Let’s pray.”
We did as he instructed and recited The Lord’s Prayer. Each player then looked to Coach, who instructed, “Stand up. Listen good.”
We all got to our feet and Coach took his place in the center of our player circle. Moving to look each of us in the eye, he stated, “Let’s fight the Irish… all… over… the… field.” Coach emphasized the last four words. My blood rushed in my ears and the energy building between the team was infectious.
“Defense, offense, special teams. Stay alert. Y’all know your assignments.” Coach paused, pointing to his watch. “Sixty minutes, no more, no less. Don’t take this win for me. Take it for each other. Let’s leave it all on the field.”
Bodies shook with adrenaline, players swayed where they stood, anxious to hit the field, and Coach turned cheerleader. “We’re the reigning champions! Do y’all wanna stay champs? Well, do ya?!!!” he asked loudly.
“YEAH!” yelled back the locker room, the enthusiasm through the roof.
Shaking his head in disappointment, Coach yelled, “Not good enough, so I’ll ask y’all again. Do ya wanna stay the champs?!!!”
“YEAH, YEAH, YEAHHHH!!!” chanted the team, the sound of shouting rumbling along the lockers, and players began pounding the doors and walls with their fists, the noise of the crowd outside building and the excitement of the players almost too much to take.
“Then grab your gear, hit the field, and… ROLL TIDE!!!”
Heading for the locker room door, in unison, the team, my team, chanted, “TIDE, TIDE, TIDE!”
As returning BCS champions, we had the honor of running out onto the field first. Rolling my shoulders and jumping on the spot, knees to chest, I gripped onto my helmet guard tightly, trying my damnedest to get psyched up.
I tried real hard not to let my mind drift to Molly. I’d been hoping she’d show after the voicemail I’d left her yesterday. But, as always, there was no reply. I’d made peace with myself that she wasn’t coming back to the US. My plans were firmly in place—to win this fucking championship, then fly to Oxford and sort this shit out once and for all.
The announcement for the Tide came. Just like last year, it was a blur as the team ran onto the field. Austin and Jimmy-Don led the way, pumping up the crowd to a crazy volume.
Taking a sobering breath, I shot out of the tunnel, pyrotechnics going off all around me, keeping my head down as we swarmed onto the field. I robotically sang “The Star Spangled Banner” with all my heart and as “…the home of the brave” died away into the night air, it was time for the rival team captains to meet for the coin toss.
I enjoyed this calm before the storm.
The Fighting Irish captains called it correctly and elected to receive.
Toward the end of the coin toss, the Bama fans rose as one and began to chant, “Kiss, kiss, kiss…” so damn loud it was deafening. Now back on the sideline, I hung my head in embarrassment and squeezed my eyes tightly, trying to ignore the pain of Molly’s absence. How could they know their good luck charm was across the fucking Atlantic? I cringed, knowing I couldn’t deliver, as tens of thousands of Bama fans demanded the ritual they believed had carried the Tide through an undefeated season.
Even so, the ever-increasing volume took my breath away, the crescendo of noise from the fans almost intolerable.
I concentrated on my game plays, anything to block out the deafening roar. My teammates began walking forward, checking out a new commotion in the crowd, but like a pussy, I hung back—I wasn’t interested. I couldn’t wait for the damn referee’s whistle to blow.
Someone suddenly jumped on me—Austin.
“Rome, look!” He pointed toward the Jumbotron. When I looked up, my heart exploded in my chest like a friggin’ grenade.
Molly?
I whipped my head to the direction of the stands, scanning for a familiar face, and our gazes locked.
Fuck me. She looked stunning: brown hair long and loose, white dress… so goddamn beautiful.
Deep emotion surged through my body, but all I could think of as I walked as if on air toward her was she came—she actually friggin’ came back for me.
The closer I got, the more my throat dried and my chest tightened. Her golden eyes widened with nerves.
I let go of my helmet, no longer needing it to stay centered… calm.
As I glided to a halt before my girl, I looked up and watched her take a deep breath, the stadium around us uncharacteristically still and quiet.
“Hey, Mol,” I said in a rough voice.
“Hey, you,” she whispered back. Then I closed my eyes for a moment, savoring that familiar accent once more.
“You going to give up that sweet kiss?”
“If that’s what you want.”
The heavy burden I’d been carrying around for weeks lifted, and I answered, “It most definitely fuckin’ is.”
Reaching forward, I lifted Mol over the barrier and wrapped her into my arms, crashing against her lips with my own, tasting the sweet vanilla taste that was so uniquely her.
My girl took everything I gave, her desperation matching mine as we let our crazed need for each other take over.
Needing a breath, I broke away and asked, “Are you really here?” running my hands over as much of her as I could.
Cupping my face, tears in her eyes, she cried, “Baby, I’m so sorry I left. I couldn’t cope, but… I love you. I love you so, so much. Please forgive me. Please…”
She loved me. She fucking loved me, and the relief those words conjured had me literally dropping to the floor, still clutching Molly in my hold.
