Game Day Box Set: A College Football Romance

by Lily Cahill

  I may not care about football, but I care how he feels. And though I’m nervous as hell to be showing up to a football event, if it’ll help Riley, I’m here.

  And then I literally am here. The brand new practice facility looms before me, all steels pillars and high-reflective windows. I bite down annoyance that so much money is dumped on sports when other professors have to practically beg for supplies and updated technology. It cost well over a million dollars to build, and I can’t help thinking about all the students who didn’t get scholarships, the art and science programs that weren’t supported, so that MSU could build this monstrosity.

  Not now, Lilah, I admonish myself. Gamma is right. Riley has done all the reaching so far in our relationship, all the compromising. I can’t keep asking him to deny this part of himself. It’s my turn to make a change.

  My newfound determination to embrace football is challenged almost immediately by a guard.

  “Miss?” He holds out an arm to stop me at the door. “I’m going to need to see your credentials.”

  Credentials? This isn’t the White House. I chew on my lip before I realize I probably still have my teaching badge somewhere in my bag. Here I am, trying to make a romantic gesture, stymied by security. “Um … one second,” I stall, fishing a hand through the slurry of pencils and lipstick tubes at the bottom of my bag. Finally, I tug out my badge and hand it over, trying not to look guilty.

  The guard scrutinizes it for a moment, his face hard as stone. “Miss, this isn’t sufficient.”

  I’m about to argue when someone jogs up behind me, calling my name.

  It’s Reggie, and he’s grinning ear to ear. “She’s with me. Aren’t you, Lilah?” says Reggie. He flashes a winning smile at the security guard. “Had to run out to my car to grab my lucky cleats.”

  The guard’s face transforms when he sees Reggie. He goes from pit bull to puppy in a heartbeat. I have to restrain myself from rolling my eyes.

  “Lilah here is from the art department,” Reggie says knowingly. “She’s here to study the human body in motion. Isn’t that right?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I say, glancing at Reggie. Why is he helping me?

  The guard opens the door for us, and Reggie ushers me through to a grand atrium. I stop dead in the middle of the entryway, stunned by the display of wealth around me. Marble floors, brass statues, deep leather seating, and half a dozen TVs showing historic MSU games. “This is where you guys practice?”

  “It’s not much, but it’s home,” Reggie quips. “There’s facilities here for all the major campus sports, which means close to a thousand students use this building to practice year round.”

  A thousand sounds like a lot, until you compare it to MSU’s entire student body. “Which means there are thirty thousand other students who never step foot in here,” I point out, failing to keep the acid out of my tone.

  “True,” Reggie says, leading me deeper into the facility. “But how much do those students raise in donations every year? How much attention do they get from the alumni?”

  “If they had the opportunity—”

  “Where do you think those opportunities come from?” Reggie says, opening a heavy door. “The answer is—right here.”

  The indoor field is bigger and brighter than I’d ever imagined, and right now it’s echoing with talk and laughter. There are people everywhere. Men wearing tailored suits chatting with men wearing sweats. Photographers and reporters are scattered around the field, keeping their eyes out for something interesting. And then there are the football players. There has to be at least a hundred of them, all wearing huge pads and blunt helmets and MSU jerseys.

  I have a weird moment of dislocation. There’s me, with my mohawk and tattoos, wearing a sheer blue dress with a cream bodysuit beneath, in a room with all these clean-cut sports fans. What am I doing here?

  Reggie points. “Riley’s over there.”

  I follow Reggie’s finger, and although he’s wearing a helmet and pads, I recognize Riley instantly. Something about his long legs, his strong forearms. He’s running a drill that involves running patterns around a large pad. “I don’t want to see your feet cross over,” a man yells. “Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle!”

  Riley runs out of the pattern as another player runs in, and I can see from his high knees and quick feet that he isn’t even close to tired yet. I know the exact moment he sees me. His chest lifts in surprise, and I feel a twin lift in me. Pleasure sparkles inside of me as my lips turn up into a smile. And I knew in that moment—that’s why I’m here. To feed the spark between me and Riley and see if it can grow.

