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How the hell did I miss the last three plays?
“Kick,” I say roughly. “With how poorly we’re executing today, I don’t want to give them a shot with the ball with any time on the clock. Dallas, let’s go.”
He jogs past me and buckles his helmet as the offense runs off the field.
“Are you okay?” Kristen asks, and I shoot her a sharp glance.
“I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know. Your shoulders are up at your ears and you look tense.”
“Nervous,” I say, and she hums.
I don’t think she believes me.
I don’t think I believe myself.
Chicago calls a timeout like I expect them to. Dallas uses the two minutes to stay loose, swinging his leg back and forth and staring down the goalposts. He mumbles something under his breath and raises his arm to check the direction and speed of the wind. Satisfied, he picks up the ball and tosses it between his hands. He looks over and gives me a thumbs up, nothing but confidence on his face.
I wish I could say the same.
I feel like I’m going to throw up. My heart is stuck somewhere between my stomach and my throat, and I don’t know why I’m so worked up over a kick.
A whistle blows, and the guys line up. Our center, Bryce Bigby, snaps the ball perfectly to our holder, Justin Rodgers. Dallas pulls his leg back and punts the shit out of the kick. I watch the ball soar through the goalposts with yards to spare as time expires.
“Thank fuck,” I say, and I tap Dallas on the helmet as the team runs off the field. “Nice kick, kid.”
“Thanks, Coach.” He grins at me, a clump of grass stuck to his face mask and his eye black smudged on his left cheek. “And thanks for trusting me.”
“You know I have your back. Always.”
We shake hands and the team disappears to the locker room, more enthusiasm in their voices than they had ten minutes ago. My assistant coaches follow them and I’m left alone, anxiously waiting for the interview I have to do before I can head off the field, too.
A reporter approaches me, and I smile. “Shawn?” she asks and I beckon her over.
“Remind me of your name,” I say. “I’m better with faces.”
“Courtney,” she says, and I snap my fingers.
“Courtney, right. I’m sorry. I try to make it a point to get to know everyone, but there seems to be too many people these days.” I nod toward the camera in front of her. “Are we on?”
“In ten seconds,” she says, and I nod again.
“I’m sure the guys upstairs are roasting us right now,” I say, and she suppresses a laugh.
“You said it, not me.” The light on the camera turns red. “Coach, Dallas knocked down that field goal to tie the game heading into halftime. What are you going to work on in the second half?” she asks and extends the microphone she’s holding my way.
“Well, Courtney, we need to be more aggressive. We were slow off the line of scrimmage—again. It’s the same thing that plagued us last week. We had guys who were open and dropped the ball, and that interception really hurt us. That’s why there are two halves, though. We’re going to clean it up and come back better after the break.”
“This is the first time all season you found yourself in a deficit. How do you think the team reacted to being down three?” Courtney asks.
“Being down three is a heck of a lot easier to come back from than being down fourteen or twenty-one. It’s a sixty-minute game. They outplayed us the first thirty minutes, and that’s why they were able to take that lead late in the second quarter,” I say. “We’ll bounce back.”
“What do you—” she laughs. “Hang on. I can barely hear myself. What is that?”
I hear it too, the noise loud enough to ring in my ears. I whip my head toward the stands and my eyes zero in on Lacey. Her face is buried in her hands and she shakes her head from side to side. That goddamn camera is on her again, and my eyes narrow.
“For fuck’s sake,” I say. Courtney’s mouth pops open at the vulgarity, and she nearly drops the microphone. “Excuse me.”