I was never letting her go again.
“Are you back for me? For good?”
Her warm breath breezed down my neck. “For the first time ever, baby, I ran back to something, to you… my Romeo.”
I was hers; she had no idea how much.
“You won’t ever run again. You get that now?” I said firmly, searching her eyes for any doubt. There was none.
“I get it.”
“You left me alone for weeks, no word, no explanation. Do you know how mad I am at you for that?”
“I know.” The sadness and regret in her soft voice almost cut me like a knife. But I had my answer. She was with me now for good.
Pressing my forehead to hers, I stated, “I’m going to win this game. Then I’m going to fuckin’ brand you, once and for all. It seems I’ve been too lenient with you, Shakespeare.” I pushed. “Maybe you didn’t quite get that you’re mine and as such can never, ever leave me—even if your heart is broken. Because if you’re hurting, baby, you can bet I’m fuckin’ hurting too.”
My muscles felt invigorated and I stood, hoisting Molly back to her seat, ordering, “You, back in those stands. Now. I’ve got a championship title to take back home. Then I’ll deal with you. Quite frankly, I don’t know which one I’m more excited for.”
Flushing beet red and throwing me a huge smile, she said, “Give them hell, baby,” then planted another lucky sweet kiss full on my lips, the Bama fans roaring in reaction.
We played out o
f our skins, but Notre Dame was never too far behind us, never too far in front.
The final down of the game, fifteen seconds on the clock, fourth quarter. I had led a drive into the red zone. We had to score a touchdown; a field goal was not enough to secure the victory. Notre Dame’s defense hadn’t missed a damn beat all night and I had one last chance to wrestle the win from their stubborn clutches.
Calling a, “Crimson Two, Crimson Two,” in the huddle, we moved into position, ready to execute an option play called by Coach himself. “Down… set… Hut, hut,” I calmly yelled, taking the shotgun from the center.
I immediately looked for Porter. Shit! He was covered. I checked down to Carillo. Fuck! Not an option. Stepping back, I scanned the wider field, Jimmy-Don giving me precious few seconds.
Now!
Seeing a running lane, I set off, my breath echoing in the casing of my helmet as I powered onward, the end zone clear in my sights. I visualized making the touchdown. I felt the elation of winning the game, willing it into reality.
I pushed my tired legs to their absolute limits, every muscle screaming, and I broke the plane—touchdown!—then spiked the ball.
The sensation of victory hit me hard, but I didn’t freeze. We’d taken it. We’d fucking won.
Staring up to the sky, I pulled down my jersey, kissed my hand, placed it on my tattooed wings, and held it up high, praying, “This one’s for you, my angel. This one’s for you…”
Suddenly the whole team dove on me. TV reporters, Tide staff, and fans alike flooded the field. “Sweet Home Alabama” blasted around the stadium as hundreds of fireworks burst in the sky, celebrating our win.
After many congratulations and hugs, I stared over a sea of heads to see my girl sat in her seat, crying, Ally holding Molly in her arms. I glanced to the Jumbotron, still showing replays of my celebration.
The wings. She’d seen the wings—I just hoped she loved them too.
The Tide was swiftly caught up in the whirlwind of our win. After the trophy presentation and painful TV interview eulogizing my award as the championship’s MVP, I jumped off the stage and ran to my girl, immediately lifting her up and exclaiming, “We won, baby!”
Throwing me a smile, she replied, “I’m sooo proud of you.”
One hand holding her gorgeous ass, the other caressing the bare skin of her back, I confided, “I need to be alone with you. Now.”
We took off, heading for the player’s tunnel, ignoring shouts from the coaching staff calling me back. Fuck them all. I needed to be alone with my girl.
Molly giggled, nuzzling my neck, and asked, “Don’t you have to be with the team?”
“You want to give them all an after show? Because right now all I can think of is being inside you, and no matter where we are in thirty minutes, it’s happening.”
Golden-brown eyes widened, and she sucked in a low breath. “We need to go… like now.”
Relaxing for the first time in weeks, I exhaled in relief. “Glad we’re finally on the same fuckin’ page.”
34
NFL Draft
Radio City Music Hall, New York
Four Months Later…
“The first draft… for the next NFL season… for Seattle Seahawks… is… quarterback… Romeo Prince… from… the Alabama Crimson Tide!!!”
A warm wave of relief washed over my body, and I closed my eyes.
I’d done it. And hell, I was the first pick draft. I was the best fucking player in the country… I was worth something after all.
An excited high-pitched scream sounded in my ear and my girl pulled me to my feet. Unable to resist getting caught up in the moment, I lifted her to my lips and kissed her over and over. I pulled back and she whispered, “Baby, you did it.”
As I looked into Molly’s eyes, I remembered a time when I wasn’t sure she’d ever come back to me, never mind be right here beside me as my life changed and my dream came true, or at least half of my dream.
