by Gina Azzi
Even though I often act like one.
I shake my head. I’m not calling my dad today. Not today, when Cade messaged and I’m going to a football game with my new friends. Today is supposed to be fun.
I message Cade back quickly before I overanalyze and lose my nerve.
Me: Hey yourself. I’ll be there. I even got some new Astor gear to wear. I’ll keep an eye out for you. What’s your number?
I put my phone down and change into the denim shorts Sam advised. I pull on the shirt Kristen bought me over a strapless bra. It hangs off my left shoulder and is definitely more fashionable than any of the other team clothes I have. I opt for plain black sandals and braid my hair so it hangs forward over my right shoulder. Immediately a few pieces escape, causing a naturally messy look that I love.
I’m scrunching my fingers through my roots for more volume when my phone chimes. My heart accelerates immediately and I laugh at my reaction. Giddy much?
Cade: Glad to hear it. You won’t be able to take your eyes off me. I’ll be the one wearing number 10.
I roll my eyes at his cockiness but feel the heat spreading across my neck and cheeks at his words. Won’t be able to take my eyes off him, huh?
Me: Noted. Good luck today, superstar.
Cade: See you after the game. Have fun tailgating.
When I turn around, Kristen is before me, holding out a bottle of perfume. “Here,” she says, spritzing onto my wrist and neck. “You’re cheesing too hard.”
“Cade messaged.” I hold up my phone.
“Seriously?” she squeals, her excitement matching my own. “What did he say?”
I show her the messages.
“OMG. He likes you, Lila. For real.”
“I don’t know. I totally jumped the gun and kissed him before he could make a move.”
She laughs. “I’m sure he loved being caught off guard. Guys like a girl they can’t automatically read.” She leans forward to see the message. “‘Won’t be able to take your eyes off me.’ That’s definite like. Okay, let me check you out.” Her eyes scan over my ensemble as I do a quick spin. “You look phenom!”
I smile at her. “So do you.” And she really does. Her cheeks are flushed with excitement and her brown hair skims the tops of her shoulders with the front and side pieces pulled back to create a bit of volume.
“Let’s do a quick shot before we meet Sam.” She rummages through her closet for a bottle of tequila. “To football, tailgates, and number ten.” She raises the bottle in my direction and takes a swig.
I laugh.
Kristen passes me the bottle and I raise it back at her. “Victory is ours.” I hold up my fist and swallow a mouthful. The tequila burns my throat without a chaser to follow it, and I squeeze my eyes shut tight. “Damn, Kristen, that’s some strong stuff.”
She shrugs. “I’m from Texas.”
“Let’s go.” I throw an arm over her shoulder as we leave our dorm room. She locks the door behind us and we head to the front steps to meet Sam.
* * *
Sam was right. I’ve never experienced anything like this in my life. The quad is full of tents and grills and kegs. Waves of people decked out in plum and gold overwhelm me. Reggaeton music blares and students dance in large circles, their bodies swaying, their red Solo cups brimming with beer.
McShain University is a small university. We have an awesome basketball team, and rowing of course, but that’s about all we boast about when it comes to sports. There’s no stadium that holds over 70,000 cheering fans. There aren’t any mass tailgates with tents and kegs. Astor is the real-life version of the college campuses you see in the movies. It’s unreal.
The sun is hot, the grass is green, the sky is blue, and the day is perfect. The scent of fresh-cut grass and cheeseburgers is overpowering, transporting me briefly to Brandon’s high school football games. Mom, Dad, and I would always arrive early to host a tailgate. Dad behind the grill, his tongs flashing as he turned chicken wings and flipped burgers. Mom’s bright smile as she served pieces of pie and refilled massive bowls with potato chips and Doritos. I close my eyes and breathe in deep, letting the memory settle around me for a second, reveling in the nostalgia of perfect autumn days with my perfect family.
Before we shattered and broke.
“What do you think? Cray, am I right?” Sam nudges me.
“Totally.” I smile at him.
“Okay, let’s meet some people over at the fountain and then we can walk around. I’ll introduce you to some friends.”
