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All the Leopards looked the same; black jerseys with huge padded, puffed sleeves that made their waists look narrow, marked with pale gold numbers that matched their gleaming helmets. Shimmering crimson fabric molded to their thighs and backsides before tucking into high black socks. I searched for anyone I recognized, but they were small and uniformed and unknown.
“Which number is Ryan Carter? And Malcolm? Lindsey.”
John’s expression quite clearly stated that if he hadn’t wanted to get in my pants, he’d consider me too dumb to keep around. “Seven and eighty-three.”
I nodded, trying to pick them out of the crowd. I had no luck until a regulated voice boomed across the field, informing the ladies and gentlemen of the audience that we would be standing for the national anthem. We did and the players stopped moving, their helmets tucked under their arms.
Ryan’s gold hair flashed in the sun, and I smiled faintly, as his helmet matched. I supposed singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” made sense, since it was a war song and the players looked like they would be marching off any minute. Then, as the song peaked and Ryan’s hair glowed and my mind wandered, I wondered if there were any world championships games between the States and England where we sang our anthems, and if that ever struck anyone as awkward, since ours was essentially about bombing British ships two-hundred years ago.
The song ended and I reined my mind back in.
“Where’s the rest of them?” I asked John as the men gathered in the field, as a coin glinted in the air. Ryan crouched down, his pants stretched tight against his muscles, and I swallowed.
“What are you talking about?”
I opened my mouth, and then closed it, realizing I hadn’t a clue what Keith and Dylan and Mike and Abe’s last names were. I’d recognized Malcolm’s cl
osely shorn head, but missed the others. “Aren’t there other players?”
“Of course there are.” John didn’t bother looking at me. “Fifty-three. But only eleven start.”
“Oh.” Who knew?
A Colt kicked the ball, and it spun through the air, the men scattering like marbles. If life resembled urban fantasy novels, football would be about shape-shifters and I’d be watching a battle between horses and big cats right now. “I heard they’re out some of their starting players. Is that bad?”
John laughed. “Of course it is. Don’t you read the paper? Danvers and Gutierrez and two linebackers were in a car crash right before the opening. But Carter and Lindsey are still in, and those two are indestructible.”
Down below, the game stopped and the teams separated into huddles. I searched until I found number seven thick in his clump. He said something, heads nodded, and the group broke.
I hadn’t realized how often these pauses would occur. Each quarter lasted fifteen minutes, theoretically—except those fifteen minutes kept stopping, as each coach was given three time outs per quarter. Then the clock would start and go for thirty, forty seconds—and the whistle would blow.
It’s hard to love something if you don’t understand it, and to me this was a field of men scrambling about, leaping and falling, legs tumbling through the air before they smacked into the ground. It was flailing, outstretched arms and legs scissoring across the field. The men charged around the turf like gladiators trapped in their coliseum, fighting until death or the emperor’s whimsy. Number seven moved swiftly and confidently, catapulting the ball through the air with an arm like iron. I might not have understood the game, but I hardly took my eyes off him.
Until he was buried by two opponents.
Everyone groaned. Even John, beside me, leaned back in his chair with a grunt. I tugged at his arm. “What just happened?”
“Ryan fumbled. Should’ve passed to Tsuga when he had the chance.”
“No, I mean—is he okay?”
John gave me a funny look. “It was just a sack.”
Silly me. Here I’d thought he’d slammed into the ground hard enough to break a limb.
The clock paused again, this time for half-time. “It’s really dangerous, isn’t it?” I looked at John.
“Yeah.” He sounded unconcerned until he caught sight of my face. Then he smirked and leaned closer. “You know, I used to play football in high school.”
Oh, John, I thought, trying not to laugh. You will never be an expert fiddler.
“You must have been very brave,” I said, just to see if he’d notice I was making fun, but instead he smiled and placed his arm along the back of my chair.
“I got us a reservation at Mariette’s. It’s right by my apartment.”
Subtle. “That’s sweet. But I’m not sure if I’m up for dinner.”
He grinned at me. “We can skip it.”
