Page 32 of This Wild Heart

A devious smile spread over my face before I could stop it.

Chapter 8

Parker

The clock read 3:58 a.m. when I woke during a particularly vivid dream about Anya and my jersey. My chest heaved as I tried to get my breathing under control, and the images disappeared the longer I lay there.

“Shit,” I breathed, scrubbing my hands over my face.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a few minutes. I tried to imagine having breakfast with her after what was just in my head. Then I pinched my eyes shut because my stupid fucking brain understood that to be,imagine if you had her for breakfast.

I’d crack by day three if I kept this up.

Flinging the covers off my lap, I decided there was only one safe place for me to go.

“It’s fourth and goal for Portland, a long four yards to that end zone. What are you going for in the playbook if you’re their offensive coordinator?”

“No question about it, I’m looking for either one of their tight ends. Parker Wilder and Beckett Coleman have been deadly for this Voyagers offense the past couple of years, and why take the ball to the ground when their attack in the air has worked so well? We’re not going for a first down; we’re trying to score. Both players are tall and fast, they block well, it’s been fun to watch, and I think Wilder has been playing with a bit of edge this season, so they might look to him.”

I’d watched the clip a million times already. As the time-out ended, I could tell you exactly which player would line up where. Could tell you each flinch. Each step. Each point of their arm as we communicated prior to the snap.

There wasn’t much point in watching my teammates anymore, though. I kept my eyes on myself as I jogged to the right, hands on my hips while our QB tapped a few of his offensive lineman and pointed out something he saw in the formation.

The blitz was coming, that much was obvious, and lining me up to the right, when I normally favored the left, paired me with someone who was easily two steps slower and just a couple of inches shorter.

“Wilder is out right; Coleman is left. Who’re you throwing to?” the announcer asked.

“Wilder. He’s got some of the best hands in the league right now, and the time he’s spent in the gym this last season, he’s almost impossible to slow down. The guy is a monster. Absolute terror to defend. I’d put him toe-to-toe with anyone we’ve seen play the position in the past ten to fifteen years.”

“In big moments, you go for your big players because the trust is there,” the first guy said. “And what’s bigger than one last shot at getting your team to their first Super Bowl in franchise history? Portland down by four with thirty seconds to go. Just used their last time-out. The entire game hinges on this last play going off without a hitch. Let’s see if we’re right.”

The play clock clicked down. Christian hitched his leg up, our first sign that he was about to snap the ball. He barked the play again.Gold boot thirty-two Texas.At first, the memorization of the playbook felt impossible. Who could remember four random words and somehow know what they meant? But now, I could see every single one of them play out in my sleep. Gold was the formation. Boot the play type. Thirty-two the protection scheme for the O-line. And Texas was the cadence.

We’d practiced this all week, just the slightest tweak to the protection scheme to trick the defense into thinking I’d pull into the middle, but instead, I’d head to the corner, like I usually do, then come back to the front of the end zone after the linebacker guarding me buys the route I’m running.

And it worked. Like a fucking charm, too.

Christian clapped, the ball straight into his hands after a clean snap. I pushed off from the line while he danced back a few feet in the pocket, then I sprinted past the linebacker, who stayed with me every step into the end zone.

One of their safeties backed away from the line and edged in my direction, and it made the linebacker hesitate just a fraction of a second, assuming his coworker was covering that front of the end zone. That was when I cut back up front.

Reyes threw a rocket. An absolute dream of a throw. A dime. Couldn’t ask for anything better. Not too high. Not too low. Just far enough to the right where the safety couldn’t get a hand on it and chest high so I could snag it from the air.

“That’s it,” the announcer yelled. “Wilder in the end zone, he’s alone,perfectpass from Reyes and…”

And then I dropped it.

The ball hit my hands. And I didn’t hold on.

The defense erupted, the linebacker guarding me knocked into me with his shoulder as he ran past to celebrate with his teammates.

“I am stunned, Joe,” the announcer said. “I cannot believe what I’m seeing. Parker Wilder was one catch away from his team going to the Super Bowl. The blocking was incredible. He wasn’t even the only guy open!”

“He was the only guy their quarterback was looking at, though,” the other said, making a disappointed noise. “He just couldn’t hold on. There’s no excuse for that. When you’rethe guyon your team, you gotta make those catches. It’s going to be a rough night in the Voyagers locker room after this game because if I’m Wilder’s teammates, I’m looking at him like … how do you not catch that?”

I didn’t turn it off there. I let the rest of the game play out. Watched in the dark film room while the camera panned to me on the sideline. I didn’t throw my helmet. Didn’t yell or curse or break anything.

I just … sat there. Staring at the field. Watching the other team celebrate. My teammates gave me a wide berth. Coach leaned in to say something, and my expression didn’t change at all.

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