Reece grinned, his green eyes twinkling with mischief. “Isn’t that how we get that luck? Rubbing our fingers through your luscious locks?” He reached for my head again.
I slapped his hands away. “Not if you want to keep those hands for catching passes.”
He grinned and untied his red-and-white Adidas before tucking them safely in his locker. The sneaker obsession hadn’t died after college.
“Thanks for taking care of that number for me, man.” Berk knocked into my shoulder with his fist.
Before I’d joined the team, it had been his number—a number that had meant a lot to him.
“You know I didn’t ask them to make you give it up.” He hadn’t brought it up all last season, but I knew it had to have been hard for him.
He huffed and lifted his chin. “I know. But if it helps us win again this year, I’m good with it.” A lopsided smile set my worries at ease.
“You’ll get it back once I leave.” My number stayed the same from team to team, no one wanting to upset the balance too hard in any one direction.
All three guys whipped back around from their various stages of stripping down or suiting up.
Berk stopped toeing off his beat-to-shit sneakers. “You’re planning on leaving us already?”
“Four teams in six years. I’ve gotten used to it.”
“But you got us to the championship last year.” LJ stared at me with his eyes wide, like I’d be insane to leave. He was the only one who might have the slightest hint of understanding about what it was like to be on a team where you never got to play. Our old college coach had benched him for most of the last two seasons because of his best friend, the coach’s daughter. They’d started out as just friends, but the turning point had probably come at some point around when I’d found him on his knees with her skirt bunched up around her hips ‘checking for a bee sting’. They pretended to be just friends for a while longer before it all came out.
He’d been an absolute wreck that season when he could get barely a quarter of field time.
Try an average of less than a play most games.
“I know, it’ll be good to get back on the field with you guys this season.”
Reece tugged on his moisture-wicking shirt. “You looked great during training camp. I can’t believe they don’t have you starting.”
I did. I was unproven. An unproven vet. “Such is the life of the human good luck charm.” I got ready, putting on all my gear although I’d be lucky to set foot beyond the sidelines this game. ‘Woe is me’ felt wrong. So many guys would kill to be in my position. How many made it to their fifth season with only one injury?
Everyone stopped by the strength and conditioning coaches and physiotherapists. Reece had a clicky shoulder. Berk’s hamstring was on the mend, and LJ’s left knee had been giving him trouble. After my break in Charlotte there hadn’t been anything serious, but I hadn’t strained a muscle in three years.
When most guys were hitting the end of their pro run, I had fresh legs and arms—hell, my body was practically still covered in the plastic sheeting that was so satisfying to peel off the screen of a new phone.
Coach came in to give us a rousing speech about how this season would be our season again. I’d heard the speech many times before, and I didn’t miss the gazes darting in my direction throughout it.
No shrinking back. No having guys doubt their chances out on the field. It was what I did. Even though I did fucking nothing. Inside, my heart raced like I was about to run out onto the field and snatch an interception from the air, but I kept the cool, confident exterior humming along.
“Suit up and let’s show everyone what we’re made of!”
His final shout of determination shot a spike of adrenaline through me, although I wouldn’t be playing. The smells of pain reliever, leather, plastic pads, and determination hung in the air, and everyone was pumped.
A few minutes later, it was time to take our places in the lineup to head out to the sidelines. Guys bounced on the toes of their feet, sprung high into the air, or rocked back and forth, gazes fixed on the light at the end of the stadium-staff-lined tunnel.
Announcements echoed and reverberated down, bouncing off the painted cinderblock walls. I rested my bare fingertips against the wall, feeling the energy of the place. Everyone behind me did the same, and then the guys in front of me caught on and reached their hands out.
Every move I made before a game became a team ritual. Sometimes I was tempted to break out into the chicken dance.
LJ knocked into my shoulder. “You ready?”
A chuckle locked in my chest. “I’m always ready.” To sit on the sidelines.
Guys up front took off toward the field and we followed along, fingers brushing against the wall, not losing contact until we raced out of the tunnel through the giant banner to kick off the season before finding our spots on the sidelines.
Around me, the stadium came alive like a writhing, undulating beast. Fans were on their feet, screaming from the time they entered until they left. The city certainly had a way of welcoming its athletic heroes.
Goose bumps rose on my arms like cleats pressing into fresh sod.
I stared up at the stands and breathed in the sights and sounds. The whole place was coming alive.
The team huddled up, and I took my place amongst them. Slowly, a path parted through the huddle and I was nudged closer to the front. My helmet rocked and tapped as guys rubbed and patted it like I was a lucky charm. I’d learned after my first season to wear the helmet during the huddle or they’d rub a damn bald spot into my head.
Coach shoved his headset down around his neck and clapped his hands against his clipboard before addressing the team. “Let’s get out there everyone and kick off this season the right way. Keyton’s here with us once again, which means we’re bringing home the ring in February. Do what needs to be done to get us all there and make this city proud!”
The team clustered even tighter before shouting ‘we’ve come to win!’ and breaking the huddle. Offensive and defensive lines broke apart, finding their coaches. The offense rushed out onto the field.
I pulled off my helmet and grabbed my seat on the edge of the bench.
Berk, Reece and LJ all had their time on the field.
But the win was tight. In the final seven seconds, a field goal sailed through the air of an almost-silent stadium, ready to snatch the game from the jaws of victory.
The wind gods were with us and it flew wide, glancing off the left upright.
Pacing on the sidelines turned to cheers. Towels were whipped overhead and primal screams ripped through the stands. I’d hate to see what happened when we lost. It felt inevitable and like a ticking time bomb looming over my professional career.
I was debriefed, showered, changed and back out to my car before some of the fans had even left. We were all meeting up at Tavola for dinner after the game, which had become harder to get a table at than any five-star restaurant in the city. Good thing we knew the owner. Nix had left The Brothel before I moved in, but he helped keep up a steady supply of killer food for our house full of football players.
I’d settle into another season of reviewing tapes for games I wasn’t in and reviewing opponents’ tapes to study for games I wouldn’t play in, but the thread of hope was there that I could make it onto the field this season. Not in the first city I’d ever considered home, but in Wisconsin.