  “Ha! I thought so,” says Reggie, cuffing me lightly on the shoulder as if I were one of the guys.

  “What?”

  “I knew you were here to see Riley. The two of you were eying each other through every class.”

  “We were not,” I reply weakly. “We’re just …,” I trail off, suddenly unable to speak. Riley has whispered to another player and is now jogging over. His uniform accentuates everything I love about his body—shoulders and thighs and arms all on display. “We were totally professional until ….”

  “Until ….” Reggie pushes back his dreadlocks and grins. “Hey, whatever you two get up to doesn’t matter to me. All I know is, he’s been in a way better mood lately and an absolute beast on the field.”

  Suddenly, I find myself liking Reggie more than ever before. “He has?”

  Reggie just grins again. “I’ll see you later,” he says cheerfully, taking off just as Riley jogs up.

  “Hey,” he says, surprise and pleasure clear in his voice. “I didn’t think I would see you.”

  In his uniform and helmet, he looks even bigger than usual. “I just wanted to see how everything is going. And, you know, support you.” I feel almost shy, showing up on his turf like this.

  His smile is clear, even behind his face mask. “Thank you,” he says sincerely. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  He reaches out and runs one hand down my arm. Just that simple touch is enough to make heat rush through me. It’s probably some sort of arousal poisoning that makes me ask, “Can I stay and watch for a while?”

  It doesn’t seem possible, but his grin gets even wider. “Sure. There’s a spot over there where you can sit.” He’s pointing to a few rows of bleachers on the sidelines where everyone is either wearing a uniform—football or cheerleading—or an MSU polo shirt. Whatever bravado I had left is fading fast, but one look at Riley’s eager face, and I know there’s no turning back.

  I nod, becoming conscious that there are people watching us and no doubt wondering who Lotto Brulotte is talking to. “You should probably get back to it,” I say.

  “Probably,” he says, tossing a glance over his shoulder. He looks like he wants to touch me again, instead jogs back a few steps, closer to the training field and the dozens of photographers and coaches watching us. He catches my eyes one last time before turning around. “Thank you for coming.”

  The power of that look makes my knees watery as I walk over to the bleachers. I find a place to perch at the edge—easier to make a quick getaway if this all gets to be too much—and try to look like I belong here. But peering around, it’s so obvious that I don’t.

  Off to my side, a bunch of men and women in blue-and-silver cheer uniforms are taking turns doing back flips. Nearby, there are older men—obviously donors—standing close by. I don’t miss the way a few of them elbow each other as one cheerleader tosses another up into the air and she kicks her legs out. She lands, only to be thrown up again, five other girls joining her in a series of stunts that make my head spin. I can handle myself on a bike and run in heels, but what they’re doing is close to miraculous.

  After a few minutes and polite clapping from the assembled donors, the cheerleaders disperse. A few of them come sit near me in the stands, and it’s only a matter of seconds before one girl slides over to me. She takes a long swig of a water bottle then points at my shoes. “Those shoes a
re killing me.”

  I tip up one of my black leather boots with diamond-shaped cut-outs. “Thanks.” It comes out more as a question than I mean it to.

  “My roommate, Lou, would probably try and buy them off your feet. Watch out.” She points to a young woman wearing a structural gray dress and some amazing heels standing with a bunch of guys in team apparel. One of the middle-aged guys looks suspiciously like Denzel Washington, and I can’t help but think of Gamma and smile.

  Next to me, the girl holds out a hand. Her brown skin is a shade lighter than mine, and her hair is relaxed—something I gave up years ago. “I’m Nara, and you’re new here, right?” She smiles. “Are you a reporter? My dad’s an editor, and I can spot that observer look anywhere.”

  Lord, am I really that obviously out of place? “I’m a painter, not a reporter,” I offer. I chew on the inside of my cheek for a moment before I add, “To be honest, I’m not really sure what I’m looking at.”

