I don’t like Minnesota.
I’m trying to get used to it, though, because this is where we’re playing. Surrounded by purple and assholes in Viking hats. They shout shit at me as they find their seats. I don’t listen. I never do. I’m good at ignoring, and right now I need to be ready to fight this one war on this field, not a scrap in the stands. If we take a loss here tonight it could steal our momentum and put us out of the running for the Super Bowl, and I’m not about to let that happen.
“You okay?”
I turn to my right to find Luxe, one of the assistant athletic trainers standing next to me. She’s in her gear for the game. The team colors and a red emergency bag slung over her shoulder. Her long, caramel hair is pulled back in a serious bun, her golden skin devoid of makeup. She doesn’t need it. The girl is a knockout in any crowd, a Hispanic beauty with all the trimmings; full lips, deep, dark eyes, curves in all the right places. Today she downplays it, the same way Sloane downplays the fact that she’s a woman when she’s doing business. Both take their jobs seriously, and I respect the hell out of that. They’re not out to win beauty pageants. They’re here to work.
“I’ve got a monster headache,” I admit to Luxe.
She nods as she digs into her bag. She produces two white pills and hands them to me. “Do you need water?”
“Nah, I can swallow ‘em dry.”
To prove my point I tilt my head back and drop the pills down my throat.
Luxe watches me with a small grin. “You must be sick.”
“It’s just a headache.”
“That’s not what I meant. You talked to me about ‘swallowing’ without making it weird. That’s not like you. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“And you’re lying. That’s not like you either.”
“Thanks for the meds,” I tell her, turning my back to exit the conversation. It’s not the headspace I need to be in right now. Not ever, actually.
“How’s your knee?” she calls after me.
“Strong,” I answer, same as always.
Because Luxe is wrong; lying is nothing new to me.
Three hours later I’m in my gear. I’ve got my game face on. I’m smiling for the camera as it cruises past me, catching me take a big bite out of the Snickers in my hand. I act like I love it. I act like I’m happy. Like I’m amped, but inside I’m a wreck. I’m exhausted and sick. I’m alone.
I’m back to before. Before the bakery and the candies. Before the cookies. Before Lilly. It seems impossible, like it all happened so fast that I didn’t have time to really enjoy it. I met her, I fell for her, I lost her. One, two, three – gone. It has to be some kind of record.
Colt Fucking Avery, I think morosely, tossing the other half of the candy bar into a trash can. Neck breaking speed in everything he does. Even breaking his own heart.
I’m jostled from behind, my body thrown forward from a hit to my back.
“You ready, baby?!” Fiso shouts at me. “You ready to do this shit!”
I push him back. “Yeah, bitch! Fuck, yeah!”
I smack the side of his helmet hard. He laughs, doing the same to me. Son of a bitch nearly takes my head off.
I yell in reply, primal and full of rage.
“That’s right, Avery! Wooo!”
This feels good. The adrenaline, the fight. This is what I need more than anything. I need these hours on the field with my body pushed to the limits, hammered into the ground, bouncing back up to do it again. This is what I’m built for, nothing else.
This win is all that matters.
We win the coin toss. We opt to go offense.
We line up for the kickoff. I’m on the twenty, bouncing on my toes, waiting for my shot. I’m hoping their kicker is a dud. Andreas said he’s inconsistent because he broke his foot two years ago and he’s been gun-shy ever since. If that’s true, if he drops that ball anywhere near the twenty yard line, I’m running it. No fair catch. No out of bounds. They’ll have to kill me for it.
Their kicker jumps up and down, getting ready. Finally he runs at it from the right, coming in hot and drilling it high into the sky. It’s a line drive kick. It sails over our guys waiting on the fifty. Over me and Matthews on the twenty. It drops in a slow arc down into the end zone, right into Anthony’s waiting arms.
He hasn’t called a fair catch. He’s running it.