Jackson
"Captain Jackson, Jackson!" the campus student journalist Emily called out to me, her wavy blond hair bouncing with each step as she weaved through the sea of people.
It was mid-season for collegiate football, and I could tell from the briskness in her stride and the almost imperceptible tightening of her eyes that she was on the hunt for more than just the surface scrapes of a post-game interview.
"Jackson," she panted, microphone extended, a cameraman trailing behind her. "A game like that against the Buffaloes! How does it feel leading your team to such a significant victory during the Homecoming week?"
"It was a tough win," I admitted, my voice still rough from shouting plays and calls. "But, this game means so much to us, the whole Bison community. I'm just proud of the team, of every single person who stepped onto that field today."
Today, the freaks of Central Plains University Buffaloes were here—in The Bison Stadium, our home. Their defense, renowned throughout the league, formed a wall of muscle and strategy that seemed nearly impossible to penetrate. Their star linebacker, Cody 'The Wall' Thompson, was a giant even next to me, and I'm not exactly short. With tattoos snaking down his towering arms, he embodied an imposing presence on the field. He dodged our offensive players with predatory agility, anticipating every move, every fake.
Whenever we thought we'd figured out their play, they'd change up, leaving us scrambling and readjusting. It was like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands.
"And the touchdown by Mike, orchestrated so beautifully by you. Was that a rehearsed move?"
I chuckled. "We've practiced that play countless times, but in the heat of the game, it's all about instinct and trust. I knew Mike would be there, and he knew I'd get the ball to him."
Emily's next question came with a tilt of her head, her voice softened in a practiced manner, suggesting empathy, but her icy-blue eyes were sharp, dissecting. "This season has been a journey for you, Jackson. How do you think your experiences, both on and off the field, have shaped your performance and leadership this year?"
I hesitated for a moment. Running my fingers through my damp black hair, I tried to move the stubborn strands sticking to my forehead. Emily was not just a journalist. She also ran a podcast famous for her segments, often filled with the latest gossip and hard-hitting questions focused on Cedar Lake University's football team. And what she was asking for wasn't just about football; she was probing deeper, inching toward personal boundaries.
"Every experience is a lesson, Emily," I started cautiously. "On the field, it's about adapting, reading the game, understanding my teammates. Off the field? It's not much different. Life throws challenges, and you learn to navigate them, to be better, stronger. That's what I try to bring to the team – resilience and a clear focus, no matter what's happening outside the stadium."
My answer was diplomatic, but inside, I was on edge. I forced a smile, but my hand involuntarily clenched into a fist at my side. I knew Emily's style. She'd take my response as an invitation to dig deeper. Sure enough, she leaned in slightly, glanced around, and her next question was laced with a faux sweetness that didn't fool me for a second.
"Your family is here today, right? How does it feel having them witness this monumental win?" Emily asked.
There it was—the personal jab cloaked in concern. Emily had this knack for steering the conversation towards the uncomfortable, a tactic she hadn't abandoned in all the four years I'd known her.
Four years on the field, four years under her scrutinizing lens, and she still tried to peel back layers that weren't up for discussion.
Instinctively, my gaze swept the crowd for the family presence I knew wouldn't be there. Football was my passion, but to them, it was just a distraction, and I knew I was just a disappointment.
A Senator's son wasting his time on the field? You're a disgrace, Jackson.
"My family...they—" I started, the words catching in my throat. I could feel the eyes on me, expectant, prying. In my mind, I could almost hear Emily's voice on her podcast, turning this moment into one of her sensational shitshow. 'Jackson, the captain with a complicated family saga.'
Fuck no, I'm now a grown-ass man. I can't let them see it and crash my mental party. But Mike's intervention was as seamless as a quarterback's save on a broken play. He jogged over with that mop of golden brown helmet hair in full force. He was tall, not towering, but with a lean, muscular build that made him swift and agile on the field. His eyes were a sharp contrast to his sun-kissed skin. He had the game ball tucked under his arm like it was made of gold.
