Page 33 of Game On
Instead, I long for normality, a simple life far removed from the expectations and pressures that come with being the son of a legend turned fallen hero. A man that went from having it all to living in a trailer park out in West Texas, using alcohol as a stand-in for family.
Once I’m done dialing in, I tap out, grab my helmet, and head to the field. Walking onto the Griffin Park Complex is always a rush—the bright lights, the roar of a good crowd, and the sharp tang of adrenaline.
There’s a moment, right before I step onto that green expanse, when everything around me seems to fade into nothingness. It’s just me and the field, the future and the past converging in a single point. A snapshot of stillness.
And then, before I can make it over to the rest of my teammates, I spot the cheer squad. They’re practicing on the sidelines in front of the growing student section. I scan the group, searching for a swath of dark hair and olive skin. But after trying to find her for more than thirty seconds, I give up, not wanting to waste my time just to catch her eye.
There are bigger things that demand my focus at the moment.
Instead, I walk over to the rest of my team, passing by a number of familiar faces. There’s a quick fist bump with Marcus and Harlen, and a nod to Chase, our other widereceiver. And then there’s Coach Wallace, with his bulging biceps and red face that reminds me of an overripe tomato. He gives a gruff welcome, his gaze barely leaving the clipboard in his hands.
The hour-long stretch before the game is a flurry of activity—going over plays, adjusting strategies, last-minute pep talks. This game doesn’t affect our conference standings, but it’s vital for setting the tone for the rest of the season.
During the last few minutes of warm-ups, the team circles up, everyone putting a hand in the middle. “On three, Grizzlies!” I shout, and on cue, we all roar, “Bear Down!”
I tug on my helmet, adjusting the chin strap just right, and jog out to the field with the rest of the team. Alumni, students, and local fans fill the stands, their cheers and the university band’s music melding into a blend of support that echoes through the stadium.
As the kickoff approaches, I line up with my teammates, glancing once more toward the cheer squad. This time, my eyes lock onto Ella instantly. She’s wearing the standard Whitland uniform: black-and-white short skirt, tiny cropped vest top.
I’m instantly distracted by miles of bare skin and toned muscle. By the way her body moves effortlessly and the confidence she wears like armor. Her hair is pulled back with a white bow, a callback to our first night together that has me shifting on my feet.
I’ve never given much thought to what the cheer squad wears before, but now I can’t help but take notice. God, there’ssomething about this girl that just gets me going. Even from this distance, her presence is magnetic.
Then the whistle blows, snapping me back to reality. The game kicks off, and we’re thrust into the non-stop, hard-hitting action that is college football.
My mind is fully on the game, but in the brief moments between plays, my gaze undoubtedly drifts to the sidelines. To Ella, that electric girl with the spark in her eyes.
The game progresses slowly. We score, they score, but by the third quarter we finally pull ahead. The defense is shutting them down, and our offense is clicking. Touchdown after touchdown, the gap widens, and the crowd’s roar grows louder, feeding our momentum.
As the final whistle blows, signaling our win, the relief is a potent rush that propels me off the field. I pull off my helmet, my hair damp with sweat, my lungs burning from exertion.
I’m happy we clinched another win. Grateful for the boost to our pre-season morale. But something about it feels a little hollow, like there are more pressing matters for me to attend to. The team gathers to celebrate while I peel away, drawn toward the front of the student section.
Ella is there, her new squad gathered around her. Our eyes meet as I make my way over, and this time there’s no crowd to drown out the moment and no game to distract us.
“Solid effort,” she says once I’m close enough to hear.
“Thanks,” I say, tipping my chin. “You were pretty good out there yourself.”
A trace of red heat colors her cheeks. “What can I say? We aim to impress.”
“We’re having a post-game party,” I tell her, the invitation slipping out almost without thought. “You should come. See how Whitland celebrates a win.”
She shrugs. “Yeah, maybe. I’ll stop by if I’m feeling up for it.”
“Uh-huh.” My mouth tugs into a smirk. “Gabi will have the details. I’ll see you there, Davies.”
“I saidmaybe,” she shouts to my back, but her words are drenched with laughter as I walk away. Something tells me she’ll be there. In fact, I’d bet my lucky socks on it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ella
It’s half past nine and I’ve arrived at the after-party. Not because Hudson asked me to come. Not because I wanted to know how Whitland “celebrates a win.” But because it’s Saturday night, and I wanted to go to a party with my new friends.
It doesn’t matter that I couldn’t take my eyes off him on the field today.
The four of us head into the Den, the house where a select group of football players live—a large, rambling structure that could easily pass for a fraternity—and it’s clear the celebration is well underway. The place is packed with people from wall to wall. Loud music is thumping, and red Solo cups are littered everywhere.
