by Lily Cahill
A hundred hoof beats pound against the floor as people shout and clap and slap each other’s backs and helmets all over the room. And I realize for the first time what they’ve been wanting from me all along. They’ve wanted this. This confidence. This passion. It may have taken me a while, but I think I finally get it.
When the cheering dies down, everyone scatters to make their final preparations. I head over to the supply cart to grab more tape for my wrists.
I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn. It’s Lou. I haven’t seen her since our fight, and as much as I’ve tried to convince myself it’s for the best, my body still reacts to her. My heart pounds in my chest.
“That was really great, what you just said,” she says.
“Thanks,” I say.
“I just wanted to wish you luck today,” she says. “And to tell you I’m sorry for causing you so much trouble. I really am. I shouldn’t have acted that way and I shouldn’t have said those things to you.”
“Thank you for saying that. It means a lot,” I say. “I’m sorry too. I acted like an asshole and said some things I shouldn’t have.”
“We were both assholes,” she says.
“I really want you to be happy, Lou.”
“I want you to be happy too,” she says. I can’t read her eyes when she looks up at me. She’s doing that thing where she closes herself off. And I’ll probably never get to see the real her again.
The thought is unbearable. “Friends?” I ask.
“Friends,” she says.
We hug. And every part of me wants to hold on to her and never let go. But I can’t bring myself to say anything. Before I know it, she’s pulling away from me.
“Oh, and I kept my promise,” she says.
“What promise?”
“I told my dad about the surgeries. You were right. It wasn’t easy, but he deserved to know.”
“Lou,” Coach says. I have no idea how long he’s been standing there, listening to us. He gives me a long, hard look before saying anything. “Come on. I’m going to have security walk you to your seat. It’s a rowdy crowd out there today.”
“Sure,” she says. “Bye, West.”
“Bye.”
I lean into my locker, shifting stuff around to give me something to do. But really, all I can think about is her. Did I really just ask her to be friends? I want more. I want so much more. And I need to know if she wants more too.
I turn and jog into the hall where Lou disappeared with Coach Prescott. But then I hear their voices and stop.
“I’m having your things sent back to the Kappa house,” Coach says.
“Dad—” she says.
“Shut up and listen before I change my mind. I was wrong to let you make that deal with me in the first place. You were right. West is a good kid, and I overreacted. And as much as I hate to say it, you’re an adult now. So I’m kicking you out.”
“Kicking me out, huh?” she says.
“You can’t expect me to put up with your messy ass forever. There’s lipstick and girlie crap all over my bathroom.”
“Thanks, Dad. I love you,” she says.
“Love you too, kiddo,” he says. “Now get out of here. I’ve got some big shit going on, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“God. You think you’re such a big shot now that you’re a championship coach,” she says, teasing. “It’s only NCAA div one, Dad. Not that big of a deal. Talk to me when you make it to the super bowl.”
“Smart ass,” he laughs. “Go.”
I hear her walking away, and I stay still for a second, trying to figure out what I just heard. Deal? What deal?
Coach rounds the corner and sees me. He knows what I heard.
“Why did you let me back on the team, Coach?” I ask.
He pauses for a moment. I know he doesn’t owe me an explanation, and so does he. But finally, he speaks. “Her,” he says. “She fought for you.”
“How?”
“She made a deal to move home if I put you back on the lineup,” he says. “And she was right about you. You’re a good QB, and a good kid. You deserve your spot.”
I nod and he stalks away. But then he turns back.
“And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I approve,” he says, scowling. “You know. Of you. And her. She’s been moping around like a dope for weeks. You seem to be what makes her happy. And I like her happy.”
“Did she say that?”
“Jesus, kid. I’m not your fucking matchmaker. Talk to the girl for Chrissakes.”
“I will,” I say, then I jog toward the exit. My eager heart expands like a balloon in my chest.
“Not now, dummy,” he says, calling me back. “Later. Get your ass back to the locker room. You’ve got a game to play, remember?”
The crowd is deafening in Tampa’s Raymond James Stadium. It’s a shouting war of Mustang blue & silver against the red & white of the Alabama Crimson Tide.
There are cameras everywhere: drones flying overhead, cameramen on giant cranes swooping over the crowd, and big lenses racing back and forth on the sidelines. People from all across the country are watching.
There’s so much riding on this game. Lou gave up her independence to make sure I’d be on the field, the guys have trudged through the season carrying me on their back, and then there’s me.
I want to prove to myself that I’m capable of this. But for the first time in my life, all that pressure doesn’t feel overwhelming. The dark thoughts and self-doubt aren’t running rampant through my brain. Something has clicked into place for me, become a part of me.
Today, I don’t need Lou’s mantra, but it’s only because of her that I’m not frozen out here. She’s made me realize that I’ve wasted this season being scared when I could have been having the time of my life. I don’t want to waste any more time. I want to play my favorite game with my favorite people. And I want to win.
And the fact that millions of people are watching us? Well, I think it’s about time I show them all what I’m capable of.
