Page 51 of The False Start (Off the Bench)

Chapter Thirty-Six

CAL

T he wild card round goes as well as anyone could hope. We claim a two-touchdown lead in the first half led by Theo and manage to hang on through to the final few minutes, celebrating the win with thousands of fans surrounding us, all excited for our first appearance in the playoffs in years.

While I didn’t score today, it’s night and day from last week when they were booing me off the field, and knowing Lila is up in a box supporting me is the cherry on top.

As a tight end we don’t get a lot of the glory; doing our job well could mean very few receiving yards and even fewer touchdowns, but with the rise of the rest of my cohort in the media, my jersey sales have done nothing but rise.

Post-game, some players have stuck around to sign autographs for fans, and I hear my name being called by a little boy who can’t be older than four or five.

I step up to the edge of the stands where he’s leaning over, his dad holding him and grinning at me.

“Mr. Basset, can you sign my jersey?” he asks.

“Sure, buddy. What’s your name?”

“Jeremiah.”

“Well, it’s great to meet you, Jeremiah, I’m Cal.” His eyes are wide with wonder, and I try not to laugh.

“Have you been an Avalanche fan long?”

He nods solemnly. “My whole life.” I chuckle as I sign the jersey for him.

“Wow, I think you might deserve something a little more than just a signature then.” I wink at him and wave over one of the media coordinators, standing off to the side with some press.

“Hey,” I whisper, just in case I can’t deliver, “can we get them two tickets to the next round?”

She scrolls her phone and makes a note before nodding. “Yep, no problem at all.”

I turn back to the boy. “How would you like to go to the next game in Green Bay?” He lights up, bouncing up and down, while his dad seems frozen in shock.

“Do you have an email where we can send the tickets?” I ask the dad, who nods and rattles it off to the media coordinator, who in turn types it into her phone.

“You’ll get the tickets via email within a few days,” she says, leaving me with the pair.

“Thank you,” the man says earnestly, and I nod.

“Have fun and go Avalanche.”

I jog over to join my teammates starting to make their way back to the locker room.

“Rookie move, Basset.” Meadows smirks at me, clapping my shoulder.

“What do you mean?” I frown.

“Giving playoff tickets to a kid. A kid you don’t even know.” He shakes his head. “My mother would kill me if I gave away her tickets.”

I shrug. “My mother’s in England. She probably doesn’t even know we made the playoffs.” He gives me a horrified look. “What do you want me to say?” I laugh. “Lila’s really the only one who I want there.”

A chorus of oooooo s greet this statement, and I shove at Blaze.

“Mate, you can make fun all you want. At the end of the day, she’s the only one I need.”

“She must give a mean blow?—”

Wilson, the rookie corner, doesn’t finish his sentence before I shove him into a wall, holding him there by his jersey against the stone tunnel.

“Finish that thought,” I growl. “I fucking dare you.”

“Not cool, man,” Blaze scolds. “Apologize to Basset. That’s his girl, not some random jersey chaser.”

The rookie holds his hands up in surrender. “Sorry.” I grip his jersey tighter. “I’m sorry, really. It won’t happen again.”

I grunt in agreement. “Better not,” I warn and drop him, striding off to the locker room, my good mood from winning the game gone in an instant.

I stand under the shower head, willing my heart rate to level even as I look forward to the celebration that will inevitably follow our win throughout the city.

I want to win as much as the next guy, but a small piece of me—or maybe not so small, after all—longs to disappear into anonymity. But my girl is out there waiting.

“Hey, love,” I say after finding her waiting with some of the other families and chatting with Blaze’s mom. I press a kiss to her temple as she hugs me.

“Congrats on the win.” She smiles up at me. “One step closer.”

“Well don’t you two make a handsome couple,” Anita Meadows says.

“Thanks, it’s all Lila.” I smirk, and she laughs. “Good to see you, Mrs. Meadows.”

“I won’t keep you kids but behave yourselves. We still have three more games to win.” She gives me a stern look over her glasses which have slid down her nose.

“Yes, ma’am.” I turn back to Lila. “Ready?”

She nods. “Let’s get out of here.”

“You know you’ll need a new jersey for when we play next week.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” She grins up at me. “I’ve been told I look great in white.”

I think my brain short circuits for a second as a short scene plays through my head like a reel of film: Lila wearing white surrounded by faceless people as she walks down the aisle.

“Cal?” Her question breaks through, and I blink at her.

“Erm.” I clear my throat. “Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

“Yep, why wouldn’t I be?” I start walking toward my car, Lila following in my wake.

“You kinda froze up back there, are you sure?”

I spin around, cradling her face in my hands and kiss her. As she moves to deepen the kiss, I pull away. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she mumbles. “What was that for?”

“I hadn’t told you today. Now I’m good, great even.”

It’s bitterly cold out as I stretch with the rest of the team. The Green Bay stadium in the winter is anything but forgiving, and I’m grateful I’ve played for both New York and Chicago rather than somewhere in the south.

No amount of stretching can warm up your muscles when it’s four degrees out, but here we all stand, putting on this little show rather than curled up in our puffer jackets on the sideline or, better yet, back in the locker room with heat and walls to keep the wind out.

“Alright, numbers!” yells out one of the offensive coaches. “Let’s go!” He calls after we’re a bit slow on the jog over to the corner of the field.

“One,” calls Blaze, as the throws the ball to Theo.

“Two,” yells Theo, tossing the ball to another wide receiver.

I step up as the next receiver takes off after them.

