“Pretty sure,” Jacob says with a smile. “You coming to the game tomorrow? Season kick-off.”
I nod, grinning. “It’s a hell of a drive, but no way I’m missing it. Already pre-recorded my show for tomorrow. It’ll be an all-write-in show so that I can watch my boy get his ass whooped.”
Jacob laughs. “Fuck you, man. You know I’m going to be having a party in the backfield.”
“I hope you party all fucking night long. I’ll be partying right with you if you do.”
One of the benefits of being a radio celebrity is that my face isn’t as well-known as my name. So as I sit in prime seats, fifty yard line, two rows up, right behind the players, I’m pretty anonymous. If I yelled, Jacob could probably hear me, but I won’t distract him like that because he’s at work.
The game is close coming out of halftime, and the tension strums through the stadium. I can see Jacob stretching his shoulder subtly as he leans low to keep his hamstrings warm and loose. He’ll be going out with the defense to start the second half and there’s a bounce in his step that reminds me how much I loved playing ball.
It started when I was only four years old, throwing a miniball around with my dad, watching games, or at least highlights, since what four year old can sit through a three-hour football game when there were cartoons around, but I loved pretending I was one of the guys on the big TV in our living room.
When I was six, Dad started me with peewee flag ball, the ball damn-near the size of my head. In some ways, I was lucky. Spending four years playing flag allowed me to learn and understand the movements of the game without taking hits. Not that it started that way. For my first year, it seemed every snap the play turned into everyone being directionless ants, running around the field and sometimes generally toward someone who had the ball.
Once I got into sixth grade, he let me play a year of Pop Warner ball before junior high started, and the games got more serious. I learned to appreciate the smell of sweaty plastic and to listen for the sound of my parents in the stands, cheering for me. They never, ever missed a game.
It was during the last game of my junior year that I jacked up my knee. I was playing fullback and linebacker for my team—we were that sort of small school. A chop block on my blind side, two pops, and I was down on the grass with a lot of my dreams strained but not yet shattered.
The surgery wasn’t much, a quick repair to my meniscus,
some therapy, and I would’ve been good to go for my senior year. But while it healed, I reported on the playoffs for the little in-school TV program, and I was gone, hook, line, and sinker.
Sure, I played my senior year. I’d put too much into the team and too much time with my boys to just let it go like that. But I didn’t eat, sleep, and breathe football like I did before. Dad was disappointed at first, but I’d shown him how serious I was, even interning the summer after I graduated with our local news station as a gopher guy, running for coffees and making copies just so I could be in the excitement of the whole process.
Sitting in my seat, enjoying the late summer breeze and sunshine, watching Jacob and his team fight for victory, pushing their bodies to the limits . . . there’s a part of me that wants to be out there. But knowing that they’ll be traveling in a few days just to do it all again doesn’t make me miss playing.
Maybe I miss reporting sports, but not the actual playing. It was fun to be able to get to know and to watch the athletes, and hell, it was a lot of fun to be paid to watch. Then again, I had a lot of late nights trying to cram a story in to meet a deadline. The job I’ve got now is a pretty sweet gig, and I can always watch the game without playing or reporting on them. I can be casual and have fun with it now.
The second half kickoff soars through the air, and I sit forward, cheering as Jacob snugs his chinstrap tight. He jogs out onto the field, ready to defend his house.
In this instance, better him than me.
Chapter 6
Kat
I pick up my phone for what feels like the hundredth time, my thumb hovering over Derrick’s name in my contacts. Since last night’s show, all I can do is think about how much I want all the things he described, want to experience them with his silky voice making me putty in his arms.