Game Day Box Set: A College Football Romance

by Lily Cahill

  I’m blushing under all this praise. I figured he thought I was nothing but a goof-off, just like everyone else.

  “West knows his stuff,” I manage. “He just needs to learn how to deal with pressure.”

  “It sounds like you’re helping him with that. Maybe it’s because you’re his peer, instead of an authority figure. But I think you’ve got a real talent for this type of work.”

  Now I’m gaping at Coach. No one, ever in my life, has said I have a talent for anything other than football. Unless you count Megan … but I don’t want to think about Megan right now. I don’t even know how to take this kind of praise. Finally I stammer out, “Thank you, sir.”

  Coach gives me a long look. “I sold you short once, Reggie, and I don’t intend to do so again.”

  I nod my head again, not sure where this is going. He’s already told me that he plans on starting me for the game tomorrow. Maybe he is trying to build me up so that when he tells me he’s changed his mind and is starting my back-up again, I won’t put up a fight. I’m formulating an argument in my mind. My ankle is healthy. I’m ready to play. I can show him right here.

  “I think we both know you’re not likely to get drafted into the NFL.”

  My pride deflates. Here it comes. The Mustangs played last week without me, and now he’s giving my spot to an underclassman.

  Coach Prescott stares straight at me. “I’d like for you to stay on with the program next year as an assistant coach. I understand if you have other plans, but I want you to know that I think you’d be a great asset to us, and we’d be lucky to have you on our sidelines.”

  My mouth drops open. Literally drops open. It might be the first time in my life that I’ve been speechless. I can’t believe this is happening. Is this some sort of weird dream? I rub my ear, thinking I might have heard wrong. His words are eerily similar to what Megan said to me the other night: Any team would be lucky to have you. How could she have known?

  “You don’t have to give me an answer right now, son. We usually don’t start filling these positions until after the season is over, but I know you must be thinking about what comes next, and I sincerely hope you consider a position here with the Mustangs.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The shock is starting to subside and my insides are bubbling up. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. Think about it and let me know when you decide.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Reggie.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Make sure you graduate. I can’t hire you if you don’t graduate.”

  “Yes, sir.” Are there no other words in my vocabulary?

  I stand and stare at him for a moment, still trying to process what just happened. Prescott looks up from his desk. “Is there anything else, Reggie?”

  “No. Just … thank you. Thank you.”

  I step outside the practice facility and under the overcast sky that’s been casting a gray gloom over campus for the past three days. But as I jog down the steps, the clouds open up and a beam of sunlight shines down on me. I want to run around campus and yell that I’m going to be a coach next year. Sure, I’ll have to go to my classes for the rest of the year, and I might have to do some make-up work or whatever, but I’m not going back to Texas. I’m not going to spend next year doing oil changes and brake rotations and wanting to be anywhere else but there. I didn’t realize until now how much I was dreading it. I’m smiling, nearly laughing to myself, because I’m so excited.

  I pull my phone out. Megan is going to freak out when she hears this, and also tell me she told me so. Which is fine by me. I’ve always known that she’s smarter than me.

  And then I remember—I can’t call her. I closed the door on the friends-with-benefits arrangement she wanted, and I’m not going to open it again.

  But knowing that she doesn’t want me doesn’t stop me from wanting her. Even now, I can’t stop thinking about how excited she would be to hear this news. How she would jump and squeal and throw her arms around my neck for a celebratory kiss.

  My smile lags and I pull up Riley’s number and then my mom’s, but I don’t text either one of them. Coach said I have to graduate to get the job, and there’s no guarantee that will happen. If Megan were still in my life, she would help me pass my classes … but she’s not, so I’m going to have to do it on my own.

  I can’t help but wonder—if this had happened before that dinner at Salt, would we still be together? Part of me wants to tell her this news and see if it will change her mind. But do I want to be with someone who bases her feelings for me on the job I do? Maybe she was right when she said we’re too different. Megan goes after the things she wants with a single-minded intensity. I waited until this opportunity was handed to me.

