"There you are." Dad patted my shoulder while I squeezed past again. I sucked in my stomach, trying not to bump my butt on the people's heads. "That was a long bathroom break. Where did you go?"
"I said hi to Logan's mom." I pointed to the opposite side of the stadium, although she now sat on our side and held up a brown paper bag. "And I needed a snack."
"Jake was looking for you." Since Jake had almost no chance to injure himself during halftime, Mom's face was relaxed, and some color had returned to her cheeks.
"Really?" I glanced at the field, where the teams warmed up again, and spotted Jake. "If I jump up and down, flapping my arms like an idiot, do you think he'll see me now?"
Mom tipped her head back and laughed. "No, but if we all do it, he can't miss a family of idiots."
From her seat, Harper's eyes looked up at me from under her lashes. With no amusement on her face or in her voice, she muttered, "Nope. I don't do Harrison family embarrassment things."
"How was your halftime?" I smiled and exaggeratedly scanned her face for any signs. Her lips were a little pinker and fuller than before halftime, so I inspected both sides of her neck for further evidence of... Harperness.
Her shoulders tensed, and she leaned away. "What?"
"Checking for hickies." I snickered at the idea that I ever made her feel uncomfortable. "I'm disappointed."
"We weren't gone that long," she said in a dry voice and rolled her eyes. With an eye shift and a slight nose lift at the field, she redirected, "Go squawk and arm flap at your brother."
"Jake-JAKE! Jake!" Mom, Dad, and I screamed and flapped like wild turkeys, to no avail. The only reaction we got was confused looks from people below us.
"We need to do it together, like a one-two-three thing." Dad held up his hand.
Mom's forehead creased with a frown. "Fine, but are we saying Jake on three, or is it one-two-three then Jake?"
"It's not that complica- oh, he sees us." I waved at Jake. He raised one hand in our direction, then turned to his warmup tosses. Across the field, Logan's number ten ran through similar actions with two of his receivers. "Thirty more minutes of playtime." My heart thumped harder in my chest. "Then I can breathe."
"Me too," Mom agreed as we all sat down. Wedged between Mom and Harper, a soft crinkled sound erupted on my left side.
"What's that?" Harper pointed at the brown paper bag I'd tucked under my elbow.
"Churros." I removed two long, slender sticks of fried dough deliciousness and waved them under her nose. "Want one?"
"Fuck no." She shoved my hand away. "Especially not because you got the cinnamon."
My lips opened around the head of a churro when Harper whispered, "Plus, that's not the kind of stick I'd put in my mouth."
First balls, now a stick. Only Harper. "Mmmm," I teased and bit down. Crunchy layers erupted and coated my tongue. Flecks of cinnamon and sugar rained down onto my chest and lap. "You're missing out."
Mom's condescending tone hit my year. "Very ladylike, Ellie."
I rolled my eyes, shook the crumbs out of my brown paper bag, then handed it over to her. "Need this?" I smiled when she tucked the back under her leg. "Just don't inhale the cinnamon and sugar still in there."
I chomped into another foodgasm moment and turned to Harper. "Ready for the second half?"
"Can't say that I care," she whispered. "You?"
Dryness from the churros coated my tongue, which I swallowed and nodded. "I am."
The game's second half was more exciting, or maybe my churros' sugar rush kicked in. Both sides came out of the locker rooms and gunned full steam at each other. From what I saw, the defensive teams on both sides started to fatigue. Their slower reactions opened up the game into whose offense exploited those weaknesses more. The offensive teams marched back and forth, and the score changed like tennis shots.
My eyes shifted between the field and the time clock. The seconds ticked by so slowly.
"Oh, come on!!" "Get 'em!" A collective Santa Cruz groan rumbled through the air on Salesian's touchdown. Logan collected boos and middle finger gestures from our side.
"That quarterback is too damn good!" Mom groaned and palmed her forehead. "Somebody freaking tackle that SOB! Take his ankles out, something!"
My jaw dropped open so far, I was surprised it wasn't on the row ahead of ours. "Mom!"
"Oh, right. He's your -"
I clapped my churro-sticky hand over her mouth. "Stop." Out of the corner of my eye, I caught one frowned eyebrow and the start of a scowling pout on Dad's profile. "I don't know what he is yet." Mom's eyes shifted to Dad's expression, which now included furrowed eyebrows. I dropped my hand, and she wiped off her mouth.
