by Danica Avet
“Is Hanna recording this?” I ask Mark under my breath.
“Of course she is,” is his response, as though his wife would be doing anything else.
“I want a copy of it.”
“You’ll get one,” he promises. “We hold meetings with the section leaders on Tuesdays after the show to go over any problems we see. I want them perfect before we host the Regional Festival in October.”
Nodding, I watch as the band splits to either side of the goal post, taking their positions from the twenty-five yard line to the end zone, and halt as one when the drumline signals the end of the cadence. I want to beam like a proud mama, but I’m supposed to be professional about this. Mark and I stroll forward, separating to take opposite ends of the band so as to once again make sure our lines are perfect.
“Greetings sports fans and welcome to Callais Memorial Stadium where your Sauvage State Spartans are taking on the visiting Milwaukee College Bandits. If you look to the end zone, you’ll see the Spartan Marching 300 ready to perform their pre-game selection.”
Walker calls the band to attention once more, and the shouted, “Spartans” echoes around the stadium. Apparently the crowd is used to the chant. I hide my smile behind a cough and relax as the show starts.
Pre-game shows aren’t as elaborate as half-time shows, but the drills are just as complex, the music fast-paced and lively. It’s meant to get the spectators ready for the game, the songs an arrangement revised by Mark and myself to reflect school pride. They perform it perfectly, the drills on point, everyone on time, and the color guard don’t miss a single catch. Pride swells to the point I feel puffed up with it.
The final set has the band forming two lines that will act as a runway for the football team to take the field. Mark and I stepped out, taking our spots next to the drum majors as the final song ends.
“And now for your Sauvage State Spartans!” the announcer roars.
The 300 roll out with the university fight song, the crowds chanting and cheering as the football players storm the field. I stand at parade rest, watching the team, recognizing some of the faces under the helmets from my classes and around campus. But they don’t notice me. They’re too pumped up for the game to think of anything but crushing the Bandits.
Amused, and glad I took this job, the smile I can feel pulling at my lips falters when the coaches begin to emerge from the tunnel. There’s an older man I’ve seen around campus, plus a handful of others, but my gaze snags on one individual who seems to stand head and shoulders above everyone else.
Shaun. Face set in serious lines beneath his beard, he doesn’t stroll like everyone else. He seems to stalk, his gaze set straight ahead, as though he’s already lost in the game. But it’s as though his appearance sparks off a frenzy of excitement. The crowds go insane when he hits the field. Cameras flash and I swear it’s like a rock star just took the stage, the noise is so loud. I can barely hear the band over the screams.
“Sauvage State University is proud to recognize the newest member of our coaching staff, Shaun “Steady” Decker!” The screams only get louder and I grow more confused. “Coach Decker comes to Sauvage State with an impressive resume. Not only is he the record holder of most receptions and touchdowns for a tight end, he’s also a five time MVP, was voted seven times to the Pro Bowl, and holds a Super Bowl all-time receiving record. Give a Spartan welcome to Coach Decker!”
The minute Shaun becomes aware of the noise, his hard expression clears and he smiles widely, lifting one muscled arm to wave at the crowd. Baffled and starting to panic because he’s nearing my spot next to Mark, I want to fidget, to take a step back so he doesn’t see me. I must’ve telegraphed my intentions because it draws his attention straight to me.
I’m beyond stunned by what the announcer says. Shaun’s a professional football player? No wonder everyone was so excited to see him, to have him at the university. But what the ever-loving hell was he thinking, hooking up with me in New Orleans? I can’t tell if I’m mortified more than shocked, but it doesn’t matter because he’s looking right at me.
His wide smile becomes more intimate the instant he sees me, his gaze flicking over my practical clothes and pausing on my Chucks. I’d thought it would help to loosen up the band members, which it did, but it also has Shaun eyeing me like a tasty treat. My cheeks heat and I swear I can feel my cheeks turning redder than my shirt. I glare at him, but instead of looking the least bit put out, he smiles wider and winks at me as he passes us.