  But now that it’s here, there’s no way I’m going to let it go.

  I put my phone back in my pocket and start jogging across campus. When I get to the stadium, I stand in the middle of the empty field with my arms open. The sun is beating down now, the world so bright I almost can’t see it. I take it all in, all the promise that the future suddenly holds, and one phrase keeps repeating in my mind ….

  I’m home.

  Chapter Twenty

  Reggie

  MY PHONE BUZZES IN MY pocket … again. I don’t even bother to look at it. I know that it’s Megan. She’s texted me a dozen times over the last day, and every time it’s like a blow. I can’t give her what she wants, and I wish she would stop asking.

  And I can’t think about her right now. It’s game day, and I can’t afford distractions.

  I know she’ll be at the game, but I’m hoping to avoid her. I’m trying to go cold turkey. That’s how it feels—like breaking an addiction. When we were together, I felt like we were really together. Every second I wasn’t in practice or she wasn’t in class, we were with each other. Physical therapy, studying, hanging out, and ravishing each other. I miss her literally every second of the day, and right now it’s just too painful to think about.

  Ben doesn’t even bother waiting for me to walk to practice or games anymore. I guess I pushed him too far. I check that my lucky shoes are still in my bag, then sling it over my shoulder and head out to the stadium.

  The locker room is full of noise as the guys bustle around. I’m usually in the center of the rough-housing and fooling around, but today all I want to do is get out on the field and hit the Arizona Wildcats.

  I open my locker, ready to put on my uniform. I’ve never been prouder to be a Mustang. Football is the only thing I’ve ever been good at. It’s the only place that I’ve had any value. And now I get to keep being a Mustang, keep football in my life. Emotion swells in my chest as I reach for my uniform.

  With my gear out of my locker, I see my cleats sitting on the bottom shelf. Only, they’re not my cleats. They’re cleaner and the laces are pink.

  I grab them and look closer. They’re exactly like my cleats. The two blue stripes up the side with the one silver stripe slashing through. The spikes on the bottom are blue, just like mine. But these shoes haven’t been sold for years. They were discontinued the year I got mine. My mom saved up to get my cleats in Mustang colors and I’ve never gone a game without them.

  The laces—those are different. They’re red with pink and white hearts all over them. My heart starts beating faster. I untie them and start to slide my foot in. They fit perfectly. Even better than my old ones, which are so beat up they’re nearly falling off my feet. Excitedly, I start to put the second shoe on when my foot crinkles something folded in the toe. It’s a note, tied with a vintage Mighty Mouse lace, exactly like the tattered pair in my old shoes.

  I’m sorry. Can we be more than friends?

  For a moment, the sounds of the locker room recede as I stare at the words on the page. I’ve spent days now trying to convince myself that if Megan doesn’t want me, I don’t want her either. Is this because she found out, somehow, that Prescott offered me a job? And
if so … do I care?

  I slide my phone out of my pocket and look at all the texts I’ve been carefully ignoring. The most recent just says “Have a great game!”

  There’s one from yesterday asking how my ankle is feeling. There’s even a video of her expertly catching a piece of popcorn in her mouth. The sight of her nearly undoes me. And then there’s one from two nights ago that just says “I miss you so much more than I thought possible.”

  My chest hurts. I seem to have forgotten to breathe. There’s only one thought I can hold in my mind: She wants to be with me. Really be with me. I can feel all the tension I’ve been carrying around slide out of me. I lean down, tie the new shoe on my foot, then stand up to see how they feel.

  Perfect. I wasn’t planning to get new shoes, wasn’t expecting them to appear … but now that I’ve tried them, I know I’ve found the perfect fit.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Megan

  I CAN’T SEEM TO FIGURE out what to do with my hands. They’re in my pockets, and then I’m twisting a ring around my finger, and then they’re in my hair, tightening my too-tight ponytail. I’ve never been so nervous before a game. And all those overactive nerves are sending signals to my brain to puke my guts out.