"Hey," I whispered to Harper, whose eyes and thoughts were too engrossed in her phone. "Ryan, huh?" I nudged her elbow and smiled at her contact, SkinnyLegs. She nodded, but her cute, tiny smile gave away his identity. Is that what I looked like?
"Hey." I elbowed her again. "If everything works out tonight, I'll take you up on that Homecoming thing."
"Really?" Her eyes finally tore away from her screen, and her smile widened. I held up crossed fingers, even though I hadn't filled her in with the Logan details yet. I didn't know the full story myself. We had to get through more than this game.
Both teams traded touchdowns as no defensive opposed them anymore. Eight minutes in the fourth quarter. Tick, tick, tick.
On Jake's turn, they ran run play after run play. After what felt like years, that damn clock read six minutes. Oh, for fuck's sake. Jake's slow march took years off my life. Yard by yard, they dragged down the time clock, all while our stadium side held a collective breath. They inched closer to Salesian's end zone. Mom's hand squeezed tighter onto Dad's until her knuckles were white and his eyes bugged out.
"He's got this." I patted her shoulder, even though my heart hammered against my chest walls like it wanted to break through.
With two minutes left, Santa Cruz pressed down on the ten-yard line. Raspy breaths and loud crinkle sounds erupted on my right side. My shoulders twitched as I tried not to laugh while Mom breathed into her bag with ragged, uneven puffs. One minute and five yards to go, Jake rushed in with a quarterback sneak. The Santa Cruz side erupted in an explosion of pent-up excitement and relief. My feet vibrated from stomping and jumping celebrations. Strangers hugged strangers as best friends or long-lost lovers. Hands slapped congratulations like any of us contributed to Jake putting his team one touchdown ahead of Salesian.
Correction: The Santa Cruz side except me. I stood up initially, and my mouth opened to cheer for Jake, but a pit in my stomach sank my butt back down. Logan's turn.
Number ten sauntered to the field at Salesian's twenty-yard line as if he had all of the fourth quarter to make up eighty yards to score. He started with a play that made no sense. Logan took the snap, then handed the ball to his running back behind him for a run play, but the running ran sideways, parallel to the line of scrimmage, not forward. Then he tossed the ball back to Logan, who wound up, leaned back, and chucked the football thirty yards downfield.
"Can they do that?" I gaped.
Mom shrugged. "The refs didn't blow the whistle, so I guess. Dale?"
Dad was stunned. I followed his gaze back to the field, where one lone, undefended Salesian receiver chased after the ball. All of Santa Cruz's defense was up by the line to defend a run play that never happened. Thousands of eyes watched in slow motion. The ball sailed high. It arched and swirled in a perfect crisp spiral, then tucked into the receiver's outstretched hands. He ran alone for almost forty yards into the end zone untouched. The Salesian fans erupted in thunderous jubilation.
Dad's palms rested on the top of his head. "Did he do a... flea flicker!?"
He stared at me around Mom as if he expected me to explain, but all I had to give was a blank look. "English, please?"
"It's a trick play. Doesn't usually work, very risky." Dad's hands lowered, and he shook his head. "This guy is either ridiculously skilled or lucky."
One of my eyebrows arched. "Meaning?"
"He's on a whole different level." While I had no idea what he meant, a sense of calmness swelled inside me. A happy, warm glow filled my belly. Logan impressed my dad, Jake's toughest critic, with something football-related.
Mom, Dad, and I turned our gaze back to the field when shrill whistles blew at the other end. A giant pile of players plopped near the line of scrimmage. In a mess of hands and shouts, guys shoved until the refs separated them. The last Santa Cruz player, a hulky defensive tackle, pushed off a Salesian player on the bottom of the pile. My eyes widened, and my heart dropped into my stomach when I saw Salesian's number ten still lying flat on the field.
Logan.
The stadium's noise evaporated into a thick, deafening silence. A collective gasp was drawn in and held. My ears throbbed with my pulse, and my lungs burned until he sat up to smatters of applause. I expelled a loud breath and uncurled my shoulders. Cool, crisp air filtered through my nose at Logan's raised hand. He stood on his own accord but took slow and gingerly steps to the sidelines.
"He's probably all right." Mom's paper bag-holding hand crinkled near my ear. "Just needs to walk it off."
