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We froze, standing side-by-side to scan the crowd. Fans in Rhode Island gear were packed in like sardines. It was nearly impossible to see who was who.
“Tatum!” It was a feminine scream from somewhere in the stands. That was weird. Everyone else was shouting T.J. and Gideon. “Tatum!”
Gideon heard it too.
“Tatum!” Two voices now.
I spotted Heidi, waving her arms like a lunatic. She had a temporary tattoo of Badcock the Rooster stamped onto one cheek and Gideon’s number on the other. Another blonde was beside her. My breath caught in my throat.
Wren.
She was wearing my jersey and screaming my name.
Heidi swatted Wren’s shoulder and pointed to us, catching on that we’d found them.
They kneeled and picked up two poster boards covered in red glitter. That was going to be a bitch to clean up.
Gideon froze as he read Heidi’s.
Daddy’s Biggest Fan. Go #22!A large ultrasound picture had been printed out and pasted beside the words. She rested a hand on her belly. Wren’s sign had a glittering red arrow pointing at Heidi. It read, Team Carmichael, adding another player to the roster. Wren blew a kiss to me and mouthed, “I love you.”
I smacked Gideon on the shoulder and pointed at the girls.
“Holy shit,” he whispered. Cameras locked on Heidi in the stands, projecting her on one half of the jumbotron screen and Gideon’s reaction on the other. The crowd went ballistic. Half of our team ran across the field and dogpiled Gideon. The girls hugged and blew kisses from the stands.
Coach Tyson made his way over and smacked Gideon on the shoulder. “Congrats, Daddy. Now get to work.”
* * *
Tampa cameat us with guns blazing. We hadn’t faced off against them during the regular season. Instead, we had to rely on game tapes and in-depth analysis. Every hit was more brutal, and every pass was more challenging to get through their defense. Every play took twice as much as we had to give.
By the time we dragged our asses back to the locker room for halftime, we were exhausted. Tables were covered with sports drinks, bananas, and protein bars.
“You good?” Seth asked as he cracked open a red sports drink. Ironically, my face was on it.
Gideon wiped the sweat off his brow. “Their motherfucking defense is trying to murder me.”
“We’re only down by ten,” Theo said, circling up with a power bar. He ripped the thing open, held it between his teeth, and stripped off his jersey, trading it for a fresh one.
I slid my hand up into my pads and felt the edge of the paint chip that I’d wedged between the seams of the hard plastic. I needed a piece of her with me today. Fuck. She was here.
Why was she here?
Wren should have been watching the game with her dad in Westerly or getting ready for the next chapter in New York.
But she was here. What about New York? About Colette?
I couldn’t allocate any brain cells to dissect what that meant.
While the rest of the guys were taking advantage of snacks to refuel, going to the bathroom, and stretching out sore muscles with the trainers, Coach Tyson called us over.
“Look,” he said, sitting down with Gideon, Theo, Seth, and me. “This isn’t the game to hold anything back. You remember what I told you before your last game in college?”
“The pros aren’t like playing in college. College ball is for getting noticed and going hard. Pro ball is about longevity. Playing smart.” Gideon was always the teacher’s pet.
Coach Tyson nodded, proud of his star pupil. “Now isn’t the time to play it safe. Get out there and go fucking balls to the wall. Play this game like it’s your last. Fuck your sponsors, fuck the endorsement deals, fuck the commentary. Fuck the noise. No one else matters. You play for your brothers on this team and for your families. Most of all, play for your damn self. Turn off your ears and get the ball into the end zone.”
* * *
