Courtney’s voice was as sad as I felt. “If they score . . . Game over.”
Michigan’s offense hustled onto the field and huddled up, and my gaze locked onto Jay’s back. They’d scored on our last turnover, and even though it shouldn’t have, watching him celebrate with his team had felt a little like a slap in the face.
We were positioned on the side of Michigan’s end zone, and I wasn’t sure I could watch as the teams came together on OSU’s 25-yard line, all the way on the other side of the field. Anxiety and anticipation churned like a violent ocean in the stadium. We had to stop them from scoring, or force an interception, or . . . something. My gaze flicked up to the jumbotron, and I willed myself not to blink.
The ball snapped to Radcliff, and a wall of Ohio State players surged forward.
Had the Michigan quarterback’s demons come back to haunt him? The ball squirted out of his hands and dropped to the ground, bouncing away. He rushed to the side and fell on it a split-second before two OSU players did.
A yellow flag sailed onto the grass. “Flag on the play.” The announcer was emotionless. “Personal foul by Michigan thirty-two. Facemask. Loss of fifteen yards.”
Finally, he gets the facemask call, I wanted to scream. Where the hell was that ref during the Purdue game?
The penalty breathed new hope into us. The line of scrimmage was now all the way back at the seven. The huddle broke. My gaze was glued to the enormous screen at the top of the stadium, and I swallowed hard. Our defense was outstanding. Could we sack Radcliff and score a safety?
The ball was tossed into the quarterback’s hands. He pump-faked, and I watched his eyes shift from one receiver to another. Decision made, he reared back and then set it loose. I clenched the pom-poms in my frozen fingers, and dropped my gaze from the screen to the field as the ball spiraled flawlessly . . .
. . . into Jay’s hands.
The crowd roared at the perfect hookup between quarterback and tight end. Whatever route Jay had run, it had fooled Tariq, but not for long. As Jay tucked the ball and turned downfield, his opponent picked up steam.
It was both horrifying and beautiful to watch them run. Jay blew past the forty-five. He crossed the forty. Tariq was gunning for him, but Jay stayed ahead, maintaining a bubble of safety. Every step brought eighty-eight closer to both me and the end zone.
“No, no! Get him!” Sean’s voice was loud in my ear, but I said nothing.
I . . . didn’t want Tariq to catch him.
The slightest smile crept across my face. It widened as Jay sprinted past the thirty.
Then, the twenty-five.
“Go,” I said softly. “Go. Go!”
I started to bounce on my toes when he was at the twenty, and it graduated to full-out jumping at the fifteen. Tariq had closed the gap and was gaining on Jay, who only needed to outrun him ten more yards.
“Go, go go!” I screamed, my voice as loud as it ever had been, and for a split second, Jay’s helmet turned.
“Take his head off!” Sean yelled.
Courtney joined in. “Stop him!”
“Go, Jay! Go!”
Tariq vaulted forward at the five-yard line, his powerful arms outstretched. But Jay timed his own leap perfectly and avoided the tackle just long enough to break the plane into the end zone. The line judge threw his arms up, and everything descended into pure chaos.
It was madness. Total anarchy on the field. The entire Michigan sideline cleared and rushed the end zone. Security couldn’t contain the crowd. All one hundred thousand Michigan fans wanted on the field and seemed to flood the grass simultaneously.
I was swept up with them, jostled between drunk students and grown men who were crying tears of joy, and was propelled to the end zone. I should have felt anguish at the Ohio State loss, but I didn’t. I had the intense urge to find the guy who’d just scored the game winning touchdown against us, but not to murder him. To congratulate him. To put my lips on his and maybe never stop kissing him.
Somehow, on the war-torn field amongst all the people, I spotted Jay’s helmet. Cameras were extended up above the crowd, trying to take pictures, and I pushed my way through, fighting to get to him.
“Jay!” It’s not like he could hear me over all the screaming, but I didn’t know what else to do. I wormed my way deeper, trying to stay low and move fast. Every second more people poured onto the field and soon I wouldn’t be able to move at all.
Students climbed the goalposts. They jumped on them and tried to bring them down.
“Jay!” I screamed again. I’d gotten close, judging by the circle of cameras, but I couldn’t see him anymore. “Jay Harris!”
A hand shoved between two people, as if searching for something. I looked down at the blue and yellow glove and grabbed on. It retracted, pulling me along until I squeezed between the people and was suddenly face-to-face with him. Well, more like face-to-chest, staring at the blue jersey with the number eighty-eight printed in yellow. I looked up.
Jay pulled off his helmet and grinned. The eye black on his face was smudged with sweat. His forehead was red from the pads inside his helmet and he was still out of breath, but it didn’t stop him from pulling me up into his arms. He crushed his lips to mine.
I felt like I was floating. No, wait. When he lifted me, I wrapped my legs and arms around him, clinging to his shoulder pads as his powerful kiss slayed me. It was over too soon, but he pulled back just enough so I could stare into his deep eyes.
“I love you,” he said.
The world slowed to a stop.
My gasp was quieted under his lips as he kissed me again, but the Michigan fans’ sharp sounds of horror were very loud. The flashes of the cameras were so bright and constant, I could see them behind my closed eyelids. I didn’t care. I never wanted to stop kissing him.
Yet I broke away, more breathless now than he was. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”
I’d been teasing, but he was completely serious. “No, I’m not. And why do I need to make you feel better? The team you were rooting for won.” He dropped a quick kiss on my stunned lips. “I saw you.”
“You saw me when you were running for that touchdown. Right.”
His eyes were full of love. “You might be small, but you’re kinda hard to miss.”
“Whatever.” I tightened my arms around his shoulders, trying to ignore all the people who were gawking at us. “I love you. I was cheering for you, not Michigan.”
“Cold day in hell, huh?” He laughed.
“Well . . .” I placed a hand on the side of his face and leaned in for another kiss. “It is snowing.”
Epilogue
FIVE YEARS LATER: KAYLA
A bead of sweat rolled down between my shoulder blades, and I tried not to melt in the glaring sun. It was eighty degrees outside, but it was hotter than the surface of the sun here in the stands. I glanced at the Chicago Bears fans around me. No one else was sweating like I was. Didn’t they feel like they were in an oven?
“Kayla.”