Page 64 of Most Likely to Score
“Miami was . . . just work.”
The crowd roars. The din of sixty thousand fans in Seattle vibrates across the field, a steady drumbeat. That noise is paired with insults from the D line, the usual trash talk, words about my mother, your mother, my dick, your dick. I tune it all out, narrowing on Cooper taking the snap.
My cue. Breaking to the right, I race downfield,hunting for an opening every step of the way. The score is tied, and it’s the fourth quarter. There are two minutes left in the first game of the season in early September, against one of our division rivals on their home turf.
I have one job. Find the gap.
I dodge a speed-demon cornerback, racing into the perfect spot as Cooper launches the ball. All my senses zero in on one thing. My eyes track the pigskin like an eagle scanning for fish.
Crosshairs. Mine. I own that ball.
A linebacker appears out of nowhere, aiming for me. A quick sidestep, a double back, and I’m right where I need to be, avoiding him as the ball arcs low toward the grass. That won’t fucking do. No way in hell is this pass going incomplete.
I stretch my arms as I lunge for the ball, extending my hands. The football tap dances on the tips of my fingers. This is when the big hands count the most, and I grapple the edge, barely holding it before I reel that ball in like a big catch in the ocean, yanking it to my chest. In a split second, I’m off and running, sprinting hard. The end zone is twenty yards away. It’s my destination—it’s always my destination. A safety comes at me, trying to grab me anywhere. Arms flail at me. But I’m faster, and when I cross the goal line, the sounds truly become deafening.
The cheers, and mostly jeers, from the fans. The shouts. My heavy breath. The clomp of cleats, bodies slamming into bodies, big guys sledgehammering other big guys. Then me.
The safety wraps his arms around my waist, yanking me to the ground.
I’m fair game. I always am.
As a receiver, I know how to take the hits and how to fall, but there’s always a moment when I could fall wrong.
Fortunately, it’s not today as I land on the side of my ass. My padded ass, thankfully.
It still hurts for a second, and I wince. But then I shuck that off, the momentary hurt blotted out by the reward of six glorious points.
Thanks to a circus catch.
I raise my arms and form aJ.
After the game, Sierra Franklin makes a beeline for me. One of the San Francisco sports reporters who travels with the team, she’s quick and smart. Jillian is by her side as the redhead thrusts her mic at me, her diamond ring sparkling under the afternoon sun. “Great job in a tight game that went down to the wire. Tell us what you were thinking when O’Malley circled around you before you caught the ball,” she says, naming the tackler who was aiming for me.
I answer her question the way I nearly always do. “I was just focused on finding an opening and getting in position to catch the ball.”
It’s that simple. Sometimes with sports, outsiders overthink what we do. Sure, it takes unusual talent, a larger than average physique, and a whole hell of a lotof work. But more than that, the secret sauce is focus. When I’m on the field, I’m not thinking of how my stocks are faring, what I’ll cook for dinner, or if there are any good flicks out that weekend. I don’t even think of women. My focus is one-track only. The ball—find the ball, catch the ball, run with the ball.
I block out everything else.
“You definitely made sure of that.” With a wry smile, Sierra adds, “What about the gesture you made in the end zone? We haven’t seen that from you before, but it looked like aJ. Shall I presume that’s a new calling card now for your name?”
My eyes stray to Jillian, waiting patiently. For a split second, mischief flickers in her eyes. “All the best names start withJ. Thanks so much, Sierra. And congratulations again on your upcoming wedding.”
“Thank you so much, Jones.”
The redheaded reporter beams, and as the two women head off to find the next player to interview, Jillian says something about how she can’t wait to see her walk down the aisle in a few more days.
Then, Jillian glances over her shoulder at me, nibbling on the corner of her lip.
A charge rocks down my body.
From that.
From her biting her lip.
I’m screwed.
When I turn to the locker room, I wonder why I ever thought it would be wise to fall hard for a woman I can’t have.
