The Tide supporters went wild.
Each of my legs was leaden as I jumped on the spot, readying to run out onto the field. You can do it, Lex. There’s no trigger anymore, I told myself, repeating my mantra in my mind.
Are you sure about that, Lexington? Everyone will see you. Every turn, every jump, every stunt.
Freezing on the spot, I squeezed my eyes shut at the familiar voice worming its way into my thoughts, trying desperately to shut him down.
I look good, healthy, I assured myself, trying my best to counteract his evil comments. You are a good athlete, the best cheerleader, the best gymnast here.
Mmm… I do not think so. Look at Shelly. She is perfect. Slim, pretty. Everything you are not.
Shut up! I demanded mentally as I pinched the bridge of my nose between my fingers, breathing rhythmically to counteract the voice’s crushing words.
You are too heavy to be the flyer. The bases of the stunt will think you are too fat. They will ridicule you, mock you… laugh at you, the voice taunted.
No! You’re wrong. I won’t let you do this! You will not win. I will not fall into your trap anymore! I mentally screamed, and a blissful silence enveloped my mind. With a relieved sigh, I reopened my eyes. The voice had gone. I’d won this battle, but I knew the war was not over.
Quickly casting a glance around the tunnel, I relaxed when I realized only seconds must have passed.
Lyle was suddenly in my face. “You ready, chickadee?” he asked in his most peppy voice. A nervous excitement rushed through me as I nodded.
This was what I lived for.
Game day.
The atmosphere.
Doing what I loved.
I’d missed this.
I craved this.
I wanted it back.
The crowd erupted as Shelly burst from the line and took to the field. My feet twitched with nervous anticipation and, I began to run, letting my cheer-experienced legs carry me forth into the spotlight and to my stage under the floodlights and the burning sun.
My heart contracted at the sight—the crimson-and-white patchwork quilt of the crowd, the sheer size of the band, the white cheer squad on the opposite side of the field, the spirit girls in the crowd, the bullhorns… the thrill.
Reaching the sideline, I took my place as Shelly called the opening chant. “Crimson Tide, Roll Tide, Roll Tide,” eighty thousand people sang in perfect unison.
The powerful dance moves flowed from my body with perfect precision, my voice was clear and loud, and the crowd’s response fuelled my energy.
The announcer took the microphone and, in a loud voice, called forth the team. The noise in Bryant-Denny was deafening and my heart beat in perfect rhythm to the stomping of the crowd’s feet. Then, from the tunnel, Jimmy-Don, the offensive tackle and my best friend Cass’s boyfriend, led the way, followed by Austin Carillo, the heavily tattooed star wide receiver.
The rest of the team burst forward out of the tunnel as if it were pouring out of a stronghold. It was a brotherhood. Last on the field came Rome “Bullet” Prince, star quarterback of the SEC, and the place went insane.
The crowd quieted, players fell into position, and the whistle for kickoff trilled loudly.
Three hours later, and we’d won. Carillo had scored three touchdowns and the Tide took the W from the Mocs—the perfect season opener.
Within minutes, the crowd began to filter out of the stadium and the cheer squad ran back into the tunnel, high off the win.
Trailing at the rear, just taking in the scene, I was left alone. It was strange to see the stadium so quiet, kinda apocalyptic, like the aftermath of some great catastrophic event. Plastic red Solo cups were scattered in the stands, confetti strewn on the grass, and the thick stench of stale beer clung to the humid air.
“Kinda weird, huh?” a deep Bama-accented voice said from beside me.
Dropping my poms in shock, I laid a hand on my chest. Catching a flash of a Crimson shirt, I looked up, blocking the blinding sun from my eyes with my hand, and suddenly lost my breath.
“S-sorry, what?” I asked in a quiet voice, tipping my neck right back to be able to see the guy’s face.
When shade hit, he appeared. Austin Carillo, wide receiver, number eighty-three.
Carillo stepped closer to me from his secluded spot beside the players’ tunnel and the stands. “This. The quiet after the storm.” He gestured to the empty stadium with a wave of his hand. “It’s my favorite part of the game.”
I followed the action of his hand. “Not the three touchdowns you scored?”
The corners of his mouth hooked up in a reluctant smirk. I’d seen Carillo around campus from time to time over the past three years, and I think it was the first time I’d ever seen him crack anything close to a smile. I wasn’t surprised. He was like me—darker, quieter, kept to himself.