Game Day Box Set: A College Football Romance

by Lily Cahill

  I paste on a smile and throw him a coy glance, playing it off even though that choking feeling is back in my throat.

  “A lady never tells,” I say.

  “A lady? That’s a stretch.”

  My face immediately hardens. “Fuck off.”

  He snickers and turns around.

  Mrs. Tannin begins to introduce the guest judges, but I can’t absorb anything she’s saying. As Lou Prescott never cries, it’s a lucky thing I’m sitting alone in the back row.

  “All right. Let’s begin,” Mrs. Tannin calls from the front. “Ms. Prescott, I believe you requested the honor of going first this morning.”

  Dammit. I totally forgot about that. Going first was part of my strategy. I want everyone else to have to live up to my standard, not the other way around.

  “Right,” I say. “Okay.” I shove my feet back into my heels and turn away to swipe my face clean. Mascara stains my hand when I pull it away. I rub at my eyes frantically, but there’s no way to know if I’ve gotten it all off or just made it worse.

  “Today, please, Mrs. Prescott,” Mrs. Tannin calls from the front.

  “Coming.”

  I take a deep breath and make my way to the stage. The eyes of the judges settle on me, but there’s no interest in them. I can tell they’ve already disregarded me as a competitor. I’ll prove them wrong. I have to prove them wrong.

  I begin. “We—ah—we, um.” My mind has gone absolutely blank. I can’t remember anything about my pitch.

  Someone in the audience lets out a nervous giggle.

  But I’m frozen. This has never happened to me before. Never. Public speaking is usually one of my strengths. It’s always been so easy. But this morning I’m way off my game. My mind feels fuzzy and my mouth is dry and my head is whirling. On top of the hangover, there are a million emotions racing through me and none of them are good.

  Mrs. Tannin speaks from her place by the judges, nudging me to continue. “Miss Prescott?”

  I try to focus, try to remember. The class. The business. The pitch.

  Fearless, I tell my self.

  Be fearless.

  Fearless.

  Then it’s there. The words pop into my head the way they’re supposed to.

  “We all know how difficult it can be to get dressed in the morning,” I say, the irony of my words only hitting me as people chuckle. “Especially for women. There are a million decisions to make from clothing to shoes to accessories.”

  My words tumble out too fast, but at least they’re the right ones this time.

  “It takes time and effort to create a polished look. And for many, it feels like time wasted. Not to mention the stress. Moguls from Steve Jobs to Matilda Kahl—the art director at Harper’s Bazaar—have winnowed their wardrobe down to a single outfit they wear every single day, just to avoid the decision fatigue that comes from this often overwhelming morning ritual.”

  “But what if you didn’t have to worry about it ever again? What if there was someone else who could do the work for you?”

  This is where I’m supposed to have a visual aide. There’s a PowerPoint presentation ready to go in my laptop. It’s full of stylish fashion slides and charts with financial projections and even a logo for the business that I begged an art major to create for me. But my laptop is sitting in my room. I have to improvise without it.

  “Enter CapsuleMe—the online retailer to create and buy a capsule wardrobe.”

  “Some of you might be wondering what a capsule wardrobe is. It’s a small collection of clothing that can be mixed and matched to create a large variety of outfits. The wardrobe is changed seasonally to keep it fresh while keeping your closet small. It’s a huge trend right now—one that simplifies life and makes getting ready in the morning easy.”

  “The downside? It takes a lot of time and fashion sense to curate a collection of special pieces that fit together just right—not to mention to shop for them. That’s where CapsuleMe comes in. CapsuleMe will hand-select items to create pre-defined capsule sets which can be purchased either as a collection or piece by piece. In addition, every collection comes with a wardrobe schedule that tells you what to wear and when.”

  “Fashion is already a high-margin business. But because inventory is limited to a handful of garments, the margins here are even higher. In addition, CapsuleMe doesn’t just sell a blouse or a skirt to every customer, but captures their entire annual fashion budget, so the per customer yield is significantly higher.”

