“Nothing,” I say innocently. My mind has already moved on from the intimate moment with Wyatt. I’m focused on tomorrow.
He said his mother never got to see him play in a professional game. Perhaps with this guitar, there is still a way she can be a part of his career. Tomorrow’s schedule will have to be elongated for a trip to get the necessary cleaning done, but I can play this gorgeous vintage guitar tomorrow. I can play the National Anthem in Wyatt’s jersey with his mother’s guitar.
Chapter 17
Wyatt
I ALLOW MYSELF TWO minutes of reprieve from my pregame anxiety when Mae steps up to the mic on the half-field line. I know the cameras are all on me and my reaction, but all my focus is on her. Her, in my jersey. Her, with my mother’s guitar strapped across her chest and white cowboy boots climbing up her calves. Her rendition is sparse but powerful all the same. With nothing but the guitar to aid her voice, she gets to show off her vocal control.
Midway through the song I notice how in command of the audience she is. The big screen shows teary-eyed onlookers as she breaks from the lyrics for a short guitar solo. The crowd falls silent as they take in the emotional moment. Her power hits a high as the final line approaches. The crowd finishes the song with her, and as she steps away from the mic, she holds the guitar high in the air and somehow finds me in the chaos of theflyover. Sharing a nod, I turn away from her and pull my helmet over my head. It’s time to focus.
From the first whistle, I’m locked in. Through the first quarter, we’re dominating. Ben is finding me on nearly every run, and when he doesn’t, he’s able to get us a couple of yards. Going into the second half, we’re up 28-7.
Heading into the tunnel, I glance up at the box and wave. Mae spies me, but a teammate is already steering me under the stands. Shaking my head clear, I go into the half-time talk full of energy, ready to get back on the field in the second half.
Unfortunately for us, Dallas really turns it on in the third quarter. Before I know it, we’re tied, and we start to scramble. The energy is sucked from me when Ben is sacked well before the line of scrimmage. Cringing, I shove the opposing player to my left out of the way and return to the huddle. Looking to the sideline, Ben relays the play to us and we’re lined up again.
From the moment the ball is in motion, I’m focused on completing my route. Running a slant, I turn, curling back around. I register the ball hitting my hands and then my body being clobbered by a cornerback. Hitting the ground hard, it’s not until I sit up and hear the home crowd that I realize the other team has recovered the ball and is walking it into their end zone.
Slamming my fist into the turf, I swat away a teammate's helping hand and force myself to stand. Hanging my head in anger, I jog to the sideline, where I’m swarmed by coaches and trainers. Pulling off my helmet, I throw it to the side and halfheartedly listen to what they’re telling me.
In a moment of weakness, I glance up into the crowd. I’m not looking for anyone in particular, but my brain pulls my eyes toward the box for the visitors. Mae and Hannah are watching; Mae’s biting her nails, and Hannah holds Benjamin in her arms. They both look concerned.
Coach Lamback’s angry face breaks my line of sight. “I’m pulling you,” he says, before turning back to the sideline. He’d come from his post to tell me this.
“It was one botched catch, Coach!” I call back at him, the anger at myself boiling back up.
In his own fury, Coach turns back to face me. Getting down to my eye level, he sticks a finger in my face and blasts me: “That’s not why I’m pulling you!” He then points to the big screen, where my face is paired next to Mae’s; equally huge and equally nervous. “You’re unfocused,” he says a little softer. Turning, he takes one step before turning back to me and letting me have it, “And I don’t play men who behave like spoiled brats.”
Leaving me to my own disjointed thoughts, he puts his headset back on and pushes through the reserves to the sideline. I’m left to myself on the bench; no one dares to console me in my state.
It only gets worse when the other team forces a punt and then runs away with an easy return. By this point, everyone on the team has put their head down and is awaiting the end. It’s a gut-wrenching loss, one I’m sure I’ll take into practice with me on Wednesday.
After clearing the bench, most of us stalk back to the locker room in complete silence. It was an embarrassment, a lack of composure. We gave up a 21-point lead. The media would blame the youth and inexperience and will certainly point to my mistake as the moment that turned the game for the worse.
Feeling the anger rearing again, I slam my locker door shut and plant myself on the bench in front of my name. The team captains and coaches are about to come in and tear us a new one.
After a speech about discipline and losing as a team, I hang my head and gather my things. Ben approaches me and leans against the wall to my left. “You want to talk about it?”
“Not really,” I say flippantly. The media will find me at a mandatory media conference this week, and I’ll be forced to talk about it; there’s no need to divulge now. Shrugging on my jacket, I attempt to pass him by, but he puts out a hand to stop me.
“Listen, maybe it wasn’t fair of Coach to pull you, but I don’t ever want to see you behaving like that at a game again.” He shakes his head at me and continues, “Hanging your head like that when we weren’t even out of the running yet? C’mon, man, you’re better than that. You’re a better leader than that.” Shoving me lightly, Ben waits for me to answer. I don’t have it in me.
I’ve been Ben’s teammate for nearly 8 years now; I realize how lucky I am to be able to say that. He knows my quirks and I know his. I don’t handle losses well, and he doesn’t handle the poor attitude of losers. It’s a game we often play; our tiff will pass by next practice.
Shouldering both my bag and my attitude, I leave the locker room and immediately head out past my conversing teammates and their families to the VIP lot. There’s only one presence I would never be able to bypass and, unfortunately for me, she cuts off my route of escape.
Mae stands before me, her arms crossed loosely across her chest. I feel my jaw clench as I try to figure out what to do. “Are you okay?” she asks, taking a step forward and reaching out. I walk past her, not wanting to feel her touch in this state.
I expect her to let me go off quietly, but she follows. “Listen,” she demands. “If you need to get out of here, then let’s get out of here, but I don’t particularly like the idea of you being alone right now.” Her confession causes my heart to soften slightly. If I’m being honest with myself, I know that I don’t want to be alone.
Stopping entirely, I turn to her and grab her hand. She keeps up with my quick pace without a word and doesn’t questionmy madness when she hops into my car beside me. She doesn’t mention waiting on Dalton’s arrival or Raleigh’s approval. She merely tucks her hair behind her shoulder and turns to study me.
“I just need to cool down,” I say, embarrassed. The kind palm of her hand finds my shaking forearm as she nods in understanding.
“Let's cool down then,” she says, nodding to the front of the car. The way she doesn’t question me or belittle my emotions warms my soul. The way she trusts me fuels the fire I need to rev the engine and tear out of the lot toward the open road. “Don’t stop,” she says, closing her eyes and leaning her head back. Perhaps she needs a little freedom too.
A while later, as I thread in between a semi and pickup truck going 90, I feel Mae’s grasp on me tighten. Looking over, I see that she’s squeezing her eyes shut and her other hand is gripping the seat. My foot immediately eases off the gas, and I find the nearest exit. How could I drive 30 over the speed limit with Mae in the car? My stomach turns with every possibility I know all too well.
