The Single Dad - A Standalone Romance (A Single Dad Firefighter Romance)

by Claire Adams

  “Okay,” I said finally, thinking to myself that it was likely I would easily regret this. “Okay, fine. I will go to the game, and you can go with me. And if either of us ends up actually hooking up with somebody, we will work out how to give each other privacy. Let me borrow your ID and I’ll get the information the office needs to issue our tickets.” I shook my head. The last thing I had wanted to do was actually go to the game; but if I had to go, I thought to myself that at least it would be interesting, with Jess there with me.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I had thought that our stadium was impressive; when Jess and I got out of the bus carrying students to the bowl game, I was shocked at the hugeness of it. The parking lot was crawling with people—tents and campers and RVs were scattered across the place, with team colors flying on every conceivable corner, and the smell of dozens of different kinds of food filling the air. In spite of the fact that I’d been dreading going to the game and having to watch Zack, I found myself getting swept up by the excitement that everyone else was contributing to. Everyone was amped—cheering as they made their way towards the stadium, calling out to the opposing team’s fans, in a mood for a really good game. I had to wonder just how well Zack would perform; if he was going to crack under pressure, it would be a game like this where he was going to be televised across the country, where the stakes were the highest—a rare, championship game.

  Jess and I split away from the group at the gate. The tickets I had as a reporter for the campus newspaper were much better than the general; it was one of the perks of the job—after all, I needed a good view of the game to report on it. As we moved through the crowds flooding through the stadium, Jess was looking around—for the best food options, for people heading to our section that might be interesting, for the possibility of getting a cheap beer where she wouldn’t be carded. I was focused entirely on the game. How would Zack perform? Would we win? I was trying to think of just how I would cover it for the article, as well. After all, the game itself was a big draw—but what story about the game would I tell? It was one of the exercises Professor Grant had us do: pick an angle on an event and try to come up with the way that you would go about writing an article from that perspective.

  We finally got to our seats and I started setting up, taking out my camera to get action shots and taking a few pictures of the steadily growing crowd. Some of the people attending the game were, I knew, folks who attended the championship every year; they weren’t invested in one team over another, but came just to enjoy that particular event. There were also—obviously—those who were either students or alumni of either school, crowding the stands in seas of school colors, faces painted and banners waving. It was hard to separate myself from the intense emotions that everyone around me was obviously feeling; I could barely hear the marching band for the other team across the stadium, but they would have been loud indeed for the fans of that school—just as our school’s marching band was on our side.

  I snapped pictures of the crowd, capturing a few banners. One of them made my stomach flip-flop inside of me; on our side, a bunch of girls in school color bikinis and tiny shorts were waving a hand-painted banner that read, “Win the Game and Get a Kiss, Zack!” I told myself that I didn’t care—that I had broken up with him and he was a free agent. I might have my regrets, but I couldn’t hold it against the girls that they were cheering for a single guy and probably hoping to get invited to his hotel room at the end of the night.

  I started to fidget as the pre-game dragged on; dance teams for both sides were doing routines, there were the mascots to watch, and I wondered just how long it would take for the enormous stadium to clear once the game was over. Jess was already having a good time, chatting up a guy who was seated near us, teasing him about getting her a beer and a hot dog because she was a poor, broke, college student who came here on my charity. I tried not to laugh too obviously at her ruse and instead focus on what was going on around me. When is this game even going to start? I thought, with more than a little impatience. More than anything, I wanted it to be over, the victory handed to one of the teams so I could get back to the hotel room and spend the next several hours dreading the interviews I would have to do—dreading having to interview Zack.

  The teams ran out—ours first, unlike the home games I had covered. I tried to keep myself from looking for him, but in an instant, I spotted Zack running out with his team mates, his away jersey spotless and vivid.

  “He’s not looking too bad,” Jess commented between cheers for our team.

  They started their warm ups and I tried not to watch Zack’s every movement as I caught a few pictures for the article; I tried—I really tried—to make sure I was getting a fair sample of the whole team in their exercises.

  They took to the sidelines and the other team came onto the field, looking just as energetic and just as strong. If nothing else, I thought, it would definitely be a good game—there would be no shutouts in this match. The other team’s crowd cheered while our side booed, and my heart was pounding. I don’t care if we win, I thought to myself; it would be nice if we did—my interviews the next day with the different members of the team would go a lot more smoothly if they weren’t all mourning their loss of the game—but on a personal level, it didn’t bother me at all. I don’t care if we win, but please don’t let Zack get injured.

  The entire crowd on both sides watched with bated breath as the coaches went out for the coin toss. Even though it happened at every game, there was a definite tension in the moment that was gone from other games I’d gone to. I caught as many pictures as I could of the two coaches walking up to the center of the field, waiting for the ref, and then getting the result. The flip went to the other team, and they cheered loudly enough to almost deafen our side.

