But we didn’t do much with it.
We got one new set of downs, but then had to punt it away. It was early. Our boys just needed to settle and find their rhythm. But Michigan’s defense was good, and anxiety twisted inside me as their explosive offense took over.
The Wolverine huddle was significantly downfield from me, but as it broke, I watched Jay move into position and I set my teeth. The ground felt less stable beneath me than when I’d been balanced on Sean’s hand. I’d never been so on edge during a game in my life.
The ball was snapped, and Radcliff didn’t move from the pocket. He turned and fired it to Jay, right in the numbers. My throat closed up as he spun out of a tackle and bolted downfield. It was like he was running right at me, and I was paralyzed. My brain fractured between wanting his success and not wanting Michigan to score on their opening drive.
Certainly not on their first fucking play.
Jay passed the thirty, the twenty-five, the twenty—
Dark arms wrapped around his chest and drove him into the ground with a loud grunt and the sound of bodies colliding with hard, cold turf. The Ohio State player took his time getting up off Jay, and I pressed my lips together. Tariq Crawford rose to stand and lingered for a moment over the opponent he’d just tackled. He was saying something to Jay, but I couldn’t hear it over the announcer, and probably wouldn’t want to. Tariq’s confrontational body language made me sure they weren’t exchanging recipes.
“Harris,” the male announcer said, “brought down on the eighteen by Ohio State thirty-three. First down, Michigan!”
The stands hollered and cheered as Jay put his hands on the turf and pushed himself up. His gaze found mine for a second while he snapped his loose chinstrap back in place, and he flashed an easy smile. Like he was enjoying himself. I didn’t get to look at him long, because he turned and hurried back to the huddle.
A tiny voice of worry would not shut up in my brain. Tariq Crawford had just done what he hadn’t been able to the last three seasons—he’d caught Michigan’s eighty-eight.
In between the play, we rocketed Courtney into the air for a huge toe-touch, and as she dropped safely into the basket catch, I shivered in the cold wind. I had long underwear on underneath my gray Nike warmups, and a fleece headband to cover my ears, so I could tolerate the temperature right now. But it was only going to get colder as the sun set, and the forecast called for snow tonight.
The Michigan huddle broke again. They came to the line of scrimmage. The ball was hiked and Radcliff handed it off to a running back, who wove through OSU’s defense like he was slalom skiing. Jay threw a perfect block, opening a hole.
No, no! Where the hell was our defense? The running back dove across the white line and landed in the paint of the end zone.
“Michigan touchdown!” the announcer said.
Once again, the sound of the fans in the stadium was too loud to hear anything else. Which meant no one heard me violate the uniform policy and utter the curse word I couldn’t contain.
-38-
JAY
For the first time in my life, I was enjoying being on the sidelines as much as I did playing. Because when I stood beside the portable heater with my coat slung over my shoulders, I could watch Kayla. It was crazy, the stuff she could do, although I almost had a fucking heart attack the first time I watched her teammates launch her into the air.
Like they had no clue how much I cared about the girl they were flinging toward the clouds. Jesus, did they have to throw her so high? I knew her squad was great, but that shit looked dangerous.
We were up by seven, which was good. What wasn’t good? How we hadn’t been able to move the chains since then. What was even worse? Crawford had gotten fast. Shit, he was so fucking fast. Evan had only targeted me a few times, and Crawford had been all over me, breathing down my neck.
I needed to break away from him or risk no more balls thrown my direction. No touches meant no more opportunities to make plays, and I knew there were plenty of agents watching this game.
When the quarter ended, the Ohio State cheerleaders moved to a new spot, this one closer to our bench. I kept my gaze on the action on the field, but I could feel how close she was, and warmth spread through me. With all the shit going on, it was crazy how awesome it was to share this experience with her. My parents were somewhere up in the stands, but Kayla was right here with me.
I could even hear her voice, louder than the other cheerleaders. Maybe it was because she was the only one shouting.
“Darius! Darius!”
He glanced her way and did a double-take when he saw who was calling him.
Her expression was sinister. “You got something you want to get off your chest?”
With his helmet off, it was clear how much Darius didn’t want to. His voice was weak, barely louder than the running heater. “Go Buckeyes.”
The one player from my bench who heard him turned to stare. Like he wasn’t sure he’d heard his teammate right. Darius peered back to Kayla for confirmation.
She put her hands on her waist and delivered a dark look, one that screamed, Not good enough.
“Go Buckeyes!” he shouted. Every pair of eyes on our sideline snapped to him. The OSU crowd nearby cheered and laughed.
“Jesus, Darius!” Amos yelled. “You got fucking Tourette’s?”
Kayla beamed victoriously at him, but abruptly her face morphed into excitement. There were shouts from the OSU fans, and louder noises of horror from my bench. I wheeled around, scanning the field to catch up.
Shit. One of their guys dashed for the end zone, and no blue jerseys were even close. Behind me, the cheerleaders were screaming, probably jumping up and down. But our safety gained on him and plowed into the OSU guy, stopping him before scoring. Christ, that hit was brutal. So devastating that the guy—
The ball was loose!
“No, no!” Kayla screamed. “Get it!”
Blood roared in my ears, right along with every Michigan fan. Barclay, a junior cornerback, scooped up the ball, locked it in an arm, and flew toward the end zone. The stands were madness. People shouted and screamed, stomping their feet so it rumbled through the Big House like thunder.
“No, no, no!” Kayla cried.
There wasn’t a soul around Barclay when he sailed into the end zone. Our bench erupted in celebration. I was swept up in it, high-fiving my guys, and watching the coaches congratulate each other. The band played, and the stadium sang along while special teams hurried onto the field.
I slapped a hand on the back of Barclay’s helmet when he came to the sideline. “Fuck yeah, man.”