On the sideline, Brook gives the play to a running back and wide receiver. He pats their helmets and pushes them onto the field to replace two players running off. Eighteen seconds left, and only two yards to go for the first down. We need that down to stop the clock again.
This time, the quarterback takes the snap and steps back out of the pocket.
“What’s he doing?” Amelia asks. “Why isn’t he going for the first down?”
I shrug, wondering the same thing myself. He glances down the field and finds an open receiver. Leaning back, he throws the ball in a wide arc. The receiver makes the catch and runs two more yards before he’s tackled.
The clock stops again. There are eleven seconds on the board, and we’re first and goal. It’s not enough time and too much all at once. Without any more timeouts, we have to make a play happen now or else find a way to stop the clock for a second chance. But if we score too fast, it gives the other team another possession and a chance to throw a Hail Mary or some other trick play to win back the game. It’s improbable they’d succeed—this is a high school game after all—but it could happen.
The players reset without going into the huddle. The quarterback glances at the sideline. Brook taps the top of his head twice then makes three fast slashes across his heart. The player nods then calls the play. The crowd’s screams grow louder, drowning out the words. I hope the players can hear it on the field better than I can from the bleachers.
The quarterback claps his hands once, then twice. He takes the snap and steps back. He pitches the ball left to the running back and runs toward the end zone. The defense descends on the running back, who has only taken a few steps forward. He can’t go any farther. If he does, he’ll be tackled behind the line of scrimmage, and the clock will run out.
I cover my face, but peek through my fingers. I can’t watch, yet I have to see what happens. With a hulking player lunging at him, the running back throws the ball straight to his right into the waiting arms of a wide receiver. The game clock ticks down to zero as the wide receiver pulls back and throws the ball into the waiting arms of the wide open quarterback.
Oh. My. God. That was one of the most ridiculous trick plays I’ve ever seen. It’s like something from one of the epic football movies or TV shows Brook made me binge-watch with him over the summer. And it worked.
While the crowd around me roars, I set my sights on the sidelines once more. Brook jumps in the air and rushes out onto the field with the rest of the players and coaches. One of the offensive linemen pulls him into a hug that lifts his more than six-foot frame off the ground for a moment. The quarterback, who has finished his celebration in the end zone, turns on his heel and makes a run for the celebrating crowd. Brook never has a chance to prepare for the impact when the QB throws him to the ground. A bunch of the other players join in the pileup.
I wince through my laughter. “He’s going to hurt in the morning.”
Major MacLaughlin’s lip twitches. “Probably so, but he’ll say it was worth it.”
“I wish they’d be a little more careful with him.” Mrs. MacLaughlin darts a worried glance at the field. “He’s not wearing any pads, and he’s not as young as he used to be.”
“He’s practically geriatric.” Amelia winks at me. “I’m surprised the AARP even lets him out on the field.”
“I’m not saying he’s old—”
“You don’t have to.” Amelia’s face sobers, but her eyes sparkle. “I’m pretty sure I heard him complain about an ache in his hip that bothers him whenever the weather turns cold.”
Mrs. MacLaughlin’s face grows concerned, and her husband intervenes—sending a warning look at Amelia—assuring her that Brook is fine.
One by one the players roll out of the dog pile and spring to their feet to greet the waiting parents and fans. The quarterback is last to stumble up. He offers Brook a hand to help him stand. Limping up, Brook’s face is flushed but beaming. Leaning his forehead against the player’s helmet, he says something and pats the top of the player’s head. A lump lodges in my throat, and my eyes sting.
What is it about a great football comeback story that always makes me cry?
The ruckus on the field cools to handshakes and hugs. Brook glances up at the stands. Amelia’s daughters, Marley and Ellery, jump around waving their arms and screaming his name. A grin spreads across his face, and he waves back.
I’m making a resolution right now. Every time I feel the slightest ebb of jealousy or annoyance about how much time he spends on his job, I’m bringing myself back here, to this moment. I’ll remember the pure joy on his face, the joy swelling in my heart. And I’ll understand why he puts in the early mornings and late nights.
His eyes scan past the girls and Amelia, past her boyfriend, Wade, and his parents until they land on me. The grin turns up a watt just for me. He covers his heart then points at me. My breath catches, but I manage to mouth “I love you, too” back. For a few seconds, it’s just us. Him and me. Like we’re in a bubble, and everything around us fades away. Yeah, I’m definitely saving this memory for later.
With a parting wave, Brook rejoins the team and coaches running toward the field house. The spell broken, I turn my attention back to his family and catch six pairs of eyes staring at me expectantly.
A wave of self-consciousness rushes over me. I toy with the ends of my hair. “What?”
Amelia wrinkles her nose. “Sometimes the two of you are disgusting.”
Mrs. MacLaughlin frowns. “I think it’s sweet.”
“It is,” Amelia agrees. “But that doesn’t make it any less vomit inducing.”
Readjusting his cap, Brook’s dad clears his throat. “We should probably head out. We’ll be fighting enough traffic as it is.”
I follow them toward the exit, but turn at the top of the steps to take a parting glance at the field. I was raised on football, but the game looks completely different when it’s about more than winning or losing. It’s about playing with heart, which matters more.
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Acknowledgments
I’M TRULY BLESSED BY the people on this writing adventure with me. This story came together with love and support from many people.
Thank you to Brea Brown, Sarah Chapman, and Whitney Lake for beta reading this project. Thank you to Cat Lavoie, Samantha March, and Chrissy Wolfe for your work shaping this story. Thank you to the people who provided key insight including Michael Chapman, Shawn Chapman, Scott Cavadini, Sarah Jessick, Brent Litz, Katie Steiner, and Chris Stier. Thanks also to Nathan Lake and Trevor Stewart for recruiting me to play fantasy football. Thank you to my late grandmother Helena Huneke, who not only taught me how to crochet, but could spout sports facts better than anyone, and my parents for raising me in a football family.
Special shout-out to readers who provided names for the fictional football players in this book: Jamie Adams, Carolyn Ridder Aspenson, Erin Baker, Kathryn Biel, Jackie Bouchard, Melanie Glinsmann, Michelle Halpern, Tobi Helton, Philippa Moore, Martha Reynolds, and Laura Westerman.
Thank you forever and ever to my family, friends, and readers for giving me the motivation and passion to keep going. Go Big Red and Go Pack Go.
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