“That was interesting,” Mark murmurs as the fight song comes to an end, signaling the football players were at the sideline.
I don’t say anything because I’m so… I don’t know what I am. My heart’s pounding as though I just ran a marathon, I’m sweating again, and my face is steaming hot. I try to tell myself it’s the heat and not excitement at seeing Shaun again, but I know better. He looks amazing. Sexy beyond belief and, considering he’s a married man, that’s just not fair at all.
“Let’s go,” Mark says after a few seconds and I approach one of the podiums set up for us to direct the Star-Spangled Banner.
I’ve done it dozens of times over the entirety of band camp. I’ve conducted my students at St. Joseph’s for years. This shouldn’t feel like I’m in the spotlight, but it does. I almost don’t make it up the stairs. No, I don’t trip. I look up at the platform five feet above my head and think about Shaun standing on the sideline, watching me, and my legs don’t want to work.
“Please rise for the playing of our national anthem under the direction of Dr. Mark Klauss and Assistant Director Katherine Frost.”
“Do you need a hand, Ms. Frost?” Walker asks, sweet innocent that he is.
I don’t really need help. I need to hide, but I have a job to do and thousands of people waiting for me to do it. Taking a deep breath, I put my hand in his gloved one and allow him to help me up the steps as though I’m a fragile flower of femininity. Taking my spot in the center of the platform, I turn to my side of the band while keeping Mark in my periphery.
I lift my hands and horns go up and I pray I don’t screw this up.
Before half-time I stare at the game without watching anything, counting my blessings.
First, I’m thankful band students have played the Star-Spangled Banner so many times in their musical careers, they have it memorized. Because my brain went on autopilot the minute the song started. I don’t think I screwed up, otherwise I’d have gotten strange looks from the musicians. Right?
Secondly, I’m thankful that the band sits in the student section, which is opposite from the home team’s bench. It means I can’t see Shaun very well, which is wonderful right now because I’m so confused. I can’t even wrap my mind around the implications of why he didn’t tell me who he was. Of course I hadn’t really given him a chance to tell me who he was, had I? I’d willfully ignored everything except what my body wanted right then and there. It was only later that I started actually thinking about what I’d done and who I’d done it with.
And, finally, I’m thankful my participation isn’t required much in the stands. Once we got to the band section, Walker and his assistants kept the chants and songs going without my direction. Mark sits next to me, not saying anything, but I think he’s opened his mouth to ask me something at least a dozen times.
I don’t know if he thinks he knows what’s going on between me and Shaun, or if he just wants to know what’s wrong with me. At this point, avoidance is the best policy for me. I’ll go home after the game, soak in the tub and contemplate what to do. Although I already know. Nothing. I’m locked into a contract with a university I’m proud to be a part of. Would I really run again, no matter what the instigation? No. At least I hope I don’t.
“Hey Frosty, want a water?”
The question, asked by none other than Levi, startles me out of my daze. The bottle he puts in front of my face is sweating in the heat and condensation—ice cold, thank you very much—drips right down the vee of my shirt. I squeal and snatc
h the bottle out of his hand, making him laugh.
“I really didn’t mean to do that,” he says, laughing harder.
“Keep it up, Cracchiolo, and I’ll start making you do laps around the practice field,” I growl, a grudging smile pulling at my mouth.
He leans over, eyes dancing with mischief. “I can think of some laps I wouldn’t mind doing… Just not running.”
“You need to get back to your seat,” I tell him sternly, although I’m trying not to laugh. It could be construed as sexual harassment, except I know he has absolutely no interest in me. If anything, he seems to have his finger on the pulse of those around him and clowned around to get them smiling or laughing again.
Just then, something happens on the field that causes the crowd to roar. Levi curses and charges up the steps to get back to his snare. Walker hops up from his spot to shout, “Stressed Out!”. Since it’s one of the songs I arranged solely for the game, I snap to attention and turn to look back at the band. Everyone’s on their feet, Levi and his section busting out the recognizable beat.
