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The time-out ended, and we decided to on a running play to Mack, since the Rockets most likely thought we’d pass the ball. It was a good play call, but I always wanted a shot at the end zone.
At the whistle, Anton took the handoff and pump-faked before tossing the ball to Mack. We hadn’t fooled the defense, because Lincoln stopped Mack after chasing him back to the thirty-five.
“Loss of two yards,” boomed through the speakers.
Frustrated, I brought my attention to the sideline to see Charlie put on her helmet and jog onto the field. The crowd went berserk, and her untucked ponytail swung behind her. Not being able to help myself, I glanced over my shoulder and nodded at her. She had nailed two extra-point kicks, but this was her first field goal attempt.
Anton shook his head, barely looking at Charlie as he walked past her. I needed to remember to ask him what that had been about. He was the leader of the team and needed to act like it rather than like a spoiled kid. Bringing my attention back to Charlie, I saw her say something to DiNardo before he bent down in line with our long snapper. I kept my eyes on Lincoln, Sinclair, and one of their third-string benchwarmers who had come in thanks to another lineman pulling a hamstring. All three looked as though they were ready to foam at the mouth. Their fingers twitched; their eyes were lasered in on Charlie.
“Princess is going down,” Lincoln growled. The line shifted, putting our biggest guy in front of him. Jackson glanced over at me, and I nodded. The whistle blew, the ball was snapped, and we rushed forward to block the opposing line. Shoulder pads and helmets smacked together as we held them off. A blur on my right side caught my attention. I turned my head just as the benchwarmer smacked into Charlie, sending her to the turf.
Red. That was the color I saw. Jackson was the first one to shove Lincoln backward. They’d been teammates, and I had a feeling by the way Jackson had a hold on the neckline of his jersey that there wasn’t any love lost between them. Meanwhile, pushing and shoving went on between the young kid and Lucas, who had been on our line as added protection.
Yellow penalty flags flew into the air. DiNardo, who had held the snap, got to Charlie before I did, and he offered her a hand up. Once standing, she dusted herself off, adjusted her shoulder pad, and noticed the commotion on the field. Pushing and shoving started between the two lines. Lincoln stalked toward Charlie, and without thought, I hustled over and stood between them.
The face masks on our helmets smacked together. “If you got a problem, I’m right here. Go ahead, take your shot.”
I could feel my jersey being tugged, but I stood my ground. Dislike oozed from both myself and Lincoln, yet I’d be damned if I were the one to look or walk away first. “Leave it to the Thunder to need a girl to get the job done,” he taunted.
“You wish you had someone like her on your team.”
“Nah. Just in my bed.”
Without thought, I shoved him with my left and raised my fisted right hand, ready to punch him as though he didn’t have a helmet on to protect him. A couple of our beefiest linemen surrounded us. If it weren’t for them and the shrill sound of the ref’s whistle, more yellow flags flying in my peripheral vision, Lincoln would have been planted in the turf. A few seconds after that, I watched the replay on the big screen as the ref announced the unsportsmanlike penalty for each team, which would be offset on the kickoff.
“Come on, let’s go,” Jackson said, grabbing me by the jersey and pulling me away toward the bench.
Charlie remained silent as we stood on the sideline. “You okay?” I asked, grabbing some water and squirting it into my mouth.
“Yes.”
“Nice kick, rookie,” came from a few of our players.
She nodded and took off her helmet.
“Yeah. Great kick.”
“Thanks.”
We turned and watched our defense take the field. The Rockets made it to our fifteen-yard line and threw the ball into the end zone, only to be picked off by Lucas. We all celebrated as the clock ticked down to nothing.
Our first game was in the books.
###
Reporters flocked to Charlie after the game. I watched on the closed-captioned television in the locker room as she sat between Trent and Reese at the table set up for the press conference. Damn, she was pretty. Charlie had changed into a simple navy sweater-style dress with a neckline that mimicked a turtleneck. The knit fabric came down to her calves and hugged her curves, making her look like anything other than a football player. Her hair was still damp and pulled back into a low ponytail.
Subconsciously I took a step toward the monitor as my heart beat against my ribs. The sounds of camera shutters continued as the reporters prepared themselves to ask questions. Naturally nosy Veronica Tate was front and center. As soon as I saw her, my hackles rose, and with good reason. The woman bordered on being a gossip columnist rather than a sports one.
“Charlie, congratulations on your first game and win.”
“Thank you, but it wasn’t my win. It was the team’s. I’m just honored to have played a small part in it.”
That-a-girl.
“Of course,” Veronica chided with a wide, closed-lipped smile. “The altercation on the field seemed intense.”
Rather than answer, Charlie looked at Trent, who stepped in, bringing me a bit of relief. Charlie was one of the smartest women I knew, but handling the press was an art form—and one that wasn’t easy to master. Although her passing the baton to Trent told me she understood the ramifications of saying the wrong thing.