"Jackson's family? Oh, you mean the hundreds of people who love to see jocks tackle each other for fun? Yeah, they're everywhere." He said, draping an arm around me, his tone light but his message clear. Coming from a similar background, he got it — the unspoken demands and the need to prove oneself beyond the family name.
We'd been in this together since our first year, two freshmen trying to carve out our own paths. Mike's casual deflection was more than just a joke; it was his way of having my back, as always.
Emily's eyes flickered momentarily. She offered a tight smile that didn't quite reach her eyes but swiftly moved on, picking up on the subtle cue. "Well, with a family like the Bisons behind you, there's no stopping you guys! Finally, did you have a quote for us today?"
"We played as a team, and we won as a team," I declared, feeling the truth of those words in my bones.
Emily wrapped up with an appreciative nod. "Thank you, Jackson. Enjoy the win, and good luck for the rest of the season!"
As the interviews ended and the cameras turned away, Mike checked in with a quiet, worried tone. "You good, bro?"
"Yeah, don't worry about it." I forced a smile.
Mike patted my back. "They're missing out. But remember, we got you. Always."
I turned around, scanning the dissipating crowd. The cold air of October in Pinebridge, Michigan, clung to my sweaty face. It was both refreshing and biting. Hell, who would have thought that just moments ago, the beat of the Cedar Lake University fight song was blasting, sounding more like a rock concert?
I took a second to disconnect, missing the familiar snugness of the helmet that did little to alleviate the feeling of the weight on my shoulders. You don't just wake up one morning and find the title of captain stitched onto your jersey or the quarterback role waiting for you like the morning paper on your doorstep. It's a grind. A fucking relentless, unforgiving grind.
I saw Coach Daniels, one of our assistant coaches, flashing a wide smile. "Hell of a game, Jackson!" His voice, typically all about business, carried a note of genuine approval this time. "Knew you had it in you."
As the initial euphoria faded, I headed towards the locker room. Along the way, I spotted Coach Williams, our head coach, in a serious discussion with Mrs. Jenkins, our academic advisor. Known for her sharply tailored suits that looked as if they could probably cut glass if you weren't careful.
"...hope we are not making a mistake," I overheard Mrs. Jenkins say.
Shit. My pace slowed momentarily; I hadn't meant to eavesdrop. They both shot fleeting glances in my direction, and I felt Coach Williams' deep brown eyes boring into me. And I couldn't shake the feeling that Coach had more on his mind than just the game.
I pushed the conversation to the back of my mind. Now wasn't the time for this.
***
Inside the locker room, the energy was palpable. The team was still riding the high of our victory. The unmistakable blend of sweat, deodorant, and whatever brand of cheap body spray half the team used hung in the air. God, we reeked, but in the best victorious jock kind of way.
"Jackson, my man, that last play was clutch! And did you see how Ben faked out that defender on your pass?" Brad, the center of our team, said, making his way over to me. He wasn't the tallest guy out there, but you couldn't miss him. Broad-shouldered, with a quiet kind of strength. He didn't need a pep talk or a spotlight; he just did his job, and he did it well.
Mike, already with a towel draped over his shoulders, said, "Yeah, Jackson, you were on fire! But let's not forget my lightning-speed catch – pure art!"
"Art? Mike, the only thing artful about that was how you almost tripped over your own feet!" Tyler cracked a laugh, joining our little huddle. Despite only being in his second year, he had already secured his place as our defensive tackle with a presence that belied his age.
"Alright, alright, enough. Let's focus on celebrating this win! But first, go wash away the sweat and turf," I said, my voice cutting through the chatter. Gradually, a hush fell over the space as the team, one by one, headed toward the showers. I unstrapped my pads and placed them in my locker before heading to the showers, feeling the post-game adrenaline begin to ebb away.
_________
So how was that?! Nothing like you would expect him, right?
Remember to subscribe to 'Sidelines' on my website to receive early access to the chapters, NSFW Commissions🔥 and everything to do with the story straight to your inbox for free: https://www.novaraynestories.com/stories#OBaGVN
You can leave comments over there, but if you prefer to do so here, I would love to read them! Thank you so much for all the love 🩷