The arrangement’s short, but I was glad to see the students on either side of the band knew the song, were dancing to it and cheering. It brings the first smile to my face since seeing Shaun and learning who he was. By the time the selection’s over, the Spartan players have forced a fumble, leading the band to strike up the fight song to celebrate us getting the ball back.
I need to stop worrying about Shaun, the famous football playing liar, and remember I deserve more out of life than to be some man’s dirty secret, even a famous man. I have a great career doing what I love. Sex, men, and all the mess that goes with both aren’t worth the kind of life I could have if I stuck to my guns here at Sauvage. This is my future. And Shaun had nothing to do with it.
I glance at the game clock and stand. “300!” I shout up the stands. Once I have their attention, I smile. “Mount up!”
It’s goofy, but they laugh and start getting their uniform jackets back on and gathering their instruments. Half-time, baby.
Shaun
There’s an almost manic vibe in the locker room at halftime. We’re leading by two touchdowns, my freshman quarterback finally acting like the leader I know he is. Buddy breaks down the first half of the game, pointing out what needs to be improved before we take the field again and the guys are listening intently. The trainers are going through the locker room, taping knees and wrists and dispensing water and ice packs like candy.
I lean against the wall behind Buddy, half-listening to him and half-listening to the band on the field, my thoughts on Katie. She’d looked so cute in her polo and slacks, but seeing those Chucks only reminded me of the night we shared. But when she’d seen me, heard who I was, I could see the horror on her face. She honestly hadn’t known my name, proving she’d wanted me, not the professional athlete. Did I put a little more swagger in my step when I realized that? Fuck yeah I did.
Now though I’m starting to think I really fucked up. I didn’t realize she had no clue who I was until tonight. I figured someone would’ve mentioned me. Just goes to show how arrogant I’ve become. And after the look she gave me on the field, the horror mixed with embarrassment, I don’t see how she’ll ever forgive me for that. Not to mention she still doesn’t know that my soon-to-be ex-wife could have her served to testify in our divorce proceedings. If Denise ever found out who she was. Then there was the picture floating on the internet of us. Someone would eventually put two and two together and realizes it’s us. What would happen then? She’d probably try to kill me or, at the very least, never speak to me again. Maybe move to Timbuktu to get away from the negative press. Become a nun. Who the fuck knows? But each of those scenarios means Katie will make it that much harder to get close to her again, and that isn’t something I can live with. No fucking way.
She didn’t look at me after pre-game, as though she couldn’t bear to see my face. And I should know because—shame on me and all that shit—I found my attention wandering to the stands where the band sat more than it should have. Her gaze had been carefully trained on the field itself, or on the band, that tatted kid going down to chat and laugh with her, looking down her shirt and shit. Was I jealous? I’ll just say that little punk better watch his ass or I’ll shove one of those snares up it.
“Anything you want to add, Decker?” Buddy asks, jerking me out of thoughts of beating up a kid. A fucking kid not much younger than the asshole who’d replaced me on the Timbers and in my wife’s bed.
Hm. I’m sure a psychologist would have a lot to say about that, except I don’t plan to seek treatment. Not when the only cure was having Katie in my bed again.
I step forward and all eyes snap to me. I assess the guys, dripping with sweat, their jerseys grass- and blood-stained. They’re sore, tired and they have another half to get through before they can shower away the loss, or get ready to celebrate the win.
“Nothing to add except, go Spartans!” I shout with a fist pump. They hop to their feet with a roar, the same frantic energy as before surging through the room. “Bring it in!”
We huddle around Buddy, who leads us in another short prayer for the safety of the players in the second half. He tacks on a prayer that Aarons would stop fucking around and catch the ball instead of trying to give him a heart attack, making everyone laugh. Our “Amen” is heartfelt.
Beau steps into the center of the circle and shouts, “This is…”
“SPARTA!” The team finishes for him, flying high once more on the anticipation of getting on the field and bringing home the win.