“Five,” I shout after catching the ball. Turning to throw it to one of the second-string running backs.

“What was that throw, Basset?” Coach calls, and I grind my teeth. I’m not a quarterback, even in high school when some of the other receivers played QB or stepped up for a game or two. I don’t get paid to throw the ball, and it’s better for all parties.

We run through the drill twice more, and each pass I throw is a perfect spiral, landing in the hands of the running back behind me easily as he runs down the field.

Coach only nods at me, dismissing me to where the offensive line is warming up with their footwork drills, and I sigh.

At least the movement will help keep me warm.

Soon enough we’re headed back into the locker room, the heat bringing forth more than one audible groan from the team, earning those who couldn’t close their mouths rightful ribbing from the rest of us.

“Alright, guys,” Thompson starts. “This is the biggest game we’ve played this season.

Against one of our biggest competitors, and on their home turf.

” He looks at each of us in turn, but no one breaks the silence.

There’s a rumor of his retirement after this season, and while I’m not as close with him as most, I can recognize what a great leader he’s been for this team.

I want him to get a ring before he calls it quits.

“It’s not going to be easy. But the win wouldn’t feel as good if it was. And I truly believe we’re the better team. We can win, but it will take all of us, playing our best, giving it our all. Leave everything out on the field, fellas, because when has the cold ever stopped an avalanche?”

“Never!” I shout in unison with the rest of my teammates, familiar now with the call and response cadence of Thompson’s speeches.

“Whose game is this to win?”

“Ours!”

“Let’s fucking get it done!”

We cheer, whoops and hollers that can likely be heard all the way back to the city of Chicago.

When we run out onto the field less than an hour later, we’re greeted with shouts of support and boos alike from opposite sides of the stands.

That’s the benefit of having the division playoff game teams as close in geography as Green Bay and Chicago.

The oldest rivalry in the NFL, and the winner moves onto the NFC championship game against Dallas, who’s on their first winning streak in years.

My eyes flick up to the boxes, knowing Lila’s up there with Maggie and Katie. I count to where she should be and wink.

We win the coin toss and start with the ball, Theo making a few truly spectacular catches at the end of the first drive, and we’re only left with a field goal before the ball turns over.

On fourth and one, we leave everyone guessing when we go for it, scraping by with a first down and putting us in the red zone.

The rest of the offense watches from the sideline, willing our defense to hold the line. But after three downs, Dallas manages to convert and bring the football through to the end zone, pulling ahead by four points when the extra point sails through the goalpost.

“Let’s bring it back,” Blaze says, when we huddle at the twenty after getting the ball. I move to my place at the end of the line and wait for Blaze’s shout before taking off toward my target, the current leader in sacks this year.

Theo makes the catch, and we gain another fifteen yards.

“Fuck yes.” We slam our helmets together as the team congratulates him quickly, already setting up for the next play even as the crowd screams around us. Wilson picks up another five yards, and I nod at him. Being a rookie is tough; being a rookie during a playoff game is make-or-break tough.

The next ball is mine, and I take it seven more yards before I’m pulled down by the fullback. I shake it off as we move down the field once more. Something twinges in my shoulder as I roll it out after the hit, but I ignore it, setting up with the linemen.

Another two plays, and we’re within field goal range once more. One pass to Theo and Blaze is able to carry it home for the touchdown, and we’re up on top once more.

We hold Green Bay to their one touchdown plus-one more field goal until half time, while we score once more putting us up by seven going into the second half. We all jog to the locker room, desperate for the warmth and short respite from the wind.

I set in front of my locker, feeling a strange urge to check my phone.

Normally I turn it off during games, so I’m not even tempted to check.

I don’t need any distractions—or the fine that comes with it—that can ruin the second half, but I slip it out of its cubby, turning my body to hide it from the rest of the team and coaching staff that have just entered behind us players.

There are several dozen notifications, but one stands out.

Lila

Care for a little bet on the game?

You know we can’t bet on our own games…

What do you have in mind?

If you win, you can fuck me in your jersey.

I cough, shifting in my seat as my uniform pants get uncomfortably tight.

I think you’ve got yourself a deal.

Lila

I have a second condition for you . . .

I swallow, my throat suddenly dry and take a swig of the Gatorade I grabbed on the way in.

oh yeah?

Lila

If you score

if I score?

***

I want you to fuck my mouth until my mascara is running down my face.

I’m definitely hard now. Fuck.

Deal.

I have to go.

Fuck I love you.

Lila

love you too (kissy face emoji)

I clench my thigh muscles through the entire pep talk, barely hearing a word throughout the entire half-time break.

“Blaze,” I call as we start to head back out onto the field.

“What’s up?”

“I need to score.”

He snorts. “Yeah, sure.”

“No.” I grip his arm. “Meadows, listen to me. I need to score.”

“You have some kind of bet going on?” He lowers his voice.

“Not the kind you should be worried about.”

“You know three guys already got booted from the league this year alone when they bet on games. You can’t do this, man.”

I chuckle. “No, I promise, it’s nothing like that. No money is involved.”

He stares at me hard, and I sigh. “It’s just between me and Lila.”

He snorts. “Ah, it’s a sex thing.”

“Can you just”—I rub my forehead—“not? Please?”

“I’ll see if there’s anything in the playbook that works with the OC. We’ll try to get you laid no problem, Basset.” He laughs and turns to catch up with the offensive coordinator on his way out of the tunnel.

I’m definitely going to regret telling him. But knowing what will be waiting for me when I get home? I’d do it again in a heartbeat.