  Going up against the Wildcats, our longtime rivals, is the least of my concerns. When it became clear Reggie wasn’t going to answer any of my text messages, I placed his new shoes in his locker with a note. Now, all I can do is wait and see if he’ll accept my apology. Not that I deserve it after the way I treated him—I was just one more person in his life acting like he’s doomed to failure. The thought sends my nausea to new levels, and I’m certain I’m going to vomit before the game starts.

  The marching band is playing our fight song as they step-by-step form a giant, human MSU on the field. Once they’re in position, the players will come running out, but the band is marching so slowly. I want to scream for them to hurry up. In just a few minutes, I’ll see Reggie … for better or for worse.

  Finally, the marching band is in position, and a booming voice comes through the speakers, rumbling “And now … your Mountain State Mustangs!”

  The players come barreling onto the field, and the crowd goes wild. I’m squinting and trying to find Reggie, trying to see if he took the shoes or not. With all the people on the field, I can’t see anything.

  Finally, I spot him. My heart leaps in my chest and my hands start twisting together in double-time. He’s dressed the same as the rest of his teammates, but I would recognize those dreadlocks anywhere. He’s still too far away for me to see his face, let alone his feet. But there’s something about the way he’s running that makes a wild hope rise inside me.

  The team jogs to the sidelines, a riot of big men and coaches and staff. He’s on the same side of the field as me, but he’s so damn far away, a knot of players between me and him. Is he wearing the shoes? I spent days searching for that exact pair. I have to stop myself from lying on my stomach to get a better view, to search for the telltale shoelaces I chose. Even if he doesn’t forgive me, he really needed new shoes. When I finally get a glimpse at his feet, my stomach flips over.

  At first I can’t be sure—the cleats are exactly the same as his old ones, after all. Then he shifts slightly, and I can see that the spot where his toe was poking through the leather is now shiny and new. And … he hasn’t changed the laces. There’s a hint of pink on one foot that I know is covered with hearts. My own heart all but soars out of my body at the sight.

  My fingers curl against my palm, and I shove them back into my uniform khaki pockets. The shoes don’t mean anything, necessarily. And even if they do, I’ve still got to apologize, make it up to him. I can’t stop my gaze from flicking through the players, trying to make eye contact with Reggie … willing him to feel me staring.

  But all too soon, before I’ve so much as walked a foot closer, Coach Prescott has the guys huddled up. He has his hands on his hips and wears a face so serious, I’m warded away. Reggie glances my way, and my heart crashes to a stop. It just freezes in my chest, and if I’m dying, I don’t care. His lips curl up into a half smile, and a matching smile stretches across my face. I want to run to him and jump into his arms. Instead, I just stand here, smiling like a goofy idiot.

  The Wildcats have won the coin toss, so our contact stops at that smile. With a last look, Reggie jogs onto the field with his teammates. It makes happiness bubble up through me to see the way he moves, the strength in both his legs and feet. He seems completely healed.

  On the field, he transforms. I swear, nobody loves football as much as Reggie. I don’t think there’s anyone who loves anything as much as Reggie loves football. He’s looking left and right, reading Arizona’s defense and modifying the play.

  “Mike 32,” he yells, pointing out a defender who’s going to try and blitz our quarterback. “Hut, hut, hike,” his voice booms across the field, and I feel a chill go through me. He blocks the defender in front of him, throwing the guy off him like a rag doll. Then he barrels into number thirty-two. The Wildcat is a big, ugly guy who’s snarling through his helmet, apparently literally salivating at the idea of sacking West, but Reggie takes him down like it’s child’s play.

  “Looks like your man is fully recovered,” Garrett says to me.

  I jump at the noise. I didn’t realize he was standing right next to me, and it takes a second to process what he said. Your man. Does he know what has been going on between us? Is that why he’s been so hard on me? Did he think Reggie and I have just been fooling around instead of training?

