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 f**king 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 f**king 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.
I could throw better in pee-wee football.
Turning away from my equally frustrated teammates, I caught a glance of the Jumbotron, expecting to see my f**king horrendous replay, but instead saw a fight break out in the lower student section of the stands, right near where Ally was sitting, and I witnessed some chick get pummeled to the floor by the douchebags. A brunette chick, who, when the crowd cleared, sat up, stunned, holding her nose.
Recognition hit me like a damn truck.
Shit. Shakespeare!
Acting on pure instinct, I unsnapped my chinstrap, tore off my helmet, and charged off, completely ignoring the entire on-field coaching staff screaming at my back and my teammates staring at each other in absolute disbelief.
Jumping the barrier into the stands, I pushed my way through the student body, shrugging off grabs at my jersey and ignoring the chicks trying to rub up against me.
A path appeared before me and at its end, Molly peered around, looking so f**king hot in a short white dress and brown cowboy boots that showcased her tanned legs to perfection. But that didn’t distract me from the panic seeping into my veins at the thought of her being hurt… because of my shit pass.
“Shit, Shakespeare! I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” Dropping my helmet to the floor with a crash, I powered through the crowd to Molly’s flushed-with-embarrassment face and without thinking, grabbed her flaming cheeks in my hands—my sanity, once again, gone without a trace.
Large golden eyes darted everywhere, clearly expressing her lack of comfort at being put on display, but f**k that; I needed to know she was okay. And more than that, it quickly hit home that she’d shown up. Shit. She’d come here for me… because of that note… She’d actually done as I’d asked…She’d actually come for me.
“Rome, I’m okay. I was saved by my glasses. They laid their lives on the line to save my nose.” She held the broken frames in her hands, keeping them steady against her eyes, and I couldn’t help but laugh. The stadium fell away as she went on to complain about the drunken guys who hit her square in the face, but all I could think about as she rambled on was that she was here.
Rubbing my thumb on her grazed cheek, I shook my head and laughed. “It had to be you. Out of everyone in this entire f**king stadium, it had to be you who was involved.” Tilting my head, I continued. “I’m no longer surprised; you’re always there. I think someone’s trying to tell me something.”
A blush flooded her cheeks, the heat of the action warming my hands. “I was going for a Coke,” she answered and I couldn’t help but laugh at her gripping the two bits of broken plastic to her eyes, just so she could keep looking at my face.