They tear out of the locker room, banging their hands against the Spartan warrior painted above the door as they pass, their cheers nearly drowning out the band still playing on the field. Since I wanted to see Katie again, I hurry after them.
The players hang out in the tunnel, making a fuckload of noise as they talk about what they’re going to do to the Bandits, the cheerleaders doing their thing on the sideline or the dancers performing with the band. Stepping through the forest of shoulder pads and sweaty bodies, I finally get a good view of the field. Except I don’t see Katie on the sideline where she’d been before.
My gaze darts around, ignoring the fans who noticed me standing here. Sometimes, like now, I hate the infamy that surrounds me, because there are cheers and jeers which takes the limelight away from the band. I step back into the tunnel, although I still scour the sidelines for Katie. I finally find her on the far side of the field, talking to a group of men. I can’t see much more than her blonde hair and curvy figure, but I don’t like it. I don’t like the way they tower over her, or the way she tilts her head back in what I think is a laugh.
I don’t have any claim on her, except in my mind. I’m in the middle of a fucking divorce, although she still thinks I’m married, and yet I want to go out there and… I don’t even know. Mark her as mine? Show them she belongs with me and they needed to keep their eyes to themselves? It’s crazy possessive, which isn’t like me at all. At least not the me who’d been married to Denise, and that only serves to show me I’d been a dumb fuck where she was concerned.
The band finishes their performance, the crowd cheering for them, and begins marching off the field. Katie wraps up whatever conversation she was having before heading to meet up with her kids. I see her megawatt smile and stupidly wished it was aimed at me. Sad, pathetic fuck, that’s what I’ve turned out to be, all because of a cute, nerdy blonde.
Shaking my head at myself, I called out, “Let’s go put some more numbers on that scoreboard!”
They have far more fucking energy than I do, running out of the tunnel, screaming like wild men. I follow behind, fake smile in place as I make for the sideline, my gaze fixed on the woman who stubbornly won’t look my way. And it stays that way the rest of the game.
Kate
The quarterly faculty meeting is held in the collective meeting rooms attached to the Student Union, which means the smell of burgers and fries at the concession sta
nds permeates the room. I stare down at my salad, the limp lettuce and sad looking tomatoes doing little to entice my appetite. Although the real reason for my lack of hunger is the knots in my stomach caused by Shaun Decker sitting across the table from me.
At least nine or ten feet separate us, but it may as well have been inches with the way my body reacts. It’s been three days since I found out who he is. Seventy-two hours since I Googled him and saw just how popular he is. He’s a big effing deal in the NFL, with his own Wikipedia page, which I may have stared at for an hour or two. I now know he’s six-foot-six, two hundred and sixty pounds, that he grew up in northern California and has no brothers or sisters. Oh and I also discovered a picture floating out on the world wide web of the two of us together. At least that clicking sound I remember from that night makes sense now. Those guys knew who he was and wanted evidence that they’d seen him. With me.
My stomach churns at the thought of anyone at the university making the connection. I haven’t been able to eat at all since I saw the fuzzy shot of Shaun with his hand on my hip as we walk out of the elevator¸ or read the comments attached to some of the gossip sites. Apparently not everyone appreciates a big ass and they weren’t afraid to let the world know. Because I’m a glutton for punishment, I then checked his website and Facebook page to see pictures of him with a thin, gorgeous brunette. Just like Adam’s Lisa. What was it with men cheating on brunettes with the blonde? It made me feel like my hair made me a target.
Oh and they’re getting a divorce. On one hand, that sort of eases the sting of him coming by the room on the first day of class but, on the other hand, none of the sites can pinpoint exactly when the separation began, although there were lots of references to that picture. Other sites claim Shaun’s wife was fooling around with another football player, which helps me feel less like a home wrecker, but not entirely. The similarities between this situation and what happened with Adam leaves me a complete mess, both mentally and emotionally.