  I blush harder at the thought, my cheeks burning. It’s not like there’s a single person in the med group who doesn’t know I cried in the office. I take a deep breath and straighten up. So I cried. Maybe it wasn’t the most professional thing, but Reggie is on the field and he’s not favoring his good leg even a little bit.

  “Looks like it,” I say, trying for an even tone.

  “It’s good work, Megan.”

  My head snaps to Garrett. He has never given me a compliment before, and I’m stunned.

  “You’ll be a good PT.”

  For a moment, I’m struck speechless. Garrett Patacky just said I would make a good physical therapist. Out loud. Without caveats.

  “Thank you,” I finally manage.

  Apparently we’re getting too mushy, because he nods at me and walks away.

  I’ve forgotten to watch the rest of the play, and when I look up, Riley Brulotte has the ball and is stepping out of bounds just before a defender has a chance to clobber him. It’s a smart move, it protects the ball and himself. Or at least, it should. He steps over the white line painted on the field but the defender hits him hard anyway, acting like he can’t stop his forward momentum. It sends Riley to his ass, since he wasn’t bracing for the hit, and the entire stadium starts booing at once.

  A cluster of Mustangs rally around Riley and are yelling at the brutish Wildcat, wearing number sixty-eight. It’s a late hit. Clear as day. But that doesn’t stop a bunch of Wildcats from coming to defend their teammate. One of them pushes Reggie. Reggie doesn’t push back with his hands, but he uses his mass, stepping closer and bumping the Wildcat with his chest, propelling him backward. This rivalry game is always heated, but we’re barely a minute into the game, and already Arizona is playing dirty. My stomach flops over, and the nerves I thought were gone come back with a vengeance.

  They’re all yelling and pushing, and it looks like it might end up in a brawl right on the field. Finally, a referee steps between the blue-and-silver jerseys and the cardianl-and-navy jerseys and splits apart the fight.

  The ref calls the late hit, but it takes him so long that I think for a second that he might actually not call it. Then we’re down the field another fifteen yards, getting closer to the end zone by the second. Heading back to the line, number sixty-eight spits at Reggie.

  He keeps his cool, but I can tell, even from here, that he is burning to hit that guy as hard as he possibly
can.

  I’m twisting the back-up hair band around my wrist so hard it’s leaving red marks. I’ve been a Mustang fan for as long as I can remember, and I haven’t missed a football game since the first day I stepped foot on MSU’s campus. But this feels so different; it’s unlike any other game I’ve watched. Caring about Reggie, I’m more interested in his well-being than what happens to the stupid ball. I don’t like the way that Wildcat is looking at him.

  Reggie snaps the ball. He’s rearing up to block a defender when number sixty-eight abandons his position to come for Reggie. It leaves Ben Mayhew, our fastest wide receiver, completely open. West makes an easy play to Ben, and he’s off like a shot.

  Reggie stands up to the hit, but that damn Wildcat is determined to take him down. He grabs onto his face mask. Reggie’s head whips downward, and he’s slammed to the turf. I crane my neck to watch him, my heart hammering in my chest. He’s not moving. Shit, Reggie’s not moving. There’s no whistle blown, and I’m in a frenzy. Reggie is on the ground and no one is doing anything!

  “Face mask!” I start yelling from the sidelines. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m out on the part of the field that only coaches are supposed to be in.

  “Face mask!” I scream again, and then I’m out farther than the coaches are supposed to be. Is that referee blind or does he just not care? Arizona is playing dirty, and now Reggie could be hurt. Hurt a lot worse than an ankle sprain. All of the potential neck injuries are racing through my mind, and I’m almost in tears with fear. He could be paralyzed.

  “FACE MASK!” I bellow. The ref finally blows the whistle and I feel a tiny, minuscule, bit better, until he points at me.

  “You better settle down, young lady. I’m giving you a sideline warning.”

  I feel a hand on my arm—a coach, Garrett, Chloe, I don’t know who is trying to save me from myself—but I don’t care. I whip my arm away. Reggie is stirring on the field behind the ref, but he’s still on the ground. I’m so fired up now, I can’t stop.