Kristen and I follow Sam wordlessly. Kristen’s eyes are wide with excitement, taking in her surroundings, enjoying the first football game of the season. Her excitement is palpable, and I feel a sudden rush of affection for my new friend who has made my first week in California an easy transition.
When we arrive at the huge circular fountain in the center of the quad, Sam’s friends are milling about, sipping on beers and chomping on burgers.
“Hey, guys,” Sam announces, waving his arm in front of Kristen and me. “These are my friends from the med program, Kristen and Lila. This is their first Astor game, so let’s show them some love and fun.”
“’Sup, I’m Keith.” A surfer-looking guy with bleached blond hair raises a beer in our direction.
“Jay.” A beefy looking guy with a shaved head smiles kindly.
“Melissa.” A cute girl waves brightly.
The list goes on and I am lost in the unfamiliar faces and sea of new names.
Kristen grabs onto my elbow. “Don’t leave me, okay?”
“Definitely not. We’re in this together.” I pat her hand reassuringly.
Sam hands us each a red Solo cup of beer and places Mardi Gras beads around our necks. “To the Three Amigos.”
“Victory is ours!” Kristen and I both say, raising our glasses in cheers.
Chapter Nine
Cade
It’s game day. When I wake in the morning, my muscles automatically tense with the excitement and anticipation for today. I love game day. I love the crowds, the endless expanse of plum and gold, the Mustang mascot, the marching band, the burgers and beer of tailgates. I live for the adrenaline rush of taking the field, the spring of grass underneath my cleats, the camaraderie and pep talks of the locker room.
My team.
My game.
Victory is ours.
I stretch slowly, mentally assessing each part of my body. My knee still feels sore, a deep ache radiating into the surrounding muscle. Cracking my neck, I’m good to go. I sit on the edge of my bed and check my phone. It’s 10:30 AM. I slept in. That’s strange. I never sleep in on game days. Or any days for that matter. I can barely sleep past 8:00 AM most mornings. I shake my head and smile as Mamma’s message pops up on the screen.
Mamma: Good luck today, Cade. Thinking of my number 10! I’ll be watching. Dad and Uncle Ronnie are excited. Love you!
Me: Thanks, Mamma. Love you.
Miers knocks on the door, pushing it open seconds later. “Yo, you up?”
“Barely.” I grab a pair of athletic shorts off the floor and slip them on, standing up to pull the shorts in place.
“Well, get your ass in gear. Hendrix is at the stove fixin’ us one hell of a game-day breakfast.” Miers smiles.
Hendrix is an awesome cook. We used to have a cook come in daily to prepare our meals for us. Now, the cook comes every day but game day, when Hendrix takes over. It’s become a tradition of sorts, with all the guys pitching in to create a game-day breakfast: eggs, omelets, whole-wheat pancakes, whole grain waffles, turkey bacon, fruit salad. It’s a pretty cool way to start the day, build the hype, create an energy, a team spirit that will last past kickoff.
I smile at Miers. “In that case, I’m up.”
“Thought so.” Miers grabs a T-shirt off the back of my desk chair and throws it at me. I tug it on over my head.
“I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
“Okay.” He closes my door.
&nbs
p; My knee twinges, little spikes of pain traveling up into my quad. I massage it gently and sit back on my bed. Long blond waves and clear blue eyes pop into my head. Soft pink lips and a full pout. A rare yet dazzling smile. Lila.
I wonder if she’s coming to the game today.
Before I can stop myself, I send her a quick text. Then I put the phone down and join the guys for breakfast.
* * *
When I enter the kitchen, the deliciousness of bacon, eggs, and waffles, the strong scent of coffee, the warmth of fresh bagels overwhelms me. Hendrix is at the stove, a dishtowel thrown over his left shoulder. He’s sliding back and forth, dancing to the oldies’ radio station he has blaring from portable speakers. He’s barefoot, donning Astor athletic shorts and a white wife beater that is already splattered with bits of oil and egg. He smiles at me when I enter.
