Page 18 of Who's Saving You
I’m thinking about Noelle.
I’m thinking about the way she looked at me the other day, like she already knew all my secrets about my double life.
I’m thinking about sophomore year and all the sin underneath the saint.
We’re in the locker room, just minutes from walking through the tunnel onto the field. Coach Gage, tough, fair and bleeding green for this game, like every game, is giving us a pep talk. His words always struck something inside me, sparking a desire to be better. I guess that's the difference between a good coach and a great coach. Some of his old team pep talks, dating back to when he coached high school, can be found online. He had those kids so stirred up that they were barking every time Coach jumped up on a bench in the locker room.
That’s who I want to play for. Someone who can make you feel the passion, each and every day, with just a few simple sentences. Someone who makes you want to strive to be the best player you can be, all to make his vision of a winning team happen. He’s the best thing to happen to South Carolina. “Tonight, it’s us and the clock. There’s no match-up out there. We’re stronger, faster,better.We didn't get here by luck, gentlemen. We got here on skill, perfect practices, and winning attitudes. Tonight? I don’t give a fuck about last week, last year, or that Super Bowl ring you wear. That's the past. We’re on a new hunt. To prove we arethe best, the most deserving, because we know what it takes to win.” He stands in the middle of the locker room, slowly turning and looking each of us in the eye. “Who’s with me?”
We swarm him, jumping and barking,excitedto take that field. I want this win so bad I can taste it. I want to be that rookie who changed the season. I want to continue to be talked about for making a play bigger than what I was destined for.
I want a fucking ring.
I want to wear it and prove that I’m better than what they think, and that luck doesn't have a place next to my name.
We run the tunnel, hear the screams, and now, here we go, kickoff.
The first quarter’s smooth. I pull in two catches for forty-seven yards. It happens fast, I’m playing sharp, connected to the field, and Jameson knows it. I feel like myself, and the crowd, despite being fans of the home team, are loving me. This is where I thrive. This field, the smell of the leather ball, the dig of my cleats into the grass, the way the setting sun hits the stadium and casts ghosts on the field that I quickly juke and outrun. There’s no other place I feel more alive than right here, in these moments.
But when the second quarter creeps in, so do my past transgressions: that buried season and the weight of a terrible secret settle on top of me. I think about Noelle and what she knows, doesn’t know, or is about to dig up.
“Yo, eleven! Papas. Papas!”
It takes Coach Gage calling my number and name twice before I jump from the bench and throw on my helmet. He gives me a look and grabs my shoulder. “We need you here.You locked in?”
I nod, telling him I’m good. I’m here and I’m ready to win.
But I’m not.
Because on the fourth down, with a short yardage to run, the ball is snapped, and I break left. I’m wide open. All I have to do is catch this, run, and secure our lead going into halftime. The ball is thrown, soars through the air, hits my hands…
And drops.
The ball just slips right through my hands like it doesn’t want me anymore. Half the stadium groans, audible and disappointed, and the other half cheers. I can feel the ground vibrate, it’s so loud. I don’t react. I just shake it off, jog back to the sideline, and keep my head down until the next play.
Those thoughts from three years ago bounce around my mind.
It happens all the time.
Not to you.
Even the best of the best drop passes.
You’ve only done it on purpose.
It’s not a curse; it’s life. You can’t always be perfect.
Cheaters are far from it.
I tell myself it’s nothing, it’s over, that’s the past. But it’s not nothing, and the past seems to be making itself known. I glance into the crowd behind the bench, something I normally avoid, but tonight, I need to know if she’s here. I need to know if she took the time to travel here because that will tell me how intent she is on getting a story. And my chest tightens when I see her in the press box. Her lanyard waving in the breeze, small voice recorder held tight, and her eyes boring deep into mine.
I turn from her, telling myself tofucking focus.Shedoesn't know anything; let her write whatever nonsense she wants.
Fourth quarter comes, and we’re down by three. We’re in the red zone, it’s third and ten. We need this, and I want the ball. I want to redeem myself, I want to save the team. I’m in the huddle, telling my team to trust me. We break, and I set the toe of my cleat, digging a hole in the ground to give me a jump ahead.
The ball is snapped, and I run a clean slant, cut hard on the inside, and look back. The ball is already in the air, a perfect spiral, right at my chest. I breathe in, and it’s like time slows down. Something hits me, inside my chest, and I hesitate. For a split second, a thought creeps around, and I fucking hesitate.
Cheater.
