Homecoming King

by Jami Albright

  I make my way to him and grab his face mask so he’s looking at me. “Hey, shake it off. It’s just a couple of bad plays. It’s not the whole game, but you’re about to throw it away if you don’t leave that shit right here on the bench.”

  He pulls his head from my grip. “I can’t read the defense, Cash. It’s like everything’s happening at hyperspeed, and my eyes can’t follow it.”

  I drop onto the bench beside him. “I know, but you’ve been killing it for the past few games. You’re the reason we’re here.” I place my hand on his chest. “Believe that and get your shit together.”

  The crowd screams and “Thunderstruck” begins to play. Our heads jerk toward the field in time to see Bedford, our defensive end, running toward the sideline with the ball held above his head. A fumble and we recover it, thank God.

  Hart and I stand, and I slap his ass. “All right rookie, now’s your chance to get the job done.”

  Unfortunately, the offense can’t make anything happen. There aren’t any more interceptions, but it’s three and out for the Thunder on every possession in the second quarter. There’s a reason Seattle’s defense is ranked number one in the league. By the time the buzzer sounds for halftime, our defense and punter are worn the hell out, and we’re down by twenty-five points.

  Halftime is painful. The guys are bitching and groaning, Coach is yelling, and everything in me screams Put me in, but I don’t say it. McKay’s earned this position. He can turn it around if he can get out of his head, and me pressing to go in won’t help with that. Plus, the team’s used to playing with him. An offense is like a carefully coordinated dance, and throwing someone different into the mix, even though I’m not new, could still screw things to hell.

  “All right, we’re the motherfucking Thunder and we’re still in this fucking thing,” Coach says, and the locker room erupts into cheers. “Now go out there and take this bitch back.”

  No one will ever give Coach a Sunday school award. I grab my helmet and head for the door, chuckling.

  “Cash.”

  I turn to look at the man who’s been not only a coach but a friend. “Yes?”

  “How’s the shoulder?”

  “Good.”

  “I’m going to give the kid a series or two, but if he can’t pull it together, you’re in.”

  I wait for the lightning strike that will erase all the uncertainty and insecurity of the last few months, but it doesn’t come. I’m happy, I want to play, but those words haven’t changed my life like I thought they would. “Whatever you think’s best, Coach.”

  He nods, and we head out to the field where our kickoff team is lining up. It’s a battle, but our defense holds their offense and forces a punt.

  It’s our turn to make something happen, but McKay fumbles on the second down. I see him jog to the sideline toward Coach. There’s a discussion, then my name is called. “King, get your arm warm.”

  I glance up at Duke, who nods, but I can see the concern on his face. He doesn’t need to worry. I know my shoulder is going to hold. I also know that I can handle the pain. He’s done his job by getting me back, and now I’m going to do mine.

  This time, when the offense takes the field, I’m leading them. The crowd goes crazy and begins to slide one palm over the other in a make it rain motion. “Cash Always Pays,” a song a local rapper wrote about me, blasts through the speakers.

  I take a moment to soak it in. I love our fans—they’ve been incredibly good to me. But I find my gaze going to my cheering section of ten, and there’s that lightning strike I’ve been waiting for, especially when I see the blonde beauty who owns my heart standing next to Elva.

  Tiger.

  I look to McKay, who’s now wearing the headset, and he gives me the signal. Well, hell, I guess they want to test my shoulder because it’s a passing play. We huddle up, and I look at all the men with me. “All right, what do you say we take this game back?”

  “Hell, yeah,” Guthrie says.

  We line up, and I glance to my right, then to my left. I point at Seattle’s linebacker, who’s moving in like he’s going to rush me. “FIFTY-FIVE MIKE. FIFTY-FIVE MIKE.” I pick up my right leg and put it down, signaling Jamail, my wide receiver, into motion. He runs from the right end of the offense line to the left. “WHITE TWENTY-ONE, WHITE TWENTY-ONE, SET HUT.” Then Guthrie snaps the ball.

