Page 20 of The Pass Protection
Dad shakes his head. No matter how often he’s tried to tell me that I need to lower the volume before turning off my car, I’ve never listened. I’m always in too big of a hurry and want to jam out for as long as I can.
“Drive safe, and I’ll see you later this weekend on our flight to Ohio.”
I wave goodbye as Dad shuts the door before stepping away and waving back.
Shifting into reverse, I back out of my spot and tap the horn twice before sliding into drive.
What kind of surprise could my dad possibly be planning?
’Twas the night before we traveled to our first game of the season, and all through the apartment, not a person stirred as everyone was tucked in their beds as visions of touchdowns danced in their heads.
Oh, who am I kidding?
The rest of the apartment might be tucked soundly in their beds, but my nerves have allowed sleep to evade me as I’ve spent the last three hours tossing and turning. Whenever I think I’m about to drift off into a peaceful slumber, visions of me fumbling the ball come crashing into my head. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the visions switch to me allowing the ball to slip through my fingers and into my defenders for an interception.
Letting out a deep exhale, I pull the string on my lamp. The room cascades in a warm glow before I reach for my phone, which is plugged in on my nightstand. It’s nearing one a.m., and a new text message sent five minutes ago is waiting on me. It’s from Brynn Wilder. She’s Quinton Boyd’s girlfriend—well, wife. I guess that makes her Brynn Boyd, but I haven’t switched her name in my contacts. The two decided to elope with a surprise wedding last spring before Q was drafted into the NFL. It would be an understatement to say it was quite a shock to all of us back at CTU.
Since sleep is evading me, I swipe open her message. The bright light from the screen illuminates the room, and I squint to read her text.
Brynn Wilder: Hey, family dinner is on Sunday night at our house! Keep me updated on the team’s travel schedule, and we will have dinner waiting! Oh, and bring Bret! Can’t believe I haven’t run into that hottie on campus yet. Good luck, Riggsby!
Me: Thanks, Brynn. I’ll keep you posted, and we’ll be there.
Tossing my phone on my comforter, I fling the navy bedspread off my boxer-clad body and reach for my sketchbook to distract me. Sliding out my pencil from the sketchbook spirals, I flip the pages, passing over drawings until I find a blank page. Hopefully, the movements of lead against the crisp pages will help calm my nerves.
Bringing my legs up until they are bent in front of me, I rest the notepad against my thighs and adjust my body until I’m sitting up comfortably. My grip on the pencil is loose as I let my mind melt away as I conjure up an image to draw. The pencil almost moves on its own accord as the rhythmic sounds of the lead against the paper create a soothing, scratching sound.
Within minutes, I begin losing myself in the details—the sharpness of the beak, the strength of its wings, and the freedom of its flight. I chuckle as I realize the image my mind conjured is no other than an eagle soaring through the air. Clearly, I cannot escape the call of the eagle.
Growing up, when my dad had some free time in his day, which wasn’t common since life on the farm was demanding, we would load the small Jon boat onto the trailer and head to the lake. We’d leave the boat ramp, and the two of us would navigate the aluminum boat down a channel to search out eagles. Once he realized I enjoyed sketching, heencouraged me to bring my sketchpad and pencil to draw the wildlife we encountered.
He was always so proud of my drawings. Once I got into middle school, he pushed me to enter the school’s art fair. After winning my school’s art fair and then the district’s, Dad was the first person to say, “I told you so” when I questioned if I had what it takes. No matter how much I loved drawing, I knew pursuing it in any way would either not pay the bills or would take the enjoyment out of it. This is why I find myself sketching wildlife drawings as a guilty pleasure hobby.
Bringing my attention back to the image on the paper, I focus on the fierce expression I’m creating with each stroke as I bring the eagle to life. The eyes show a menacing gaze, while the wings are powerful with layers of feathers. Large wings showcase the eagle’s gracefulness as it soars through the sky.
Minutes seem to turn into hours as time passes before my eyes. A soft knock and my door widening catches my attention, startling me. My heart races in surprise and then quickly races for another reason.
“Hey.” Her warm voice fills the quiet room. “I saw your light and thought I’d check on you.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
Nibbling on her bottom lip, I take the opportunity to scan the goddess in front of me. She’s dressed in an oversized black tee with a skull on the front and the name “Machine Gun Kelly” in pink font. Her long legs are on full display, and her jet-black hair is on the top of her head in a messy bun.
“Want some company?”
Shuffling over, I pat the spot next to me, inviting her into my space. She tentatively places one foot in front of the other as she closes the door behind her. She scans the walls as her feet carry her toward mygaze. With soft touches, her fingers trail across the surfaces she passes. The first thing that catches her eye is my framed jersey on the wall.
“How did I not notice this the other day?” Amusement laces her voice as she takes in my signed jersey. It’s from a fan-favorite tight end who is now retired but once played for a popular northeastern NFL team.
“You were too busy meeting my mom.”
“She’s so cute.”
“Don’t tell her that. You’ll become her favorite, and I’ll be booted to the curb.” Bret flashes me a warm smile over her shoulder.
“Don’t worry, your spot is safe, Mama’s Boy.” She points to the jersey. “Was he your favorite tight end?”
“He was. He was incredible on the field and his personality was the best—the things he would say and do. I loved watching him. My parents—they, uh…” I pause, rubbing my hand down the back of my neck. “They got me the signed jersey for Christmas. It was the last Christmas I had with my dad.”
