“Best seats in the house,” she murmurs. Her hands cup around her raised knees. The right one has a nasty surgical scar. It looks like a fighter’s mark, which makes her about ten times hotter.
I turn my attention to the field to stop the drain of blood into my shorts. “Can you even see the game from up here?” I squint and try to imagine what I look like down there with my pads and helmet, as I ready myself to blast by a blocker and shove the quarterback’s face into the dirt.
“Who cares if you can see? I’m here to drink beer and use the cow bell.” She mimes ringing the bell.
“This is the church of football, lady.” I slap a hand across my chest.
“Oh, is that what they play here? I thought it was soccer.” She’s playing me and I like it.
“That’s sacrilegious. This is clearly where the greatest sport of all time is played.” I wave a hand toward the pristine green field and the cavernous bowl that I swear still rings with the cheers of last year’s crowd.
“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?”