  “Oh!” Nara lights up and slides closer. “Well, then let me fill you in.” Her heart-shaped face and wide, mischievous eyes look like they belong on a fairy. I start sketching her as such in my mind.

  “So, you’ve got your offense and your defense,” she says, pointing to different groups on the field. “And then your special teams. They started out earlier running drills—sprints, tires, fast feet, the usual—and now they are working on specific skills. In a little bit they’ll scrimmage, which is what everyone is waiting to see.”

  “How can you keep them straight?” I say, looking out over the sea of players.

  “You get to know their numbers and positions.”

  I frown. It takes a minute to find Riley and read the number off his jersey—32. It seems like something I ought to know. To make up for it, I latch onto something I do think I’ve figured out. “And that’s Coach Prescott?” I ask, pointing to the Denzel look-alike.

  Nara nods and glances over at the tall head coach. He’s got dark skin and close-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair, and he seems to be watching the whole field simultaneously. “That’s our fearless leader and Lou’s doting father.”

  Ah. Now that I’m looking for it, I can see the resemblance between the two. I’m about to ask more—it’s nice having my own, in-person Google—when another girl stomps up the bleachers and collapses next to Nara.

  “God, football players can be such pains in the ass,” the girl says. She’s wearing khaki pants and a polo shirt embroidered with the rearing blue mustang. “I had to stitch up Mayhew, and he acted like he was doing me a favor.”

  “Are all the rumors true?” Nara asks, craning her neck until she apparently spots him. “He’s really as arrogant as they say?”

  The girl groans. “Worse.” Then she notices me, and her face goes blank. “I mean, he’s crazy fast and a huge asset to the team.”

  Nara laughs and glances at me. “She’s not a reporter.”

  The girl slumps over. “Oh, thank God.” She reaches across Nara to extend a hand. “Megan Noble,” she says, introducing herself.

  “Lilah Stone,” I say, shaking her hand. “Are you on the medical staff?”

  “God, I wish,” she snorts, pushing her reddish ponytail back over her shoulder. “I’m in the physical therapy program, and working with the team is part of our grade. I’m years away from actually working here.”

  “Gotcha.” I’m starting to enjoy myself. It occurs to me that I haven’t had nearly enough girl-time since Natalie died. “And who is this arrogant guy?”

  “Sir Benjamin Mayhew-Fancypants,” Megan says in a syrupy British accent. “He’s a new recruit this year. I guess he played rugby or whatever and comes from royalty or something. No idea how he ended up here in Colorado. Either way, he’s a dick.”

  “Which is a real burden for every available girl, because he’s hot and British and seriously, did I mention hot?” Nara adds, deadpan.

  Megan smirks, then focuses on something on the field. “Does Reggie Davis look like he’s limping to you?”

  I find Reggie on the field, and it does kind of look like he’s favoring one foot. “Maybe?”

  Megan sighs. “I should go mention it to Garrett. Nice meeting you, Lilah,” she says, before taking off again.

  Coach Prescott blows his whistle three times, which seems to be the signal for the players to do a fast lap around the field. When Riley passes, he waves at me, and I feel the thrill of it like electricity in my body. I wave back, knowing that heat is flooding my face and I’m wearing a silly grin.

  “Riley Brulotte,” Nara says. “Nice.”

  “Yeah,” I say dreamily. “It is.”

  Throughout the scrimmage, when Nara’s not cheering, she makes sure to sit with me and explain what’s going on. I’ve never seen the game this close up, and the roughness of it is kind of shocking. And sure, I’m biased and I don’t know anything about football, but it seems to me that Riley keeps coming out on top. He’s so fast, so strong, so ferocious on the field.

  To be honest, it’s turning me on.

  The game starts winding down when I get a text from Gamma: I’m going over to Mrs. Levy’s house for bridge and gossip. Don’t wait up.

  An idea bursts into my head. “Is there anywhere around here I can get a jersey?”

