“From September through November they’re pretty busy, but Jack says he has the most trouble in the spring when there’s no rigid schedule. They have a thirteen week schedule with twelve games,” I explain. “One week is a bye where they don’t have any game and then the thirteenth game is the conference championship. If they win, and they should, then they go into a four team playoff for a shot at the national title.”
“Student athlete seems so glamorous. Full tuition scholarship, free tutors, first pick of classes, but it does seem like they work hard.”
“Very.”
We’d last seen Jack on Thursday, and he’d been hurting. Riley made him put his foot up and I got ice for his knee. The nonstop pampering probably made up half the reason he enjoyed coming over.
“How come you aren’t at the student center?” Riley shoves a handful of popcorn into her mouth.
“I don’t like watching the games in public. If you go to a game, you have to sit with a bunch of people who don’t know the game, but think they know it. They’re yelling about the bad refs, or if your brother misses a catch, you have to listen to them talk about how terrible he is.” I shake my head. “It’s better at home.”
“I don’t know anything about the game,” she points out.
“Will you yell nonstop about how bad the refs are?”
She shakes her head. “No, but I’ll ask a lot of questions.”
“Fair enough. What do you know?”
“That there’s a quarterback, Tom Brady’s balls deflated, and there’s a Super Bowl.”
I stifle a laugh. “It’s a start.”
“Why do they hold hands when they walk to the middle of the field? Are they afraid they’ll lose each other? Do they play a game of Red Rover, Red Rover to send one of the Hawkeyes right over? And then if we win, we get the ball?” she jokes as Ace, the running back and three others walk toward the fifty yard line.
“It’s team unity. They’ll also slap each other on the butt all the time.”
We share a smirk.
“Where’s Jack?”
“Right there. Number 88.” I press pause and point to the screen. “He’ll be on the line of scrimmage where the center will hike the ball to the quarterback.”
“He looks big.”
“It’s the pads.”
“And I’m sorry to say this in front of you, but holy Christ, his ass is tight. They all have tight asses.” She shifts forward. “Why haven’t I watched this before?”
“You didn’t know.” I pat her back. “But now you do.”
“What does Jack do?”
“He’s a tight end. He’s responsible for blocking and catching the ball—usually he’ll run across the middle. The guys at the end are the wide receivers. They are usually the fastest on the field. The running back is the one behind the quarterback.”
“They named a position after his ass?”
I grin. “All sports are like that. Like MMA? It’s the most homoerotic sport on the planet. Half naked guys rolling around with their faces in each other’s crotch.”
“I’m becoming a fan already. And where’s your fiancé?”
I roll my eyes but scan the sidelines when the camera pans to number 55. “Right there.”
I freeze the screen. Masters has his helmet up, with the ear pads resting against his temple. His mouth piece is half inside of mouth, half out of it as he intently watches the action unfold. He looks…magnificent. The sleeves of his uniform are tucked up under his pads, and underneath the fabric, his muscles bulge.
The Warriors start off slow in the first quarter. The Missouri quarterback isn’t very good, but he manages to get lucky and run for about twenty yards. Three more plays and they’re in kicking distance. I curse when the forty-three yard try splits the uprights perfectly. On offense, the Warriors can’t seem to move the ball more than five yards. The team’s scoreless possessions before the first quarter ends.
During the commercial break, I rummage around our cupboards looking for something to drink with my Coke. I’ll need to anesthetize myself if the game continues like this.
“I’m guessing that was a bad period.”
“Quarter,” I correct her. “They play four quarters. And yeah, it was bad.”
Masters was right. They can’t take one game for granted. I watch as he walks up and down the sideline, taking the time to talk to his teammates. He slaps a couple of them on the helmet and squeezes the neck of another guy. The other players nod and smile at him. He’s not chastising them but encouraging them. Keep your heads up. We got this, I imagine him telling the guys.
“But it’s just one quarter, right?”
“This is college ball. Strength of schedule is really important, and if you play a weak opponent, you have to play really well. Dominate. And you can’t lose.”
“Not even one game?” She’s shocked.
“Pretty much. If you lose one game, there’s a real good chance you won’t make it to the playoffs, and that’s the only thing that matters in college ball.”
“Wow.” Her eyes go wide as she takes this new information in.
During the second quarter, the defense picks up. Masters opens with a sack, throwing the offensive lineman aside like he’s a piece of trash. Masters is on the quarterback before the guy can get his shoulders straight down field and just like that it’s second and twenty-three.
“What do the players say to each other out there?” Riley asks as we watch Knox jaw at the opposing side as he returns to the line of scrimmage.
“Probably something disgusting about their mothers.”
“Really?”
Maybe not Masters, though. He didn’t seem like the type of person to insult a player’s mom; insult the player yes, but not someone attached to the player. “Some guys do. Masters is probably telling the O-lineman that he’s soft and that he’ll spend a lot of time on his ass. Jack would tell the cornerback who covers him that he’s too slow and ask if he needs roller skates to keep up.”
Riley grins. “I wish we could hear them. That’d be fun.”
“Too much cursing.” I smile back. It’s fun watching with Riley. All last year, I sat in my dorm room and watched the games by myself. My roommate liked to sleep with the players but she sure as hell didn’t enjoy watching the game. I forgot what it felt like to have company, and how much nicer it is to share an experience with someone, even a bad one.
The first quarter field goal is the only score that Missouri manages to eke out. The Warriors defense, led by Masters, is stifling. If they aren’t sacking the quarterback, they attacked him as soon as the ball left his hands.
The team struggles on offense, but Jack makes a great catch in the third and runs it for another thirty yards before he’s stopped. They manage to punch the ball across the goal line three more times, and the game ends twenty-one to three.
Riley and I jump out of our seats and cheer as loudly as any of the fans at the game. It’s the most fun I’ve had watching one of Jack’s games in years.
We drew the short end of the stick when it comes to parents, but I’ve always had the team. You’ve only had me. It wouldn’t be a bad thing to have another person on your side, Ellie. Besides, you could do a lot worse than Masters.
My eyes follow Masters around the field as he slaps helmets and gives one-armed hugs to his fellow teammates. He stops in front of Jack, whose face is lit up like a spotlight. He’s so happy. The two exchange a few words and something Jack says makes Masters laugh. Then the camera cuts away.
“Will they come home today?” Riley asks as we clean up the living room.
“They should.”
And maybe Jack will come over along with his teammates. Or maybe he’ll text me, say that there’s a party somewhere, and we should come. I’ll go and find Masters, we’ll get a little drunk, he’ll forgive me for my cold shoulder, and we can pick up where we left off.