  I run through the general concepts and selling points and the recurring revenue from selling seasonally. But I don’t have any numbers to back it up. I was relying completely on my slides for that. Luckily, I can remember the startup capital required, since that’s what I’m pitching for. But without my spreadsheets I have to estimate and evade direct answers about projected sales figures and growth rates.

  I try to keep my face positive even though I’m kicking myself over and over and over in my mind. How stupid do I have to be to be hungover right now?

  I move on to describing the website in order to get away from talking about numbers, but I can tell by their waning attention that it’s a bad move. Without the PowerPoint there’s no visual to keep them engaged. It’s time to wrap it up before I lose them completely.

  “Imagine waking up and choosing an outfit in thirty seconds instead of twenty minutes. Imagine a closet that’s organized and peaceful instead of crammed with a hundred garments you never really wear. Imagine the envy of your friends when you look effortlessly chic every day. That’s the power of CapsuleMe. Thank you.”

  The audience claps lethargically as I take my seat and watch Professor Tannin gather my scores and post them on the board: a six, a six, and a seven. I passed, but barely. And there’s not a chance I’ll make the top three. I’ve just kissed a top-tier internship goodbye.

  Chapter Ten

  West

  PRACTICE THIS WEEK IS BRUTAL. Prescott is on me and the QB coaches are on me and I can feel the hopes of every single person on the team riding on me too. The Pac-12 Championship is no joke, and the Oregon Ducks are a strong team. If we win, it gives us a chance to advance to the College Football Playoffs and vie for the national championship. But if we lose, that’s basically the end of our season. Sure, as the Pac-12 South Division champs there’s a third-tier bowl game lined up for us regardless, but it’s no championship game.

  But I can’t seem to keep my mind on any of that right now. What I’m really thinking about is Lou, and how the other night with her went so wrong. It’s my own fault. If I’d been able to control myself, she wouldn’t have gotten the wrong impression in the first place. But her body felt so right against mine, and her lips felt so fucking soft. Stopping her kiss was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

  And I can’t stop worrying about her either. There’s a fine line between having fun and going off the rails. I know it well, and I don’t want her anywhere near it. But I can tell she doesn’t see it yet. When it was me, I almost didn’t see it either. Talking to her about it was a mistake. Too much too soon.

  “In the box! In the box! In the box!” Coach yells.

  I’m running ladder drills and my feet are all over the place. They’re supposed to be hitting inside the tiny-ass ladder squares laid out on the ground, but I can feel the rungs on my feet with every step.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you, boy?” Coach yells. His face is red and his eyes have that wild look in them that lets you know he’s about to blow.

  “Sorry, Coach,” I say.

  “I don’t have time for sorry. Sorry is for losers.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say instead.

  “Agility is what separates the good QBs from the great. That amazing arm of yours is for shit if you can’t land a place to throw.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do it again.”

  I jog back to the start, try to clear my mind, and start again.

  “Shelf!” Prescott yells. “Watch
your fucking shelf!”

  My feet have caught the rhythm of the drill, but my arms have gotten lazy. I’m holding the ball too low and I adjust to raise it higher.

  “Faster! Faster! Faster!”

  I do as he says, pushing myself to my limit.

  “Better,” he says. “Again.”

  I feel a wash of relief. I can do this. I say it over and over again like a mantra.

  We run it until it’s perfect. Then we run it again. By the time practice is over, I’m rung out.

  “Your problem isn’t your skill, boy,” Coach says. “You’ve got what it takes on the physical level. You prove that to me every practice.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “Your problem is up here.” He smacks the top of my helmet, then palms it, bringing our faces close together. “What’s going on up here? What’s holding you back?”