  It’s an explosion of helmets crashing into one another, shoulder pads meeting shoulder pads, and the grunts and curses of grown men sacrificing their bodies for the game they love. And the instant the rough exterior of the ball touches my hands, something clicks in my head, and my muscle memory takes over.

  I drop back three steps, letting my offensive line protect me, while I look for my receivers. A streak of white and red shoots down the field. I take a deep breath, step into the pass, and release the ball. Pain slices through my shoulder. Adrenaline makes the ache bearable for now, but I’ll feel it tomorrow. The ball spirals through the air and drops into Jamail’s waiting arms. He never misses a step as he flies down the field and into the end zone.

  Touchdown.

  I take off down the field to meet Jamail as he jogs back to the sideline. I grab the back of his helmet and knock mine to his.

  “Good to have you back, Bullet.” He grins around his mouthpiece.

  “Thanks, man.” That piece of me that’s all about football slips into place, but for the first time in my life the space feels too small and constricting.

  We score twice more in the third quarter, but unfortunately, Seattle scores as well. We hold them to a field goal in the fourth quarter, and we put seven more points on the board.

  By the time the Thunder receives the kickoff with two minutes left in the game we’re all beat to hell, bleeding and sweating like someone dropped us in the Sahara. And even though we’re down by seven points, we’re not giving up. Three plays, that’s all I need to tie this game.

  We march the ball down the field one completed pass at a time. My arm’s screaming, but I’m in the zone, which makes the pain easier to ignore.

  It’s third and eight on the ten-yard line. Perspiration stings my eyes as we take our positions on the line of scrimmage. I call the play and take the snap. My feet shuffle in the pocket, and I look downfield, but nobody’s open. I don’t panic, I just keep looking. Then I see an open route to the end zone on the right side of the field. I tuck the ball and run like the hounds of hell are after me. I’m almost at the sideline by the time I get to the goal line. I dive, holding the ball in bounds while my body goes out of bounds, but the ball breaks the plane of the goal line. Touchdown. All the air is jolted from my lungs when I land hard on my back. I don’t care because we’re one point away from tying this game.

  Some of offense celebrates in the end zone, while a couple of them pull me from the ground, slapping me on the helmet in congratulations. There are twenty-five seconds left on the clock. A field goal from Martinez will tie the game. Then we go into overtime and pray we win the coin toss and get the first possession.

  I turn to head back to the bench when I see Coach and McKay motioning for the offense to stay on the field. Holy hell, we’re going for two points. Shit, I haven’t practiced this play but a couple of times this week.

  Suck it up, King, and do your job.

  We huddle up, and I meet the eyes of each of my teammates. “Okay, ladies, this is why they pay us stupid money. Let’s make this happen. Omaha twenty-eight on two.” We clap our hands. “Break.”

  The offensive moves into position, and I line up behind Guthrie. “I promise to make it good for you, sweetheart.” My hands go between his big, sweaty thighs.

  “Fuck you,” he laughs. “And call the damn play.”

  “OMAHA TWENTY-EIGHT, OMAHA TWENTY-EIGHT, SET, HUT!” I drop back, and everything switches to slow motion in my brain. The rhythm of my breathing and beat of my heart are the only sounds I hear. It’s like I can see everything at once. I look to my left, to my right. No one’s open. My heart
rate stutters, but I will it back to a normal tempo. This play isn’t over, and I’m not down. I stay in the pocket and see Jamail directly under the goalpost. I throw with the precision of a surgeon. As soon as the pigskin leaves my hands, everything snaps back into real time, and the thunderous roar of the crowd fills my ears. The ball hits him square in the numbers on his jersey. He wraps his big arms around it and holds it to his chest.

  Game over.

  Thunder wins.

  It’s complete pandemonium in the stadium. The crowd is chanting my name. Guthrie wraps me in a bear hug that nearly breaks my ribs. “That’s how Cash Fucking King gets it done!” he yells in my ear. Then he and Bartle, another lineman, lift me into the air. I see the other receivers are doing the same to Jamail. They bring him close, and we clasp hands for a moment.