The ground feels solid under my cleats when I receive the ball in the first snap of the game, I know this one is going to be different.
I pass the ball down the field and it goes where I want it so accurately it feels like an extension of myself. It’s all fluid motion, like my coaches have been telling me. We gain 11 yards and the first down is ours.
The next play, I’m supposed to hand it off to Shane Crews, a freshman running back who’s proved himself this season. He runs his route toward me, but I can see into the future. I can see where he’s headed if I give him the ball: right into a pack of defenders so thick there isn’t even a sliver of an opening.
I scamper back, looking for another option.
There’s an opening on the outside, but no one there to pass it off to. I pull the ball in closer to my body and I go for it.
My heart is pounding in my chest and my feet are moving forward. I see the red jerseys coming toward me, but I haven’t even crossed the line of scrimmage yet.
I keep moving, my legs pumping underneath me. I break past the line and see I’m running out of space.
There’s nowhere left to go.
I can try for another couple of yards or I can play it safe and run out of bounds, avoiding a tackle and potential injury.
That’s what I’m supposed to do. What I’m trained to do. Hell, I don’t even have the pads for taking a hit. But it’s not what the blood and the adrenaline rushing through my body are urging me to do.
So I drop my shoulder and rush ahead, feeling the yardage under my feet. I run into a defender and brace for the hit.
The force of it sends a shockwave through my body and the adrenaline pumps harder through my veins.
I pop up and run back into position. I’m ready to go again.
I throw perfect spiral after perfect spiral and it’s like I’ve gone from an antenna TV to high definition. I can see everything so clearly. Every play.
I throw the ball to Lotto. H
e catches it and gains 6 yards. There are no good options, I get out of danger and ground the ball.
I see a tiny vulnerability in Alabama’s defense and I personally take it up the middle. We’re supposed to be getting slaughtered out here, but the opposite is happening.
Before I know it, it’s the last possession of the game. 23-17 and I feel like an unstoppable force.
It’s like I’m back in the sports center, pausing tape and calling plays with all the time in the world to analyze the field and figure out what’s going to happen. I’ve never been able to see it so clearly in real time.
It feels like a superpower.
We’re inside the ten and even though we’re ahead, I want the touchdown. There’s a full two minutes left on the clock. If we don’t score, Alabama could still retaliate. I want this game locked up.
I hand the ball off to Crews and he gets stopped on the 7.
We inch closer.
I pass to Mayhew in the end zone, but he tips the ball up.
Incomplete.
It’s 3rd down. Our last shot at one more score. There’s no way Coach will risk going for it on the fourth. Not when we’re ahead. This is my last play of the season.
Alabama hasn’t given up and they’re coming at me.
I spin away and run to a tiny patch of open green.
There are red shirts in front of me, but it’s still the best choice. I have nothing to lose.
My brain goes blank and I let my body take over.
My legs bend and jump, and I hurdle myself over the two defenders. They’re crouched down, ready to tackle me, going for my center of gravity, which only makes it easier for me to clear them.
The bigger one realizes I’m not staying on the ground. I’m not waiting for him to hit me. He straightens up and his helmet makes contact with my leg, but I’ve already broken the plane into the end zone.
I’ve already scored a touchdown.
It’s 30-17. There’s no way Alabama can come back from this.
The game is ours.
We did it. We actually did it.
I did it.
I know this is one of the moments I’ll remember for the rest of my life. One of those times where life is so full that it can’t stay just in this moment, but will be carried with me forever.
Special teams races onto the field for the extra point, but the Mustang fans are already celebrating. The ground rumbles from all the stomping feet and the air is full of cheers and clacking coconut hooves.
Prescott grabs my shoulder and doesn’t let go. “I knew you had it in you,” he says with a solemn nod.
“Thank you, Coach. For everything.”
At that moment, I see Reggie and Ben sneaking up behind Prescott. I barely have time to move before a gush of blue Gatorade drenches him. His smile right then is probably the biggest I’ve ever seen it.
The football flies through the goal posts just as the clock hits zero. And all of a sudden, there are canons firing blue and silver streamers and shiny confetti everywhere. The band strikes up the MSU fight song, but I can barely hear it over the sound of my own heartbeat, hard and steady and strong.
This whole time, I was the only one keeping me from what I wanted—from what I’ve always been able to achieve—and I don’t want to live like that anymore.
I’m going after what I want.
And what I want is Lou.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Lou
I RACE ACROSS THE FIELD straight to my dad, whose shirt is soaked with icy blue.
“Oh my God! You did it! You did it!” I scream, hugging him even though he’s sopping wet.
“Yep, yep. Sure did,” he says. His words are simple, but his smile is huge. I only get him for a second before a crowd of hyped-up Mustangs pulls him away.
Big blasts of sparkling silver confetti and metallic blue streamers pepper the air all over the field.
I’m so happy for him. I couldn’t be prouder of him in this moment. But my eyes? They’re searching for West. I want to congratulate him, of course. But there’s so much more I want to say to him that I didn’t get to say before the game.