  Nara frowns for a second. “Sure,” she says. “Plenty of places.”

  “Good,” I say, shooting a quick text to Riley to come to my place when practice is over. “I think it’s time I bought one.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Riley

  BY THE TIME THE SCRIMMAGE is over, I’m so tired I can barely pull my jersey over my head. It’s always supposed to be a laid-back showcase to entertain the donors and get them to pull out the checkbooks, but Coach Prescott seems to have misunderstood the definition of “laid back.”

  “Christ, he worked us hard today,” I grumble, wiping a towel over my face.

  “I need it,” says Weston miserably as he collapses onto the bench beside me. He’s stripped to the waist with an ice pack strapped to his arm. “I wish I could just quit, but there’s no one else.”

  “You’ll get there,” I say, but privately I have my doubts. West put in a performance riddled with mistakes and second-guesses. He does okay in practice, but it’s a different story when anyone is watching. It’s frustrating, being able to see all this potential on our team and still not being able to deliver when it matters. This scrimmage was his chance to show the press and alumni that he has what it takes. That he’s not going to choke like he did at the disaster that was the National Championship last year. And he’s blown it.

  Last year during the Blue and Silver game, Jeremy Hudson was throwing long bombs so beautiful they would have made Elway weep. He was one of the best quarterbacks in college ball, and would have been a shoe-in for the NFL if he hadn’t been a rapist.

  Well, let’s be honest … if he hadn’t been caught red-handed.

  “Coach believes in you,” I say, giving West an encouraging slap on the back. “We all do.”

  West just shakes his head while I head for the showers. I wish I could be more comforting, but I’ve got my own problems.

  The first conference game is tomorrow. There are only eleven more regular-season games this year, followed by the playoffs … if we we’re lucky. If we we’re good. Eleven games that will determine the rest of my life.

  The tradition of the Blue and Silver game has always been fun for me, a chance to show off what we can do without the pressure of a real game. But this year, I’d been nervous all day. The air felt like it was swirling with speculation and rumors. If we don’t win tomorrow, the rest of the games this season won’t matter. We won’t get to the playoffs with two losses on our record, hell, we might not even get a good Bowl game at this rate. Even worse, it’ll give credence to the loudest rumor of all—that the Mustangs are nothing without MoFo.

  Seeing Lilah at practice has been the bright spot in an otherwise-stressful day. I can’t believe she came. She’s been very clea
r about her disdain for football. The last week or so, she’s been making noises about what a shame it is that football takes up so much of my time, time that I could be using to explore my artistic talent. She doesn’t get that carving is something I do to relax. Honestly, I still can’t believe that something like what I carved for my final project came out of me. It seems easier right now to pretend it didn’t.

  It’s stressful enough to think about my future without trying to figure how Lilah fits into it. Lilah won’t be happy in my small hometown, where the only place to buy clothes is Walmart. If I make the NFL, I can’t choose where I go, and I can’t see her leaving her grandmother to follow me to an uncertain future.

  But maybe, her coming to practice today was a sign that she’s willing to budge a little. When I first caught sight of her, she looked so lost, so out-of-place, and so damned beautiful. But then, after just a few minutes, she was laughing with one of the cheerleaders. It gives me hope that, even if she isn’t thrilled about it, she can come to terms with this side of me.

  I’m glad she’s invited me over. I could use a relaxing evening with her and her Gamma. It reminds me of quiet nights at home with my own family. And maybe I’ll have the chance to get Lilah alone, steal a few kisses. It’s enough just to spend time with her, talk to her, bump her knee under the table where her grandmother can’t see.

  I don’t know where my future is going. But I do know I want to find a way to keep her in my life.

  My phone rings just as I pull into her driveway. I groan when I see that it’s my dad calling. He’s been driving me crazy, calling and emailing at least twice a day. He’s more nervous about the season than I am. I’m not in the mood to talk to him, but he will just keep calling if I don’t answer.