“Romeo—” she whispered, her voice sounding conflicted.
I needed out, disappointment leaving me no other choice but to bail, so I stood, staring at the door, blurting, “I have a practice I gotta get to.”
I didn’t; I had absolutely nowhere I had to be, but I kind of felt humiliated at her shoot down.
Molly reached out and laced her fingers through mine, making me pause. I stared down at our hands, then to the panic on her face.
Jesus. I couldn’t get a damn read on what she the hell wanted!
“I’ll be here a few more hours yet. I’ll catch you later though, yeah?” she offered politely, only serving to confuse me more.
Trying to find some kind of answer, I bent down, meeting her eyes, catching the blatant interest in their depths.
There it was, that look, the one that told me she wanted me all right; she just needed a gentle push in my general direction.
I left the room, and once out in the corridor, I dug in my bag for pen and paper and scribbled a quick note:
Please come to the game.
I want you there.
Your Romeo X
I read the note back to myself and almost crumpled it up. Damn, that was cheesy. Your Romeo? What the hell was I thinking?
Mol’d seemed quite pleased about our Shakespearean connection the other night, but was this a step too far? Would it persuade her to come to the game, or just make her think I was a fucking tool?
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I laughed at the ridiculous state of myself. Christ, I’d hit an all-time low—Rome Prince pining after a chick who didn’t immediately fall at my feet. But hell, for reasons I couldn’t fully explain, I wanted her in the packed stands, watching me play. I wanted to show her my worth, that I was good at something. I wanted—no, needed—her to believe in me.
Checking no one was around, I slipped the note under the door, quickly walking away and just hoping more than ever that she would be the one person in my life to not let me down.
10
My breathing echoed in my ears, whooshing loudly, the roar of the hundred-thousand-strong cheering crowd drowned out by the hard slam of my heart as I waited for the whistle to blow.
The referee moved into position for the third down, the whistle’s sound only increasing my anticipation and breathing. “Red eighty-three, red eighty-three,” in hard count. The defense didn’t buy it; no one encroached. I called the play again, this time adding, “Down, set, hut hut.” In near silence, the snap fired out of the shotgun.
Catching the ball, I stepped back, one, two, searching for Carillo among the sea of defenders. There he was, with separation from single-man coverage. I raised my arm, drew back my hand, then released, watching the pigskin’s lazy spiral in the air… miss Austin by two yards… again.
FUCK!!!
I didn’t miss the growing groundswell of disappointment as it washed around the stadium. I loped off the gridiron, unable to take my clenched fist off my helmet as I screamed a string of expletives into the air, slamming my free hand on the cursed field.
Catching my QB coach glaring at me from the sidelines, I braced for his tirade. “Bullet, get your head in the game! Focus on Carillo, check down to Porter, but complete the damn pass!” He finished off his inspirational speech by throwing the game photos into my hand. “Study them! Now!”
Gripping the images, I reviewed my check down receiver options, rolling my shoulders, trying to get my head into the game, but all I could feel was crushing pressure.
With each flip of a photo, my father’s words echoed in my head. Football will never happen, boy! Do your duty! My mother’s taunts followed. You’ll mess up football anyway, just like you mess up everything else! You were born to be a failure!
I was. I was fucking everything up and my team didn’t deserve to have me screw the season up for them anymore.
Reece moved beside me, throwing his arm around my shoulders. “You got this, Bullet. Focus!” I knew the kid was trying to be supportive, but if one more person told me to focus, I was going to ram my fist through their head.
Repeatedly.
Ignoring him, my legs shaking with adrenaline, I tried to visualize the next down—just as Coach had taught me. I imagined it going perfectly, imagined the Tide scoring a touchdown, the crowd roaring in happiness.
Before I knew it, I was back on the field. You got this, Rome. You got this, I told myself, trying like hell to psyche myself up. If ever sports psychology was to work for me, for my team and for my school, well, its time had come.
And then it was on. Snap. Catch. Pop.
The ball sailed toward Carillo, not even coming close to his outstretched hands, and instead spiraled straight into the crowd. Whatever amount of heart I had left in this game immediately sank into my stomach as the fans began to fall to their seats in exasperation at my shit execution of pass plays.