“Yo. You turn into Sleeping Beauty or what?” He nods toward the clock.
“Yeah.” I laugh it off.
A dishtowel snaps against my ass and I turn quickly. Gogs stands behind me, twirling the dishtowel. “Morning, princess. Get your twelve hours of beauty rest.”
“Fuck off.”
Gogs laughs and breaks a bagel in half, tossing one half to me.
I catch it easily and dunk it into a jar of peanut butter.
“Hey. Out of my kitchen. Don’t eat too much. Breakfast will be ready in ten.” Hendrix calls, motioning us out of the kitchen. “Ooh, this is my jam!” He sings as “Baby I Need Your Loving” by the Four Tops comes on.
“He’s going to be an awesome grandfather,” Darrell Hayes says, throwing an arm around my neck. “You ready for today?”
“Yeah. You.”
“Hell yeah. We got this. We start the season off with a bang, set the energy, start the momentum. This is our season. Our senior fucking year. I’m not leaving that field a loser.”
I nod at him. He’s right. Hayes is our tight end and a tank. This is our senior year, our final season, our chance to take the team all the way to the Rose Bowl. We are so close, one last chance, and I don’t want to have any regrets about my last season as an Astor player.
“Breakfast,” Hendrix calls out.
The nine of us who live in the house swarm the kitchen. It will only be a matter of minutes before the rest of the guys show up. Everyone knows seniors get first dibs.
On everything.
* * *
The stadium is packed. Plum and gold assault my eyes at every turn. Girls wave Mardi Gras beads and guys paint their faces and bodies. The “Victory is Ours” song plays loudly, fans chanting and cheering. Marty the Mustang dances on the sidelines, throwing rolled up T-shirts and foam footballs into the crowd. The marching band plays the alma mater, the cheerleaders perform stunts and basket tosses on the sidelines, the stadium roars to life with the whistles, shrieks, and clapping hands of 70,000 plus people.
My heart quickens, my blood pulsing through my body. I duck back into the locker room, clasping at Jared’s dog tags underneath my shirt. I remove them, squeezing them in my hand, saying the silent prayer Dad taught Jared and me years ago when we first started playing football.
Dear Lord,
As we take the field
And play our best,
Please keep us strong,
Without need for rest.
Keep us focused,
Keep us humble,
Crisp passes, solid catches,
May we never fumble.
Protect our tackles,
Watch out for our brothers,
And if we are injured,
Comfort our mothers.
May the competition be fierce,
And the calls be fair,
Let the team be one,
And the victory shared.
- Amen
I hang my head and think of my brother, his finesse on the football field, his natural ability to lead, his voice echoing through the cheers of the crowd whenever he came to my games.
This season is for him.
“Huddle up!” Coach calls out, breaking the silence.
The team gathers around, in various states of dress. Coach goes over some plays quickly and tells us to suit up. Everyone gears up. The room is quiet. The team is lost in thought, reciting silent prayers, thinking private thoughts, remembering past seasons. For the seniors, the weight of the game, the last first Astor game we’ll ever play, settles around us.
“Wilkins!” Coach slaps a heavy hand on my shoulder. “You all set for today? I noticed you’ve been favoring that right knee. All straight?”
“Yes, sir.”
He smiles. “Then give ’em hell today.”
I nod.
The team huddles. Hendrix gives an emotional pep talk. The fans grow louder. I hear my heart pumping in my head, the blood thrumming in my ears. Moments later, we take the field. The fans go wild, the cheerleaders’ pom-poms shimmer, signs and banners flash.
It’s game day.
Victory is ours.
* * *
It’s the third quarter. The night lights have switched on. The breeze has picked up, cooling the rivulets of sweat that form behind my ears and drip down my neck. The score is 32-28 Arizona. The ref just called an Astor first-down. We have possession. Forty-yard line.
I take a deep breath. My knee aches, my shoulder smarts where I got slammed in the second quarter. I clear my head of all thoughts.
Stay hungry. Stay focused.
