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“Is it?” Her fingers brush against mine when she takes the paper, and I watch her carefully unfold the square. “Oh, it’s beautiful.”
I smile at the three stick figures. It’s a loose interpretation of the three of us from the eyes of a preschooler. There’s a sun in the upper right corner and a bunch of different colored scribbles that take over the rest of the page. JB asked me to write a message across the center: HAVE A GOOD FIRST GAME, MAE MAE.
With a little pink heart under it done by June herself.
“She worked very hard on it.”
“The penmanship is impeccable and her spelling is top notch.” Maven folds the note back up and slips it in her pocket. She tips her chin up and beams at me. “This is so sweet. Thank you.”
“I was also tasked with inviting you over for pizza after the game. Please don’t feel obligated to say yes. I know you’ve beenspending a lot of time with us, and I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of your time or anything like that.”
“Of course I’ll be there. There’s free food—if anything, I don’t want you to thinkI’mtaking advantage ofyou.” Her attention drifts across the field. She brings her camera up and presses the shutter button. After snapping a couple pictures, she admires the shots with a soft, proud smile. “Are you ready for today? The Renegades are good.”
“Very good. We’ll see how it goes. I’m sure it will take a little bit to get our nerves out.”
“I’m rooting for you.” She reaches out and squeezes my arm. Her fingers curl around my muscles, and her thumb drags across my jersey. It’s nearly eighty degrees out, but I shiver at the contact. “I hope you have a great game.”
“Thanks.” I check the scoreboard and see there’s only thirty minutes until kickoff. “I better get going. It’s my first season as a thirty-year-old, and I need to make sure I’m limber.”
“Limber.” Maven laughs, and the sound is warmer than the sunshine hitting my face. “We can’t have you pulling a hamstring. I’d never stop giving you shit.”
“I can always count on you.” I knock the brim of her hat and she swats at my hand. “Have fun today, Maven. I can’t wait to see all the photos you take of the team over sausage and olive pizza when we’re back at the apartment.”
“Sausage and olive? That’s my favorite.”
“I know it is. Why do you think I order it every time?”
She holds up her camera so it’s inches away from my face. This time I grin, and she snaps another photo. “You order my favorite pizza?”
“Duh. I can’t have people who work for me not eating their favorite foods. That’ll earn me a bad review on GlassDoor. Under accommodations you’ll put: forces me to eat pepperoni pizza. Zero out of ten, would not recommend working here.”
“Oh, people who work for you? Is that all I am?”
“All you are? No. You’re also my friend. And I like to take care of my friends, which includes ordering their shitty pizza for them.”
“Tell me how you really feel, lone star,” she says and she nudges my side with her elbow. “I hope you’re ready. I’m going to do a slideshow tonight. It’s going to be six thousand photos from the game, and you can’t go to sleep until you’ve seen every one of them. You’ll be stuck there for hours and question why you ever hired me in the first place.”
I grab a ball from one of the equipment managers and head for the centerfield line before Shawn can come out of the locker room from his pregame coach huddle and find me socializing for too long.
“Doubtful. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” I call out over my shoulder, and she smiles from ear to ear.
FIFTEEN
DALLAS
We’re tiedwith thirty seconds left in the fourth quarter, and I fucking love when games go down to the wire like this.
Both teams’ defensive lines have been good today. Aside from kickoffs, I’ve only been on the field twice for extra points. I made both of them with room to spare, but with how this drive is going, I have a feeling a field goal is coming soon.
I watch Jett maneuver past a cornerback and pick up two yards before he runs out of bounds to stop the clock. He’s frustrated with the way he’s getting shut down today, and he unclips his chin strap aggressively as he forms a huddle with the offense on third down.
“Lansfield,” Shawn says, and he pulls his headset away from his ear. “Warm up. If we don’t get the first down, we’re kicking. I’m not taking any risks on fourth and inches.”
“Got it, Coach.”
I pop off the metal bench and pull on my helmet, making sure it’s tight. I scoop up a ball and get the kicking tee positioned in front of the practice net on the sideline. A quick glance at the field tells me I’m going to be lining up around the forty-five-yard mark, and I grin.
I haven’t missed a field goal in sixty attempts, and this one is right in my sweet spot.
