Page 93 of The Late Hit
The crowd erupts. Cheering and clapping ring out as the band fires up a quick beat. Campbell goes down the row of players, introducing us to the crowd. We stand when our name is called and wave to the crowd. Once he announces Will—the douche—as the last player up here, the cheerleaders take over.
“E-A-G! L-E-S!” Chants echo through the crowd, our sign that our time here is done.
Climbing the stairs off the stage, I find my parents waiting on me.
“There’s our boy.” I hear my mom as she comes up to me, wrapping her arms around me for a hug.
“Hi, Ma.”
Hugging her back, I look over her shoulder for the one girl I was hoping would be waiting for me. Releasing me, my mom steps aside, only for my father to take her place.
“Son.” He stretches his hand out for a shake.
“Dad,” I respond, gripping his hand in a firm shake.
Did I grip him a little stronger than necessary? I’ll never tell. But I will say, I’ll never look weak in front of this man. Xavier and Damien are standing next to Dad, and all three of us give a nod in greeting.
“Your father and I can’t wait for Saturday. Our baby is going to kick some major ass.” Mom says, drawing my attention back down to her.
“There’s a few people here I want you to meet, son.” Dad gestures toward the opposite end of where we are standing.
There’s a pop-up tent with men in suits with CTU-colored ties. They don’t look like men who I want to introduce myself to, not tonight.
“Not tonight, Dad. Tonight is my night,” I respond, reaching up and gripping his shoulder. Leaning down, I give my mom a hug. “See you tomorrow for lunch,” I whisper in her ear, and then I walk away from my family.
Walking through the crowd is a challenge. People clap me on the back, wishing me good luck this weekend. Spotting Brynn and Chloe sitting on a table, I change my direction to get to them. I’m just about to them when a little boy steps in my path. I almost run him over, but my hands reach out to grip his shoulder on instinct to make sure he doesn't fall over.
“Whoa, dude, almost didn’t see you there.”
“Holy shit,” the kid gasps. “Quinton Boyd just called me dude.”
A woman slides up beside him. “Tanner, cuss word.”
Looking up at what appears to be his mom, the boy—Tanner—rolls his eyes.
“Mom, it was warranted. It’s Quinton Boyd.” He gestures to me, his mom following his hand to see who he is pointing at.
Sheepishly, she looks at me with a little embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Tanner has been so excited about this event all week. I didn’t think he’d track you down and almost tackle you.”
Laughing, I smile at the woman before squatting down to the little boy. “All good. So, you’re Tanner?”
He just nods his head, a tinge of pink spreading across his cheeks. Reaching my fist out to the boy, I wait as he bumps it back.
“How old are you, Tanner?”
“Se-seven,” he stutters out.
“Seven is a sweet age.”
Looking down at his hands, I notice he’s holding something.
“Want me to sign your jersey?”
With his eyes bugging out, his energy skyrockets. “Oh my god, that’d be so cool. I seriously didn’t think I’d meet you tonight. Oh my god, Mom,” Tanner rushes out, looking up at his mom, pure excitement written all over his face. “Mom! Mom! Get the marker out!”
His mom reaches into her small bag and starts moving items around, searching for her marker. It takes her a couple of minutes, then her face falls, and moisture lines her eyes.
“Tanner, baby, I forgot it.”
