Page 32 of First Down Promise

“I can guess why,” he replies.

I narrow my eyes at him but bite my tongue instead of poking the bear. He could bury me any day of the week with evidence he keeps filed away in that too-large brain of his, and frankly, I can’t be fucked to spar with him. He likes to talk a big game, but he actively avoids messes. Which is exactly what Abby and I would be, but my life’s been a little too clean recently.

As we pull up to the stadium, Coop nudges Pete. “There’s no reason to treat stadium arrival like a fashion show,” Coop says with a deep belly chuckle.

“Social media loves it,” Pete says.

Per usual, he is the first off. He stands, smooths out the slick fabric of his suit pants, and runs his hands over the collar of his shirt and jacket. Collecting his suitcase covered in a designer logo monogram, he steps out. His entrance to the stadium is recorded and photographed, as are ours when we step out too.

Our uniforms and gear are waiting for us in the locker room by our labeled cubbies. Pete, Dane, and I usually end up next to each other along with one of the veteran defensive guys. Pete is obviously the main captain, but Dane and I have the seniority to be co-captains. And someone has to keep the defense chaos goblins in order.

Once in our uniforms, part of Pete’s pre-game routine is having a trainer tape his fingers, whereas Coop and Dane typically do it themselves. Pete is more high-maintenance than anyone else about the exact placement of his tape and wraps, which is tolerated because if he goes down, the team’s fucked.

“Hey, my jersey is lying weird,” I say to Dane and point to where my jersey is bunched over my shoulder pad.

“Got it,” he says, putting his white tape on the bench. The jersey is a quick fix, and he holds out the tape to me. “Do my elbow?” I take it from him, pulling at the free edge of the tape.

“Yep, where?”

“The whole fucking thing at this point,” Dane groans. For someone two years younger than me, the wear and tear on his body is unsettling.

“Who the fuck took my left glove?” Coop says, patting around the bench beside him.

“He’s probably sitting on it,” Dane jokes under his breath.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I say with a quiet chuckle.

Pete finally gets his tape done, and he returns to his cubby. “Abby’s here,” he says and turns his phone around to show us a selfie she sent him. Her hair is braided, and she’s in a long-sleeved black tee with a gold and white eleven on it. “My biggest supporter.” She’s making a funny face in the picture, and I’m sure she’d be mortified if she knew Pete had shown us that picture. But what’s life without a little humor?

“You’re keeping us awfully updated on her,” Coop replies.

“She must be glad to be home,” Dane quietly says, and Pete nods as he actively ignores Coop’s comment.

“Yeah, too bad we’re so far from our childhood home. Glad she got to settle in at the hotel before the game,” he adds and sets his phone back in the cubby.

“Alright, guys, let’s get focused,” Head Coach Murphy calls out.

It’s finally time to run out onto the field. The energy isn’t as electric here because we’re the visiting team, but there’s a fair amount of black and gold in the stands. It helps that our star quarterback is from this state, too. Wisconsin loves Pete Wilson even if he’s not on their team. Despite the chaos of a game about to kick off, I scan the stands through the grate in my helmet.

Where are you, Abby?

Pete would have arranged a seat near the field, but I can’t place her. Why am I even looking? She’s been to dozens of games. She’s always representing number eleven in some way, but fuck, I should be able to find her between her honey hair and the bold eleven on the front of her shirt.

“What are you looking for?” Dane asks.

“Nothing, just taking it in.”

Dane laughs at me. “We’ve played here before.”

“I know.”

By halftime, we’re up and destroying Wisconsin. To be expected. They haven’t been as mean as us this season, but Coach warns us they’ll try to turn it up and goes over plays for the umpteenth time. He continues with the usual motivational background noise that we vets typically tune out, but Pete still nods enthusiastically and makes remarks while Coach goes on. Some guys, including Coop, laugh at what Pete says. But Dane and I? We roll our eyes.

Stepping out for the third quarter, that eleven finally catches my eye. Abby’s standing and clapping as the Stallions come out. Even from the field, we make eye contact, and she gives me one of those once-in-a-lifetime warm smiles. And just for a second, I see an eighty-one on her shirt, like she’s mine.

“Why are you denying yourself me?”

I know it happened, she knows what she said, and it’s not in Mackenzie blood not to act.