  I settled in to watch the game as the teams took up their positions to start. I had done my research on the team we were up against, just as I had for the previous article I had done. They were known to have an aggressive offense-based strategy, which was similar to our team’s typical M.O. I wondered if Coach Bullden had managed to turn up the heat on the defensive line, and watched with interest as the first play started. For the whole first quarter, it seemed like our team and the other team were feeling each other out—neither side scored a point, but they were right on top of each other, finding ways through the defenses, working out where the weaknesses were. Every shift in the play—whether it was a pass, an interception, or a tackle—brought cheers up from one side or the other, and I half-wished I had brought ear plugs with me to at least muffle the huge amount of noise.

  The second quarter started and I found myself watching Zack more and more. I could hear Jess flirting with the guy she was wrapping around her little finger, but my attention was entirely on Zack. He clearly wasn’t distracted or cracking under the pressure—he was on top of the game, working hard, staying focused. It seemed to me like he was probably not even remotely thinking about me, and while part of me was relieved, another part was depressed. The second half went back and forth; we scored, and then the other team managed to even the points; then, just like the first half, everything was neck-and-neck, with the teams moving from one end of the field to the other, not quite able to make a break through each other’s lines long enough to get another touchdown. It was a nerve-wracking game, and the cheers and shouts around me never abated for even a moment; if I wasn’t focused on taking notes on the game, watching to try and work out the different strategies, I might have been swept up in it myself.

  The second half finally ended and the two teams ran from the field to go back to the locker rooms to rest and get ready for the back end of the game. The half-time show would be longer for this game than usual, and I was looking forward to watching the marching bands perform. The cheers cut back slightly, but didn’t die as the show got started. The two marching bands came out onto the field and started up, getting ready to do their competing routines. Even as I got excited, even as the two bands geared up and began pl
aying, my mind was on Zack. I pictured him in my head in the locker room, drinking water or Gatorade, listening to Bullden catechizing the team—telling them what they’d done wrong in the first half and getting them hyped for the second half of the game. With a tie on the scoreboard, there’d be pressure for both teams to try and get the first score right out of the gate.

  I watched and didn’t watch as each marching band took the field in turn. Our marching band went first, and I absentmindedly sang along with the crowd as they went through their four songs, recognizable classics that I thought had probably been played at every major football game from the first year the songs came out. I took pictures of the formations, grabbing as many as I could. I would have to ask Jess later on just what had been played, because I wasn’t sure I would be able to remember it. But I had the pictures, and I didn’t think the half-time show would be a major focus of the article and the features anyway. When the other team’s marching band took the field, I managed to pay a little more attention, catching a more modern song—OK Go’s Here it Goes Again among the more classic selections. I got one or two pictures of their routine, but it wasn’t important enough to do more than that.

  “So what do you think about the first half?” I asked someone near me.

  I started collecting quotes, recording people as best as I could in spite of the shrieking, screaming, cheering noise that surrounded me. I grabbed a quote from Jess and the guy she was talking to just as a matter of course—it probably wouldn’t make it to the final article, but it gave me something to do while I was waiting for the game to start up again.

  From the start of the second half of the game, it was clear that both teams were looking to create a lead and break the tie. The two teams took the field with just as much energy as they had at the beginning of the game, rushing out and looking absolutely determined. The other team—the Wild Cats—managed to break through our defense and get a touch down all in one play a few minutes into the third quarter. I was on my feet, snapping pictures and taking notes in my mind and in my notebook throughout the fraught quarter. Our team tried to even the score but couldn’t seem to quite break through the other side’s defense. I thought to myself that the other team’s coach, Gulder, had clearly stressed defense in his team’s half-time briefing. I caught a few quick glances at the sidelines, watching the rest of the team, watching the coaching staff pacing, working hard to try and find a way to get that all-important score. The other team expanded their lead with another touchdown, and there was a collective groan through our side of the stadium while the other side shrieked.

  I kept hoping that we would pull the lead that the Wild Cats had on us closed; but as the third quarter ticked down to the final seconds, we all knew it was impossible. We would have to have a monumental fourth quarter—we would have to at least tie the other team in order to get into overtime, where we might be able to pull ahead. It would really be a miracle if we were able to pull ahead before regulation time ended.

  At the beginning of the fourth quarter, the first play by the other team—one of their key defensive players went down and we made it halfway into their end of the field before one of the other tackles brought our player down. We still had possession of the ball. The defensive lineman was obviously hurt; he didn’t get up for a long time and the refs came out to assess the situation. There was no penalty—the tackle had been perfectly legal—but as medics came out and helped the player limp off of the field, it was clear that he wouldn’t be playing for the remainder of the game. It was his bad luck, I thought with a bit of sympathy.

  The loss of the other team’s key defensive lineman seemed to galvanize our team— finally they were able to break through fast and effectively. We scored a touchdown on our very next play; it didn’t even the score, but at least we weren’t so far behind. My heart was pounding in my chest and the people in the stands around me were losing their minds, screaming and shouting, cheering and chanting. The other team managed to continue to hold us off through a few more plays—they intercepted once and then lost possession of the ball in the very next scrimmage—but it was clear that they were really suffering from the loss of their best defensive player. I was worried about their offense; it had always been strong, and with one of their other players down, they’d be looking—at least subconsciously—to even things up and maybe take out our quarterback.

