Page 61 of After the Snap

We turn the corner into the stadium corridor, and I catch sight of Calliope near one of the family access doors, stadium credentials hanging against her black Valor shirt while she talks to a staff member I recognize. I ‌spent all night trying to keep my attention on what happens when I reach the field, but seeing her stops that effort cold. In my head, she belongs to Houston—bare feet, tangled sheets, her face inches from mine—and seeing her here, tucked between concrete walls and equipment cases in Valor colors, makes me slow enough that King nearly walks into my back.

“Move, Old Man.”

I step aside without taking my eyes off her. Calliope looks over at the sound of his voice, and when she sees me, her expression changes so quickly I almost miss it. Her smile fades as her gaze travels from the helmet tucked beneath my arm to the pads under my jersey, then back to my face. I move toward her before I decide. The staff member beside her says something I can’t hear, and Calliope nods before the woman leaves us alone near the wall.

“You’re staring.”

“I’m adjusting to all this.” She lifts one hand toward me, then seems to realize how ridiculous the gesture is and lets it fall.

I glance down at my uniform. “Very specific.”

“You looked different in my head.”

I know what she means. The man she met in Houston had no jersey or public version attached to him, just a stranger at a bar who could sit beside her without being anything she already understood. Now she’s looking at every piece of the life I didn’t tell her about because neither of us was offering anything beyond that night.

I shift my helmet against my hip. “Better or worse?”

“Are you fishing for compliments before kickoff?”

“Maybe.”

I smile despite myself, and her expression softens with it. Somebody farther down the corridor calls my name. I know I should leave, but I stay where I am long enough for Calliope to notice.

Her eyes flick toward the tunnel, then back to me. “You have somewhere to be.”

I start to turn, but her fingers close around my forearm before I make it more than half a step. My body recognizes her, remembering those same fingers against my skin without a stadium full of people moving around us. I look down at where she’s touching me, and her grip loosens before I lift my eyes to hers, finding the teasing from a second ago gone, even though neither of us makes any move to step away.

“I’ll be watching, Duvall.”

“The entire game?”

“Don’t push it.” I chuckle as her hand slips off my arm, and I force my feet toward the tunnel.

The moment I step out of the tunnel and onto the field, the pressure inside me finally has somewhere useful to go. Jacksonville is already waiting across from us, the crowd pouring noise down onto the field as I cross toward our sideline with the rest of the offense. There isn’t any more time to wonder how many chances I’ll get to convince Coach I deserve to be on the field. My helmet is already on when Coach gives me the opening call, and a few seconds later, I'm jogging into the huddle for my first snap in a Valor uniform inside our stadium.

The Armada gives us exactly what we expected on the opening drive, and for the first several plays, I don’t ask the offense for anything the defense isn’t already giving us. We run into a light box, Sullivan finds the space a blitzing linebacker leaves behind, and King turns a short throw near the sideline into eleven when he spins out of the corner’s grasp. Every time the chains move, the huddle reforms around me with ten men waiting for the next call instead of looking to me to create something spectacular.

Jacksonville responds by keeping both safeties deep, taking away the shots outside while leaving room underneath. I let the rush come and dump the ball to our back as he slips beyond it, giving him enough space to turn upfield and fight through the first hit for another first down. We keep moving that way, taking whatever the Armada leaves open until we’re across midfield and the defense has to decide how long they’re willing to let us keep doing it.

The defense finally changes as we reach the red zone. One safety creeps toward the box, leaving King outside against a corner close enough to get his hands on him, and I give him the signal to change the route. He knocks the corner’s hands away at the snap and gets outside, while I hold the remaining safety in the middle long enough to keep him from helping. The ball is already in the air when King creates the separation, dropping over his shoulder before the corner drags him down inside the five.

King comes up inside the five, pointing at me before he turns the same finger toward the corner who just tackled him. “He’s gonna need help.”

“Get in the huddle, King.”

He jogs toward me, laughing, and two plays later, Jacksonville’s linebackers bite hard on the run fake. Sullivan slips behind them into the space they abandoned, and I put the ball against his chest before either can recover. His feet hit the end zone untouched, and he barely has time to turn before King crashes into him.

“That’s one,” King yells over the crowd.

I pull my helmet away from his. “One what?”

“Touchdown. I’m claiming it emotionally.”

“You didn’t score.”

“I contributed spiritually.”

Sullivan shoves him away. “Get the fuck off my touchdown.”