Fumbled (Playbook #2)(84)

I stare at him with a blank expression for a second before he explains. “Kiss me,” he says.

Oh.

That I can do.

I lean forward and touch my lips to his, keeping my hands firmly planted on the guardrail so I don’t fall over.

Bloggers and fans be damned.

“Thanks, Sparks.” He pulls away, tugging a curl before he puts on his helmet and runs to the sideline.

“Gross,” Ace says.

I laugh and yank him into my side, laying a kiss on his cheek.

“Mom!” He wipes off his cheek and stomps up the steps back to our seats . . . which only makes me laugh harder.

I follow him, acutely aware of the eyes on me. Some are appreciative, some in shock, some envious. I add a little more swing to my step, trying to act unaffected. I know it works when I slide back into my seat and Charli gives me a high five.

“You better walk those steps,” she snaps. “Jacqueline couldn’t have looked better.”

“That’s a bit of a stretch,” I say. “But I appreciate it.”

The crowd starts to go wild and draws our attention back to the field, where the Mustangs are spread out, prepared to receive the kickoff. The cheering grows louder, rising in a crescendo as the Raiders’ kicker makes contact with the ball. It sails high over the players’ heads, soaring past the end zone. The crowd moans with disappointment, wanting to see a return, but changes its tune and starts cheering as TK, Peter, and Crosby jog onto the field with the rest of the offense. They line up on the twenty-five yard line, the O-line shifting back and forth until Peter is satisfied.

Peter does his quarterback jig and then, like a shot, the ball is in his hands and orange and black jerseys are going at it. The huge linemen are shoving and tugging at one another, trying to protect or attack Peter. TK’s running down the field trying to best the defender keeping up with him. Peter fakes a throw but hands the ball off to Jaxon Cramer, the running back.

Jaxon makes it only a few yards before a Raiders’ player wraps him up and brings him down. Even though it wasn’t a big play, the crowd still cheers—happy for any forward progress.

The next play starts and Peter passes the ball to Jaxon again. This time, he doesn’t go anywhere.

I know I claim not to know much about football, but I do know that even though they have four tries to get ten yards, they really have only three. Because of this immense knowledge of the sport, my hackles don’t rise when the crowd starts to get a little restless.

“Throw the fuckin’ ball, Bremner, you fucking bum!” the man one row back and a few seats over shouts.

“How about you go out there and try to do better?” I snap.

Okay. So I lied about staying calm.

The guy ignores me but Ace doesn’t. Ace hides his face behind his hands, trying to conceal his laughter. He must not know the shaking of his shoulders and the snorts against his palms kinda give it away.

Back on the field, TK is running to Peter. He leans in for a millisecond before jogging out farther to the sideline. Peter stomps his legs and claps his hand—maybe doing the hokey pokey—before shouting for the ball. It’s a perfect snap and the offense hold their men with pinpoint precision, giving Peter plenty of time to find his target.

But Peter doesn’t need time. Just as the ball is snapped, TK takes off with his defensive counterpart. He sprints about ten yards and then cuts so suddenly, the defender trips over his own feet. TK crosses the field, his hand raised in the air. Peter spots him over the helmets of the linemen and fires the ball right into TK’s chest.

The catch is effortless and well past what they needed for a first down. The crowd, already on their feet, goes ballistic. Jumping up and down, punching the sky and high-fiving their neighbors (hopefully not getting those two mixed up) and chanting “MOOORRRRRREEE.” Next to me, Ace’s curls are flying around, hitting me in the shoulder, and I can already hear the hoarseness setting in from his screams.

TK takes off down the field, dodging one defender at the fifty-yard line, then getting wrapped up with another. But because he’s TK, he doesn’t go down. He plants his powerful legs into the turf and digs in, wrestling and fighting for as many yards as he can get.

Then it happens.

Again.

Out of nowhere, the player who fell when the play began runs to help his teammate take TK down. I don’t know if it’s adrenaline from the game or an ego that’s been bruised, but even though TK is wrapped up in a Raiders’ player’s arms and has nowhere to go, number 27—the rat—lunges forward, helmet first, aiming right at TK’s head.

I see it happening this time.

Probably because the last time has been playing on a wicked loop every time I close my eyes.

I step in front of Ace, hoping I’m wrong and just being paranoid but not wanting Ace to see in case I’m right.

And I know it all happens in a split second, but I swear to God, from my seat in the stands, it’s a slow-motion movie.

The crack of the helmets, TK’s helmet flying off him—his mouthguard not far behind—and his body going limp just before it hits the ground.

Unlike last time, there are no shouts from the stands. No moans of sympathetic pain.

It’s dead silent. In a place where I can’t hear myself think, you can now hear a pin drop.

So it’s easy to hear players from both teams shouting to the sidelines for help while others immediately drop to a knee next to TK’s unmoving body, even number 27.