  They nearly achieved it. In one of the plays in the middle of the fourth quarter, Zack went down under what was practically a dogpile of players from the other team. He was down for a few minutes, but before they could bring the medics out, he was on his feet again, shaking himself off, hopping up and down in place before he resumed his normal position. The next play after that we managed to finally even up the score—Zack using a deceptive move to convince the other team he was going to try for a pass instead of a throw, and then getting the ball as far downfield as he could to the running back who caught up to it just in time. I nearly went deaf once more with the shrieks that came up from our side of the stands, but I was grinning as broadly as anyone.

  So, with only a few minutes left in the game—and the championship riding on it—the two teams were once more tied. My mouth was dry, and my heart was racing. We could end up in overtime, which wouldn’t be a bad outcome—as long as we won it. I noticed, almost absently, that I was becoming more and more invested in the game, in spite of wanting to remain impartial, in spite of convincing myself that I didn’t care who won. If we couldn’t score something in the next play or two, we would go into overtime—provided we could keep our defense up and keep the Wild Cats from scoring.

  The other team started its play. Everyone in the stands—on both sides—was standing up, chanting, screaming, clearly at their wits’ end with excitement at the prospect of such a close game. I had my camera ready. If the other team managed to somehow get a touchdown in their play, they would have basically won—it would be nearly impossible for us to score sufficient points before the time ran out. I was bouncing on the balls of my feet at the snap, watching, watching. Waiting like everyone else in the crowd was. For the moment, I wasn’t a reporter at all; I was just another spectator, watching the fates of the two teams unfolding.

  In a moment that made everyone go silent, our team intercepted the ball in the midst of a pass. After a shocked moment, everyone on our side cheered. We made it onto the other side of the field, landing in the Wild Cats’ territory by fifteen yards before they were able to scramble up their players enough to tackle the player. We had possession of the ball once more. There was time for one more play. I was in an agony of anticipation—what would the decision be? Would we go for a touchdown—a decisive victory—or would there be a field goal attempt? Just enough of a score to win the game by a few points. Both would be major risks. Zack ran to the sidelines to confer with coach Bullden, and some of the players switched up for the last play of regulation time. I wasn’t sure whether the shrieking of the fans or the pounding of my blood in my ears was louder. I watched the two sides form up. The players were in a tight formation, and I saw Zack and another player cautiously moving farther back from the line of scrimmage. It could be a field goal. It could be.

  The play started and I watched with wide eyes: it was a field goal attempt. I clenched my hands into fists—it was a major risk. The defense kept the other team at bay while they set up the kick. I jumped up and down with everyone else, screaming as the kick launched the ball into the air. I watched as it turned end over end, moving inexorably towards the crossbars. Would it be good? Would it go through, or fall short, or would it hit instead of getting through?

  It went through—and everyone went silent for just a moment, reeling in the stands. There were 30 more seconds left in the game, but there was no real chance for the other team to make the points up. The final play was almost anti-climactic, a formality to run down the clock. The game was decided and everyone in our side of the stands was cheering and screaming, already starting to celebrate.

  I sat down he
avily in my seat, happy but exhausted at how nerve-wracking the game had been. I knew there would be major celebrations in the city—a party at the hotel, partying in the parking lot, and probably wherever else any group of fans for our team were staying or could congregate. For sure, the football team would be living it up for the rest of the night. I stood as soon as I could recover from my shock and delight and snapped pictures of the field, the crowd, everything going on. Our team was running around the field, leaping up and down, the players delirious with excitement at their win; I managed to capture the moment when they upended the cooler of Gatorade on coach Bullden.

  For a long time it seemed as though the on-field celebrations would never end. The members of the team were holding the trophy up in the air, kissing it, dancing with it—and I couldn’t blame them. Slowly, as gradually as molasses, people in the stands started filtering out; on the other team’s side of the stadium, they were subdued and quiet, probably talking amongst themselves about how they’d do it differently, or how next year would be better. On our side, no one seemed to want to leave, but everyone knew that there was a better celebration to go to. I looked around for Jess; she was making out with the guy she’d been flirting with, the two of them kissing in such a hot and heavy way that they were only one or two steps away from public indecency. I decided that I’d wait for her at the gate.

  I watched the people passing by as I stood by the gate, waiting for Jess to finish up with the guy she had apparently decided to make out with. I didn’t know if the bus for students had already left, but there would almost certainly be cabs that we could take to get back to the hotel. If Jess had decided to take the guy with her, I’d have to hang out at the pool or somewhere else; maybe I’d start working on the rough draft of the front-page piece since I couldn’t exactly stay in the room while she screwed someone. But I was thinking longingly of the big, plush bed that had come with the room—bigger than my twin bed at the dorm at least, and much more comfortable. My body ached from all the tension in it, and I hoped that at least she would kick the guy out after she’d finished with him. I was glad—really glad—that we had separate beds.