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Whitt:But I do know they made the right choice.
After hitting Send, I silenced my phone and put it facedown on my nightstand. Whatever he had to say, I didn’t want to hear it.
Or maybe I just wasn’t ready to.
* * *
I lovedwhen we played Vegas. Some of the other Royals had beef with them, but I had absolutely no ties with them, good or bad. Had hardly spoken more than a few words to any of their players, which meant there was no internal noise to shut off, even when we were on their turf, like tonight. There was nothing but clarity and focus.
As their offense lined up, ready to take on our defense, I stood at the line of scrimmage, my eyes locked on Ramirez, the wide receiver in front of me, my senses fine-tuned for any flinch or shift of his body. It was the kind of focus I’d practiced for hours a day when I’d first started playing, just trying to be conscious of every little movement the human body could make, spot the tells of motion even within minute movements. Over time, my body adapted and learned to pick up the patterns and assess in a split second. There were moments it felt like a superpower and made all the grueling practice worth it. Hell, that feeling was a huge reason I loved football. I’d put in the work. I’d done it. No one bought it for me, no one handed it to me. Every bit of my prowess on the turf had been paid for with my own blood, sweat, and tears.
The QB’s voice echoed through the air, shouting the cadence amid the roaring stadium, and the second the ball was snapped, Ramirez exploded off the line. I mirrored his movements fluidly, effortlessly, fully in the zone. It wasn’t the first time I’d been up against him, and his speed easily matched mine. He made a sharp cut, trying to shake me off, but I anticipated it and, with a burst of acceleration, closed the gap at the same time I stretched my hand out, aiming to block the incoming pass.
My goal was always to interrupt passes. Anything on top of a blocked pass was icing. The receiver stumbled a fraction, and I saw an opportunity. As the ball soared through the air and Ramirez regained his footing, I pivoted, arm outstretched. My fingertips grazed the leather, and for a split second’s worth of disappointment, I thought I’d lose it. Fuck that. Adrenaline surged through me, and I leapt, clamping down on the ball with my other hand and barely keeping my balance as I landed. I had no time to think; I just took off running at full speed, expecting at any second to be slammed from behind. Barker ran interference, crashing into one of Vegas’s guards as he rushed me. Spotting a seam to the far left, I kept booking it, weaving down the field, trusting my teammates to rally, trusting my legs, trusting the furious and wild beat of my heart as exhilaration lit up every nerve ending and fueled me. The noise in the stadium crescendoed to a raging buzz as the end zone loomed. Dodging another guard, and certain I could feel the collective breath of Vegas on the back of my neck, I dove.
Time slowed, and I swore I could count the blades of grass as I broke the plane of the goal line on my way down. Every bone in my body jarred as I slammed into the turf, but the only thing I felt was the solid weight of the ball still in my grip.
The last thing I saw before my vision was occluded by other bodies on top of me was the ref’s hands shooting up.
Touchdown.
Head still spinning, I was yanked upright, registering the smack of my teammates’ hands on my shoulders and ass, their whoops of joy.
“Fucking A!” LaForge shouted, eyes filled with glee. “Holy fucking shit. What is that, your third?”
Interceptions returned for touchdowns were pretty fucking rare. I’d spent countless hours studying Deion Sanders and Rod Woodson’s tapes, convincing myself I could do the same. It’d still taken me two seasons before I managed my first.
My lips split in a grin as I knocked a fist against LaForge’s. “It’s my fourth. Second this season.”
“Jesus Christ, dude. Drinks are on me tonight, and you’re definitely coming out with us.”
For the first time in a long time, I decided I’d actually do it instead of begging off to be a loner in my hotel room or striking out solo like I usually did.
With the Royals solidly in the lead, I played the rest of the game like my feet had wings, high on the sense of accomplishment and wondering, distantly, if my parents might have seen the play.
Or if Tucker had.
I didn’t have to wait long. I was leaving the locker room when my phone pinged, and the way I scrambled to pull the fucking thing from my pocket should’ve been embarrassing.
Tucker:That interception was fucking insane. What’s it feel like to touch the sky?
Realizing I was grinning at my phone like a fool, I schooled my features as a couple of teammates passed by me and then leaned against a wall to compose my reply.
Me:I was always told clouds were just water vapor. Nope, they feel like cotton candy.
I was poised to type more when LaForge clapped a big hand on my shoulder. “Ready to go, man? I’m gonna buy out the whole fucking bar for you tonight. Who you talking to?” He tried to peer over my shoulder.
“No one.” The lie was bitter on my tongue, at odds with the glow suffusing my veins. “A friend,” I corrected myself, frowning as I tucked my phone away, because that wasn’t exactly it either. I didn’t know what Malik Tucker was to me anymore, but it wasn’t “no one.” “Let’s go,” I said and shoved off the wall.
12
TUCKER
Iwas always told clouds were just water vapor. Nope, they feel like cotton candy.
I didn’t know why I couldn’t stop staring at the text from Patrick. I couldn’t say what kind of response I’d expected out of him, but that wasn’t it. Maybe something with more bravado? Cockier or more indifferent like it didn’t matter to him, because he knew he was that fucking good. But this wasn’t either of those things. This was real.
Damned if I didn’t want more real from him.