  I want to tell him. I really do. Not just about Lou, but about everything. The pressure and the fear that seems to cripple me every game. But it’s not what he wants to hear. Football isn’t a touchy-feely business, and I have no intention of whining to Coach about my stupid problems. Besides, all of this started long before I’d even met Lou—at the national championship game last year where I was used to warming the bench and went into the game totally unprepared. That’s when I started to choke. So I don’t even really know the answer to his question. If I did, I could figure out a way to solve it.

  “I can handle it, sir,” I say.

  He draws back, and I sense his disappointment. It was the wrong answer, and I don’t know the right one.

  He turns away. “Well, you’re not handling it,” he says. “You’re cracking up out there. So what the hell is the matter?”

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “Is your schoolwork too loaded? Is something going on back at home?”

  I shake my head.

  “What about a girl?” he says. “You having girl trouble?”

  It’s the perfect opening. If there was ever a chance to tell him I want to date his daughter, this is it.

  “Some,” I say, testing the waters.

  “Okay. Now that’s something we can figure out. Come on.” He leads me over to a bench and we sit.

  My heart’s pounding so hard I’m worried Coach can hear it.

  “Alright. What is it? What’s going on with you and your girl?”

  “I don’t—it’s not. I don’t have a girl, sir.”

  “Are you telling me the quarterback of the MSU Mustangs can’t land a date?” he asks. “Because I find that hard to believe.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Then what?”

  “There’s a girl. And she wants to be with me.”

  “But you don’t want to be with her?”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to. I do. It’s that …” my voice trails off. This is the moment. I can come clean. I can tell him about Lou right now. He’ll be pissed, but what’s the worst that could happen?

  He could give my spot to the second string guy, Carter, that’s what. That guy’s been campaigning to steal my place all year.

  Still, hiding my feelings about his daughter is a total chickenshit move. The very idea of it has been grating at me for weeks. I hate it. And if I were him, I’d never respect someone who couldn’t be straight with me. Besides, Coach is a reasonable guy. I can make him understand that I’d treat Lou with all the respect she deserves.

  I’m about to do it. But then I think about her, and what she might want. She was so angry when she left. I don’t even know if she wants to be with me anymore. Like she said, she doesn’t need a babysitter. And she doesn’t need me making this choice on her behalf. It should be up to her to decide. It simply wouldn’t be right to tell him without talking to her about it first.

  “It’s football, sir,” I say. “Being with her would be a distraction.”

  Coach chuckles. “It kinda seems like she’s a distraction already, son. The best ones always are.”

  His words land. He’s right. My mind is clinging to Lou so hard that I can barely think about anything else.

  “Look, kid,” Coach says. “We’ve gotten by so far this season.”

  He waits for me to agree and I nod my head and look down. I know what he means. We’ve had so many close games, and our by-the-skin-of-our-teeth wins are the only reason we’re headed to the championships next week.

  “It’s not going to get any easier. The Ducks are a hard team to beat. Every game from here on out is going to be the hardest game we’ve ever played. We’ve gotten by, but now is the time we need West Sawyer to be the player we see in practice.”

  I feel the pressure closing in and my chest tightens.

  “Yes, sir,” I say because I have no other words. If I knew how to keep calm on the field and not let the pressure get to me, I would have done it already.

  “You’re the hardest working player I’ve got on this team. No one thinks you’re choking because you’re not putting in the hours. I see you giving your all on this field every day. And I know you’ve been putting in extra time too. It hasn’t gone unnoticed. Maybe the problem isn’t that you’re not working hard enough. Maybe it’s that you’re not giving yourself any time to recover. Muscles don’t grow while you’re lifting weights. They grow after, when you’re resting.”

  I nod.

  “So maybe you could use a little rest.”

  “I can play, Coach. I don’t need—”

  “Calm down, son. I’m not pulling you off the lineup. I’m just saying that in between practices it might be good for you to have some fun now and then. And this girl seems like she’s got her hooks in you pretty deep.”

  I look up at him. I want to tell him. I want to tell him right now. But is there anything to tell? “She does, sir. I—I really care about her. A lot.”