Gilly snaps the ball to Johnson. He takes a few steps back and I cut to the far left. Johnson throws a clean, crisp pass, and I catch the ball, tucking it protectively under my arm. I run toward the end zone, my legs on fire, pushing me, fueling me. Twenty-yard line. I’m flying.
When I cross into the end zone, I take a deep breath of relief and gratitude. Miers, Hayes, Hendrix, and the other guys swarm me, offering slaps on the shoulder, palming my helmet.
We’re back in the game.
We’re up.
We can do this.
Fish makes the extra point. 35-32 Astor.
Still, the game is too close for comfort, and when we break before the fourth quarter, the bench is silent. Everyone is lost in his own thoughts, eyes trained on the field, no distractions. Anxiety is palpable. We all know that we need this win to start the season off with the right momentum. We need this win to honor our guys who couldn’t play today.
We need this win.
When the fourth quarter starts, Coach pulls me aside.
“You sure everything is okay with your right leg, ten?”
“Yes, sir. It’s just been a little sore.”
“Okay. Well make sure you pop by to see the trainer.” He taps my helmet with the palm of his hand.
Within the first two minutes, Arizona scores a touchdown, putting them in the lead and raising the pressure considerably.
Victory is ours.
Stay hungry.
Stay focused.
At nine minutes, Johnson throws a beautiful pass directly to me. I catch the ball easily, cradling it against my chest and take off. As each step pounds into the field, twinges of pain radiate around my right knee. I grit my teeth, ignore the pain, eyes glued to the end zone. When I cross the line, I breathe in deep, gasping for air as the pain in my knee gradually subsides. I smile brightly for the guys on the team, accepting the back slaps and cheers.
Fish makes the extra point.
Our defensive line plays hard for the rest of the game. We manage to make a field goal with two minutes remaining.
Amazingly, we win the game. 45-39 Astor. Mustangs. Plum and gold.
The fans go wild. The cheering is ear splitting. Everyone in the crowd is on their feet, waving signs, singing songs, high-fiving and hugging each other. The band plays loudly to the energy of the crowd. My body pulses with adrenaline and the high of a win.
When we’re back in the locker room and the team is settling down, I walk over to my locker and grip Jared’s dog tags.
“Thank you.”
Chap
ter Ten
Lila
The mayhem that ensues after the Astor win is insane. Fans are cheering and chanting; the band is playing loudly; the mascot is doing backflips along the sidelines. I’ve never experienced team and school spirit of this caliber before, and I love being swept up in the moment.
Kristen is jumping up and down next to me, my arm clasped in her hands. Sam is smiling broadly and using his thumb and pointer finger, lets out a loud whistle. Fans sitting around us are high-fiving and hugging as if we all participated in securing this win together. If this is what a first-game win looks and feels like, I can’t imagine the pandemonium of Astor winning a game like the Rose Bowl.
As we descend the bleachers and make our way to the exit of the stadium, I tell Kristen and Sam that I’m planning to wait for Cade.
Kristen smiles at me, nodding. “Sounds good, I’ll meet up with you later.”
“We’re going to try and get some food.” Sam gestures to a group of his friends. “Kristen, want to come? Lila, message me later and we will all try and reconnect.”
“Okay,” I agree.
Kristen nods and joins Sam and his friends while I make my way against the sway of bodies to wait near the locker rooms.
The minutes tick by and I see one then two guys from the team leaving the locker room and walking to their cars. While I wait for Cade, I check Facebook. Emma posted photos of her first Friday night in D.C. There’s a group shot of a bunch of people posing in front of a bar, their eyes bright with liquor and the anticipation of being in a new city with new people. Emma is wearing a navy blue summer dress and holding up a peace sign. A tall guy stands next to her, his sandy hair curling in the heat, his arm thrown casually around her shoulders.
I swipe to the next photo and laugh, liking the picture immediately. It showcases Emma biting into the biggest slice of pizza I’ve ever seen. The Jumbo slice is really jumbo, reads the caption. After scrolling through my news feed, I check my email and am happy to see a new thread from Mia.