“Oh, you're one of those who treats the stadium like it's some kind of church and the players are all Jesus characters designed to lead us to the Promised Land.”
“You say that like it’s not true.”
“You believe in the beauty of the spiral, the fulfillment of dreams, that this is the place where all creeds and religions and walks of life are accepted as long as you have talent.” Her words are mocking but her tone doesn’t quite get there. She believes half the stuff she’s saying.
“It’s not the bastion of idealism but you can pursue perfection here.” I can’t take my eyes off her.
“Then if you believe that, this right here gives you the best seat in the house.” Her quiet voice strikes me in the gut. “Up here you aren’t distracted by the cheerleaders or the crowd. It’s all game and the chase for excellence. You can see the church for what it is—a temple built to revere physical perfection. The spiral looks gorgeous as it cuts through the air and the hits look as hard up here as if you stood on the sideline. Up here, you can see it all.” She bites her lip, as if she’d said too much. “Plus, it’s cheap.”
I force out a chuckle so she doesn’t see how her words have touched me. Not many people feel the game like that. “I guess every place in the stadium has a different view.”
“Different maybe, but still bound by the same tension and the same excitement. And the same disappointment.” The last word lingers.
I feel her.
I have a lot of bitter regret in me from the way last year’s season ended. One win away from the college football champion title game and we couldn’t overcome the loss of our quarterback in the fourth quarter of the first playoff game. I force myself to unclench my fist. No point in dwelling on the past. My focus is this year, this time, this championship. I dangle my legs over the seats, nearly touching row below.
“What position do you play?” she asks.
“What makes you think I play?” I say evasively. Up to this point, she hasn’t shown any signs of recognition. There’s no fawning that I’m Knox Masters, two time All American Defensive End, winner of every defensive college player award handed out last year. I don't like the way people change when they find out that I'm a Warrior. Everything is different then. Calculation sets in. Can I get them tickets? Can I get them access? Am I the path to an easier life?
I just want to kick back and enjoy the quiet with someone who gets it. She does—in every way that’s important. This nameless, gorgeous, funny girl who got up at the ass crack of dawn to creep into my stadium is enjoying the sunrise on this hallowed ground as much as I am. I lean back and let the comfortable silence settle between us as the rising sun bathes everything in its pure golden light.
“How about you?” I change the subject and flick a finger toward her knee. “That looks like a surgery scar. “
Her hand moves over it. “It is.”
“How’d it happen?” She arches an eyebrow and levels a look at me says you’ve got to be kidding. Clearly, I'm not getting anything more from her if I don't give a little myself. Does it have to be my name or my position? I grasp the first confession that skips through my meager brain. “I'm hoping I don't ever get injured. Surgery scares the bejesus out of me.”
“Bejesus?” Again with the eyebrow, but this time I catch a glimpse of a smile. “We’re both adults. You can cuss in front of me unless you’re a minor…” She trails off with an impish grin.
“No, I’m all adult.”
My weak attempt at flirting is met with a snort of amusement. At least I hope it’s amusement.
I need to know everything about her. I want to ask her name, find out where she lives, when she’ll marry me, but then I’d have to tell her my name. Maybe I can coax the details out of her without giving her much more. “Are you new here at Western?”
She tilts her head to the side. I can see she's considering whether I deserve another answer or whether she’s done with me. Short of clamping my big hand down on her leg, I have nothing.
Something flickers in her eyes that I can’t read, but when she opens her mouth instead of getting up and leaving, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I held. “I'm new. A transfer.”
That fits. She looks older than a freshman and she lacks that that dazed, confused, overly eager expression that most of incoming class wears for the first few weeks.
“I'm a junior. This may be my last year,” I find myself telling her.
Her eyes shoot up. “You...dropping out?”
The surprise in her eyes and the way she said the words dropping out makes me think that she does know who I am, but she seems willing to go along with the fiction of pretending I’m a nobody. I appreciate that a hell of a lot.
There’s an ease between the two of us. She speaks about this place with the same language and words that I understand—a cross between reverence and frustration. Only someone who loves this game talks like that.
“What do you think?” I don't know why I ask, but her answer seems important to me.
She doesn't blurt out an immediate response, but asks me a question instead. “Why are you thinking of moving forward?”
Moving forward. Isn’t that the fucking most perfect way to frame it? “The things I’m doing here at Western are things I want to be doing at the next level, and I think I’ll be ready at the end of this year.”
“You think?” Her eyebrow arches up again.
I grin. “I know.”
“Then it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. If you believe you’re ready, then you’re ready. Isn’t it so much what goes on up here?” She taps her temple with her index finger. “And here.” She pats the top of her left breast, a breast that looks delicious even smashed under her sports bra.
I tear my eyes away from her pretty tits. “Yes, you get it exactly.” My words are hardly more than a whisper, but out of the corner of my eye, I see her nod in perfect comprehension.
“Thunderstruck” is the song that plays before the Florida Gators and the Alabama Crimson Tide take the field. When future hall of fame John Smoltz walked out of the bullpen to close out a game for the Braves, the distinctive licks hailed down from the sound system and the crowd screamed thunder in unison.
It’s the soundtrack of the beat down the assholes in Varsity Blues receive after their trip to the strip club on Friday night, like none of them had ever seen tits or ass before. Shit, even the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders run out to the fucking song. I’ve kind of hated it, mostly because we don’t play the sick grind when we run onto the field.
Right now, as the sun peeks over the top of the stands and lays a solid ray of love on the field of my greatest accomplishments to date, and the girl sitting by me waxes poetic about the greatest game in the world, I get it.
Her.
This one.
The universe is talking to me. I don’t need lightning or a tornado throwing a car at my head. I don’t need a running back barreling through the line at top speed to drive home the message. It’s in the curve of her cheek, the delicate arch of her neck. It’s in her sweet legs and the longing in her face. She loves this place as I love it. She understands that winning at this game is about the head and the heart, not just the body.
I’d like to press her down on the concrete risers and show her exactly how well my head, heart and body work in unison. I breathe deep and try to get a grip on my rampaging emotions.
“And what about you? What are your plans?”
“I want to get a job. Not have to rely on my parents. Their...financial support is like a choker rather than a buoy.” She scrapes a hand over her head and down her ponytail. “God, I don't know why I'm telling you this.”