  “Geez. I don’t need all the lovey-dovey details, kid,” he says, standing. “Stop talking about it and go get her.”

  But his words don’t change my situation one bit. Because I’m pretty sure his advice would be very different if he knew the girl in question was Lou.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lou

  EVERYONE IS SCREAMING AROUND ME. We’re in Santa Clara, California, standing in a crowd just outside Levi’s Stadium. It’s the Pac-12 Championships, and ESPN’s College GameDay picked us for its weekly feature. The energy here is so crazy, and I’m totally swept into it. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face if I tried.

  It’s a total spectacle. Everyone’s holding up handmade signs as the cameras swing over us. The crowd is divided down a makeshift aisle like a wedding: the blue and silver of MSU on one side, and the green and yellow of the Oregon Ducks on the other, all of us standing behind as the backdrop to the ESPN stage.

  Brooke is on one side of me and Caroline is on the other. I really wish Nara was here too, but she’s a little preoccupied doing the cheerleader thing at the moment—up in front of the crowd and killing it as usual. We’re too far back to talk to her, but I see her tiny form pop up and fly through the air every couple of minutes.

  Tons of Kappas flew out to represent MSU. In fact, half of this pen is filled with students from the Greek system. There’s SigEp guys and Delta girls. TKE and of course Theta Xi, the sports frat. All of us are crowded together in a cheering mass. Most of us have been standing here since early this morning in order to get a spot, and stayed up late last night making signs big and bold enough to get noticed.

  I would have been here anyway to support my dad. Well, maybe not here, here—in this pit of shouty fandom. That’s 100% sorority inspired. But I’d be at the game for sure. My dad and I may not be getting along right now, but the Pac-12 Championship is a big deal. It’s his first major game coaching in Division 1. There’s no way I’d miss it.

  And who am I kidding? I want to see West again. I might be able to pretend with other people that I couldn’t care less that he’s rejected me. Twice. But inside? I know it’s not true. I do care. I care a lot. Way
more than I should. It’s been driving me crazy all week, like an itch I can’t scratch. I’ve been fantasizing about making him eat his words, about making him beg for me to give him another chance. And my outfit today might have a little something to do with that.

  It turns out the craft room at the Kappa house wasn’t a totally useless place after all. I’ve modified the football jersey so it ties in small knots down the sides of my body, showing a little extra skin. Using all the fabric has shortened it too, so it’s more of a crop top. West will definitely notice me in this. And if he’s changed his mind? Well, then, I’ll have the satisfaction of getting to reject him for a change. Even as I think it, the fantasy contorts and I remember how I felt waking up in his arms. I’m not sure I’d be able to turn him down given the chance.

  Stop being so goddamn pathetic, Lou.

  The camera overhead swoops back as we go to commercial and the crowd quiets.

  “This is so fucking insane,” Brett says.

  “Oh, hey,” I say. I hadn’t noticed he’d gotten so close. “Yeah. It’s crazy.”

  “What are you up to after the game?” he asks.

  “Depends on if we win or lose,” I say jokingly.

  “Some of us are taking a detour to San Francisco for the night. Gregg’s dad has a condo out there and there’s supposed to be this crazy new club nearby that tons of A-listers go to when they’re in town.”

  “Oh yeah?” I say.

  “You should come. It’s gonna be insane.”

  “I don’t think so,” I say. Going to a club sounds fun, but hanging out with Brett and his friends didn’t turn out so well last time. I think I’ll stick to the parties around here tonight.

  “Come on,” Brett says. “Let me take you out. Cal’s not gonna be there, and I owe you for that shit storm last time.”

  Take me out? I thought we got that out of our system weeks ago.

  “I should probably be around for my dad,” I say. And for West. Lottery players must feel exactly like this. I know the odds but I’m still gripping my ticket tight.

  “Okay. Cool, cool. Let me know if you change your mind.”