  The cheers and accolades from my team, and being carried to the sideline while on their shoulders, is exactly what I’ve visualized every night since I injured my shoulder. It’s the perfect moment.

  Except it’s not.

  I search the stands to find my people. Duke is holding my mom, who’s crying. Joe and Nan are kissing, big surprise. Jared, Cam and the Twinkies are screaming, jumping around, and hugging each other. Elva and Kayla are slapping a high five. Finally, I see Tiger. She smiles, but it’s not celebratory, it’s full of sadness and resignation. Her hand raises in a wave, then she turns, and all I see is her retreating back.

  She’s leaving.

  What and where I want to be become laser clear in that moment. It’s not on the shoulders of my teammates or having seventy thousand people chant my name.

  I want to work with the kids at the rec center, drink sweet tea on Elva’s front porch, and fill Wayland Estate with lots of children for my mother to spoil.

  But more than anything else, I want to be with Tiger.

  Tiger is home for me.

  A safe place where I’m loved for just being me.

  Forty-Eight

  Tiger

  “We need a new sign, too, don’t you think?” Maggie asks me as we walk the perimeter of the rec center with a pen and paper. We’re making a list of the things that need to be fixed or added. “New lighting would be good. And I’ve decided to leave Donny to become a showgirl in Vegas.”

  “Sounds good,” I say as I stare at my empty pad.

  “Earth to Tiger.”

  “Huh?”

  Maggie shakes her head. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Want to talk about it some more?”

  “No, it won’t change anything.” I rub my forehead, hoping I can erase the image of Cash on the shoulders of his teammates from my brain. I knew the moment they hefted him into the air that I’d lost him. There’s no way he’d give that up for me, and I wouldn’t ask him to. He was magnificent in that game. There’s no doubt that on that field is where he belongs. “You should’ve seen him, Maggie. He was so happy, and he should’ve been. He played an unbelievable game.”

  “I did see him. We watched the game on TV, and what I saw was him looking into the stands where you were sitting every chance he got.” She wraps one arm around my waist and leans her head on my arm. “Have you heard from him?”

  “I texted him after the game to congratulate him, and he texted back and said we need to talk. But that was two days ago.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m also sorry about the billboard.”

  I shake my head. “I should’ve taken you with me on my last graffiti field trip. You’re the better artist.” My grand plan to humiliate myself with a giant penis backfired and now the town is debating if it is in fact a penis or a rocket ship, which has sparked debate about aliens being the vandals. I swear, this town. It’s a good thing I love it. “It’s all right. I think I’m done. I’ll just have to learn to live with it. It’s not the worst thing to happen to me.”

  She laughs. “No, it’s not.”

  I look up at the façade of the rec center. “I think you’re right about the sign, and I want to add ‘Family, Community, Unity’ under the name.”

  “I love that.” She points at my pad. “Write that down.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” My phone buzzes, and I check the screen. It’s a text from an unknown number.

  Your presence is required at the billboard located at the Ryder city limits.

  “Oh, crap.”

  “What?”

  “I think I’ve been caught.” I try and fail to calm the frantic pounding of my heart.

  Maggie yanks the phone from my hand. “Let me see that.” She reads the message, then peeks up at me with bugged eyes. “Who is this?”

  “No idea. Is that the sheriff’s number?”

  She hands the phone back to me like it’s diseased. “Why would I know the sheriff’s cell number?”

  “I don’t know, but I better go see what this is about.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  I shake my head. “No. If I am in trouble, you need plausible deniability.”

  “Okay.”

  “Plus, I might need bail money.”

  “You can always count on me for bail money and body disposal.”

  In spite of everything, I laugh. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  I race to my car, trying to place the phone number, but it’s not one I recognize. What am I going to do if I get arrested? My stomach revolts at that thought. Surely, that won’t happen.