A steward tapped me on the shoulder. “Mr. Prince, we need to go to the stage now. Please follow me.”
Nodding and squeezing Molly’s hand one more time, I turned to the corridor, a huge friggin’ camera following me the entire way. I took the Seahawks baseball cap handed to me and, placing it on my head, walked onto the stage.
The lights and the noise were blinding.
The commissioner pulled me in close as he shook my hand, saying, “Well done, son! You got to be feeling pretty damn happy right now!”
Slightly dazed by all of the attention, I just nodded numbly, and he handed me my Seahawks jersey, the feel of it in my hands and the PRINCE 7 on the back too much to take in.
I had to do a shitload of press, answering question after question about how I felt going to Seattle. How do you verbalize a dream coming true? I was excited, beyond excited, and told a thousand journalists so—it was the fucking NFL after all—but something just wasn’t sitting right in my stomach. A sinking feeling of doubt was tugging at my mind. I knew what it was… Mol. She hadn’t decided on a damn school yet for her PhD. We’d been living together for months now. After our stint apart, we moved into our own apartment almost immediately, and I’d seen her apply to lots of colleges and hadn’t dared bring up my anxiety about us having to live apart. At this point in my life, I knew I couldn’t be without her. Hell, I didn’t sleep anymore if she wasn’t curled into my side.
Those thoughts kept playing on my mind as I shook a million hands, met Seahawks staff by the dozen, and by the time I got back to the green room—my friends and Molly still giddy as all hell from my achievement—I was ready to tear my fucking hair out with worry.
Flashing me a huge smile, my girl launched into my arms, pressing kisses all over my face, singing, “I love you, I love you, I love you…”
Trying to ease my anxiety, I pulled her into my chest, probably holding her too tight. I obviously had, because when I let her go, her eyebrows were drawn and she asked, “What? What’s wrong?”
She could read me like a book.
I glanced over her shoulder and noticed our friends staring at us, smiling… Well, except for Ally. She was frowning too, sensing my weird turn in mood.
I held up my hand to our friends, excusing Molly and myself, and, needing to deal with this crap now, pulled her down a corridor, making sure we were alone. She smiled and playfully tugged on the peak of my cap, but I could see the strain around her eyes… She thought I wasn’t happy.
Reaching for the cap and pulling it off, I said, “I am happy, baby.” I didn’t want her to misunderstand that. “But I can’t do it without you. Seattle. I’m going to Seattle. You applied to Harvard, Yale, and Stanford that I know of. You’ve been so fuckin’ secretive, and I’m going insane. We could be on different sides of the country for all I know, and I need you with me. I don’t think I can do this without you.”
“Rome—” She tried to interrupt, but I had to get all of this out before it ate me alive.
“I feel like just demanding it because I know you would drop everything for me. But I also want your dreams to come true. I don’t know how to have both you and football.”
Her face was unmoved, relaxed even, and I couldn’t understand how she wasn’t freaking out like me. Was she actually okay with us being apart?
Holding my hand, she pressed a kiss on each of my fingers before confiding, “Romeo, I’ve run away from my problems all my life, never to return, but you’re the first person I’ve ever run back to. That means so much to me. You pulled me out of the darkness.” I swallowed hard when she took my hand she’d just kissed and pressed it against her flat stomach. We’d decided to wait to have more children, wait until we were older, more settled, but it still ripped me to shreds knowing we should’ve been preparing for our angel’s arrival if things had gone down differently.
With a soft squeeze of my hand, she made me refocus. “And gave me hope. Hope that one day I will be a good mother… when the time is right, and that I do have a family… in you.”
Cupping her face, I told her, “But what I want is you. Everything I want is with you. You’re my ‘one day.’”
She handed me an envelope from her pocket, and a small smile set on her lips. “Your ‘one day’ is finally here.”
I immediately ripped it open and read the short paragraph:
Miss Shakespeare,
We at the University of Washington, Seattle, are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted on the PhD program for Religious Philosophy. To confirm your place, please contact us using one of the methods below.
My heart pounded and my hands were actually shaking. Looking up at my girl, I couldn’t digest it. She was coming with me? She’d done this for me?
But… how?
Her gaze was expectant, but all I could get out of my mouth was, “You… Does…? What?”
Giggling, she removed the letter from my frozen hands and said, “I also applied to Seattle. When Doctor Adams, all those months ago, mentioned there was a possibility of you going there, I researched into how the draft worked and took a calculated chance on Seattle. I didn’t want to say, just in case it didn’t work out. But it’s just paid off. I’m coming to Seattle with you, baby. You’re looking at the newest PhD student of philosophy. I sent my email confirmation about twenty-five minutes ago.”
Fuck. As she said those words, I realized we’d done it. Against all the odds, against every obstacle thrown our way—the loss and all the pain—we’d friggin’ done it. We’d both gotten what we wanted and we were still together.