As I scan the crowd, I spot Nara jumping into Ben’s arms, her cheerleading poms abandoned on the ground behind her. Not far away, Reggie is scooping Megan into a kiss. Even Riley’s girl Lilah is with him on the field, sporting her signature mohawk in MSU blue. It’s like my eyes are only capable of seeing what I can’t have—but what I want so much more than I’ve ever wanted before.
That’s when I hear dad shouting back at me and thumbing toward a crowd of reporters on the other side of the field—the side I just came from. “Go talk to him. I think he’s got something to say to you.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” He turns and is swallowed into the sea of bodies on the field, hoisting the championship trophy high above their heads through a thick rain of confetti.
Did my dad really just say that? It seems unbelievable for so many reasons.
But I feel hope spring into my heart. Does West really want to talk to me as much as I want to talk to him? Is there a chance that I haven’t screwed this up with him forever?
I look over to where my dad pointed and catch a glimpse of West’s smile between heads and lights and microphones and cameras. He seems like he’s trying to lose them. But they’re not letting him through. They’re following him as he walks.
Before I realize what’s happening, I’m jogging straight toward him as metallic confetti squares float on the air between us.
I know the moment he spots me because his face lights up. “Lou?” he shouts. “Lou!”
Then he breaks through the flock of reporters, nearly knocking one over in his haste. Their cameras swing with him and I know that what’s about to happen will be broadcast live on televisions across the nation, but I don’t care.
“I don’t want to be friends,” I shout, closing the distance between us. “I want more.”
The moment he reaches me, he lifts me into his arms. I wrap my legs around his waist and pull his face toward mine. Our kiss is salty and electric. His sweat mixing with my tears and the flash of cameras that burn stars in my eyes.
“I want more too,” he says, pinning his forehead to mine as silver specks shimmer down around us. “God, Lou, I want so much more. I’ve missed you so damn much.”
“I’ve missed you too, baby,” I say.
“I love you, Lou. I should have said it a hundred times before now. But I love you.”
“I love you too,” I say.
He kisses me again. I hear the buzz of a reporter saying something in the distance, but it blurs into the background right along with the sound of the band playing the MSU fight song and the thundering clack of coconut shells and crowd chanting “Can’t stop the stampede!”
All I register in this moment is him. And I know it’s a moment I’ll never forget as long as we live.
TWO WEEKS LATER
“And that, my friends, appears to be a very happy ending to an amazing season for the MSU Mustangs. This is Candy Caruso, signing off.”
“Play it one more time,” I tell him. “I want to see the part where you kiss me again.”
“Okay,” he says, “As long as I get to pause it when they catch that amazing shot of your ass.”
“Which one?” I ask. “All the shots of my ass are amazing.”
“Well played, Prescott,” he says. “Well played.”
He scrolls back to the beginning of the clip and we watch again as we find each other in the crowd after the game.
“You know, I could kiss you in real life instead,” he says, pulling me closer into him on the couch.
“I don’t think so,” I tease. “I don’t want to be disappointed. It’s always so much more romantic in the movies.”
“That sounds like a challenge.” He leans in to kiss me.
“Oh, for Chrissakes, you two. Turn that shit off,” my dad says, hurling a soda toward West as he walks into the room.
> I can’t quite tell if he meant to aim the can at West’s head, or if it was an accident. Either way, it’s a good thing West has quick reflexes.
Dad settles into the opposite end of the couch and passes me a freshly popped bowl of popcorn. “It’s bad enough you two paraded your private lives on national television, much less bringing it into my damn living room.”
“I think you’re gonna be just fine,” I say.
“And is it too much to ask that you keep a respectful distance from my daughter while you’re under my roof, son?”
West hides a grin as he straightens and pulls his arm away from me. “Sorry about that, sir.”
I pull his arm back and glare at my dad while I scoot closer to West. “Be nice, Dad.”
He mumbles something under his breath that sounds a lot like, “You don’t want to know what mean looks like.”
“So what’s it gonna be tonight?” I ask. “Rudy? Friday Night Lights? Any Given Sunday?” My dad’s DVD collection is what you might call “focused.”
He gets a mischievous look in his eye and pulls a new DVD out of a shopping bag.
West tries to swallow his laugh, but it only ends up coming out louder, like a canon shot.
“For real?” I ask.
“What? It’s a quality film,” Dad says. Then he slips Sleepless In Seattle into the player. “Besides, that Meg Ryan is a real fox.”
“What?! Eew!” I screech, and lob a pillow at him.
“That’s called fighting fire with fire, little girl,” he says, hurling the pillow back at me.
West grabs it before it barrels into my face this time. I look up at him for support.
“Don’t look at me. I’m staying out of this,” West says.
“And there’s more where that came from,” he says. “I’m very well acquainted with Miss Ryan’s catalogue. It could have been When Harry Met Sally. In that one, she has a scene where she—”
“Fine! Fine,” I say, stopping him before he says something else I can never un-hear. Grudgingly, I unwrap myself from West’s embrace and settle for holding his hand.