  Thankfully, it’s a short drive to the city limits. The first thing I notice is a work truck with a ladder on it. Wow, Brad got workmen out here to fix that stupid billboard faster than usual. He’s probably intimidated by the size of the penis I drew. I might have enjoyed that little joke at his expense, if not for the quarterback with the red Bugatti.

  Cash.

  I pull up behind him and just stare for a moment. The man looks better than he has a right to, casually leaning against his car in that worn leather bomber jacket with the early December wind blowing through his hair. It would be so easy to run into his arms and act like the last ten days hadn’t happened. But they did. And because they did, things need to be said before anybody goes running anywhere.

  “Hey.” His upturned lips make my ovaries do high kicks. I shut those hussies down quick. If he thinks he can just shoot me that panty-melting grin and everything is forgiven between us, then he’s most definitely mistaken.

  “Hey.” I shove my hands into the pockets of my jacket, as much to keep from reaching for him as to ward off the cold. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see a girl.”

  “Oh, yeah? Why?” There are workmen around, but I barely register their presence because all of my focus is hanging on his answer to that question.

  “Because I treated her like she wasn’t the most important thing in the world to me, and I need to beg her forgiveness in person.”

  “You’re right. You did.” My stupid heart pleads with me to give him a pass, and just forgive him already, but I have to know if he really means what he says.

  He studies the toe of his boot while he pushes at some gravel on the shoulder of the road. Several seconds pass. I want to fill the silence, but I don’t. This is his moment. Amber eyes finally meet mine, and he exhales. “For as long as I can remember there’s always been this sense that I’m not enough. Like if I could throw one more perfect spiral, win one more title, earn another million dollars, then I would be finally be enough, you know?”

  I nod because I do know. We’ve both struggled with that in different ways.

  “Yeah, I guess you do know.” He studies the toe of his boot again. “But the difference between the two of us is that you were self-aware enough to realize it and do what you had to do to fix the problem. I just kept running from those feelings and filling that void with all the things that I thought made me special. The problem is, that pit is bottomless. So when my back was against the wall, and I thought I might lose my place at the table, I used you in the worst way
. I’m sorrier than you’ll ever know, especially because of how hard you’ve worked to rebuild your life. You’ve filled it with things and people that will last, and I want to be one of those people. If you’ll still have me.”

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out because my heart is jammed in my throat.

  He cautiously takes the fingers of my hand in his. “I’m also sorry that I’m just now getting to town. I had some meetings.”

  My gaze is locked on our hands. “I understand. It’s your team.”

  He places his knuckles under my chin and raises my face to meet his. “It wasn’t the whole team. I met with Ray and Kyle and then my PR team to tell them that I’m retiring after this season.”

  “What?”

  “I’m retiring and moving back home to Ryder.” He searches my shocked face. “I was hoping you’d be happier about this than you appear to be.”

  “I’m just … stunned.” I shake my head to make sure I’m not in some outlandish dream. “But why? The game couldn’t have gone any better. Surely you’ve gotten your starting spot back on the team.”

  “I have, and I’ll see the Thunder through the playoffs, but once this season is done, so am I. I’m tired of putting my body through the punishment, and I have other things I really want to do.”

  “You do?” I’m having trouble keeping up with all the revelations being shared.

  “I want to run my foundation, work with the kids at the rec center, and cook dinner for Elva every once in a while. And I want to be with you for as long as you’ll have me. I love you, Tiger.” He catches a tear rolling down my cheek. “I have something for you.”

  A trickle of panic races down my spine. I love him more than I can say, but I’m not ready to get married. “Oh, Cash, no, not a ring.”

  He laughs. “It’s not a ring, yet, Kitty Cat.”

  “Um … okay.” I’d be embarrassed, but I’m relieved that we’re taking it slow.

  Gently he pulls me to his side and slides his arm around my shoulder. He turns me to face the billboard. Instead of finding my image larger than life, I see another billboard covered in a tarp and squeezed in between the two that are already there—and this one covers the one Brad erected.