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Except that time, the ball got intercepted. The Presidents had the ball and ran it down the field.
“Fuck,” I yelled as I left the field at their first down.
Coach Boyd was in my ear. Shouting louder than the cheering fans, than my groaning teammates. “Get your head in the game, AJ. Straighten up. What the fuck is going on with you?”
Mario stood beside me and told him, “Be easy. He gotta work those nerves out.” He pointed to the stands and asked, “Who up there is counting on you to win today?”
I huffed. “Shit, everyone rocking a Fury jersey.”
Laughing, he said, “Sure. But who else?”
“My folks.” I wagged my head. “Maybe my girl.”
He winced. “Your girl? My dude. Show the fuck out. Your girl up there watching her man perform. Beast the fuck out. You got that. You weren’tthe shitin Tennessee to betrashin Phoenix.”
I nodded along with him. Blood coursed through my veins and not because of nerves but because he had me amped. I was ready to take the field. Thankfully, The Presidents didn’t score.
We took the field, and I looked at Jacobi to say, “Alright, for real this time. I need you to be ready to run this shit in too.”
He had doubt in his eyes, but I didn’t care. I knew what the fuck I was talking about.
“Run like hell, man,” I said before breaking the huddle.
I had the ball in my hand, raised at the shoulder, and as soon as Jacobi broke from his man, I hurled the ball. It was a perfect spiral, caught mid-field. And I jogged down to meet him as he ran like a rabid dog was chasing him.
When he stood in the endzone, he saluted me.
“That’s what the fuck I’m talking about,” everyone said from the sidelines.
Apparently, all I needed was to remember who the fuck I was. I imagined my dad in the stands cheering and shouting. Like he did when we were at home and the TV was in danger of catching a flying hand or a kick. The game continued like that, and by halftime Mario wasn’t smiling anymore. He avoided eye contact when we crowded into the locker room. Although I felt bad for beasting all the way out, I didn’t feel bad for doing my job. I came to the team to help them win. And to win big.
“Okay,” Coach Wagner yelled, “this is what we need right here. Keep this momentum and we’ll send The Presidents back to DC crying.”
The second half went much like the first, minus the incomplete pass and interception. I was firing off the ball, and my receivers were catching it with ease. Each celebration in the endzone getting crazier.
When the game was over, a journalist ran over to me. He asked, “So, Angelo, is this what you meant, that you were coming to take the job?”
I side-eyed the man with blond hair and perky smile. “Naw, man. Don’t start nothing.” I ran off before he could ask any more questions.
Before I could make it to the locker room, I heard, “Lil’ Angelo.” It could only be my dad. He was the only person left in the world who still called me that. Beside him my mom stood smiling wide with my sister beside her rocking a smirk.
“What’s up?” I hit Corinne’s arm before hugging my parents. “Why you mean muggin’?”
She pulled me into her arms and said, “Almost thought I would have to change my last name.”
I pulled away and smiled at her. “Never that, man. Your name is good whether I win or lose.”
She hunched her shoulders. “I guess you’re right.”
Then my mom mumbled, “That is until you settle down.” She had a smirk on her face.
Before she could turn her desire ofgrandbabieson me, I looked at my dad. “I know you have notes for me. You can tell me during dinner.” Then I remembered I needed to tell them we’d have another person joining us. “And I’m bringing someone with me.” I looked at my mom specifically. “Don’t make it weird, alright?”
“Weird?” She dropped her mouth open. “Me? Never.” She turned toward my sister. “I’ll be on my best behavior.” But she was dancing on her tippy toes as she said it.
I left them on the field with the name of a restaurant to meet me at. After dressing, I called Gigi. “Hey, you good?”
“I’m great.” I could hear her wide ass smile over the phone. “Ready to eat though. Those stadium dogs didn’t do me any justice.”