A groan escaped me when I looked at the scoreboard. Logan had tied the game. Overtime. In a stadium of nearly two thousand people who stood up or sat on the edge of their seats for three hours, I was the least excited about more football.
Please, please let this end quickly.
And painlessly.
The game did not end quickly. Starting with a fifteen-minute break before the first overtime period started, both teams reset. Bowed heads, shoulders slumped, and backs rounded over in the seats below us. "Aren't they tired?" I pointed to the players. "Please tell me there's no triple-overtime or quadruple-overtime."
"There's not." Dad's amused smile assured me. "But they have to try for the two-point conversion during the second overtime if there is one."
"They could end up in a tie? And everyone celebrates both sides not losing?" Dad's nod gave me a new outcome to cheer for. Oh, that would be great. Anticlimactic tie, for the win-win.
Jake lined up his team on Salesian's twenty-five-yard line. He slipped back a few yards, waited patiently until his offensive line opened up the condensed yardage, and slipped a pass right to Kieran for a score. The Santa Cruz side of the stadium went nuts. People hugged and slapped each other's asses like they were in the celebration huddle. I jumped up and down and screamed for Jake, then sank right down with a thud, my hands clasped where my heart pounded vibrations through my ribs. Why was I so nervous for Logan?
His calm, cool body language extended into halftime. His first play was no different, another trick play, and tied the before we absorbed what he'd done. I bit the inside of my cheeks, holding back a cheer that desperately wanted to escape as he pumped one fist into the air. Probably best not to cheer over all the Santa Cruz fans, but dang I wanted to burst open in celebration for him, along with the "Wahoo!" that erupted from Grace's corner of our bleachers.
"Second overtime." Dad patted Mom's back. Her cheeks were an unnatural purplish pink, and she drew deep, wheezing breaths in and out of her paper bag.
"Is she going to be alright?" I mouthed to Dad, who nodded and rolled his eyes.
Jake lined up again from the twenty-five-yard line, set up three straight run plays, and his running back wedged himself into the end zone. The Santa Cruz fans leaped up and cheered with what little energy we had left. Louder cheers erupted once Jake converted on the two-point conversation with a pass to, of all guys, Brody. With puffed-out cheeks, Mom deflated and sat down. Jake had done his part. He'd put his team in a position to win. He was done, played well, and stayed relatively level-headed... so far.
"C'mon, Logan." Mom's hand rested on my left shoulder and squeezed. I leaned over in my seat and couldn't stop bouncing my knee, so a warm hand rested on it. Harper's. She held a curious look in her eyes but only smiled.
Logan put all of his receivers stacked on one side of the field. His formation looked like a run play, but he hung back and pitched the ball high. Everyone gaped as one of his receivers ran into the endzone one-on-one with one of Santa Cruz's defenders. Both leaped. By the other side of the stadium's reaction, Salesian scored again. Their cheers of redemption signaled the end of the game once Logan connected a pass to that same receiver on their two-point conversion.
A tie.
It's a fucking tie.
I sagged against the fence with a slow breath. My shoulders slumped and I rounded them forward. It was over. Done. Tied. Thank fuck.
That was the way the cookie crumbled. All that hype, fuss, and pent-up hostility, and nothing got resolved past a tie recorded in each school's record. On the positive side, tonight's game involved no major fights, no broken noses, and no one got tossed out or suspended in the process, in particular, Jake. The football jocks all managed to stay cool-headed and professional.
In other words, it was the perfect game ending for me. My pulse quickened. What was next? Where Logan and I went from here was up to him.
Fans on both sides exited their seats with exhausted but content expressions, having witnessed an exciting game. My parents, Harper, and I watch the rows below us emptying. I said goodnight to Harper. Her blonde and pink-haired head bobbed down the steps. Ryan stood at the field level for her. His head tipped back and he laughed at what she said, then reached for her hand. They looked at each other like they were alone, then left.
So much happened today. I cupped my forehead, and uncertainty filled my stomach. Dad's phone beeped, making me reach into my empty pocket for my phone. Today, I was so disconnected without my phone, cut off from the world. I hadn't answered Logan's last message. Had he responded?
"Time to go," Dad said. "He's meeting with the scouts right now."
The wind cooled the metal in the bleachers and fence behind me. I folded my arms across my chest, rolled my lower lip under my teeth, and absently chewed on it. "I'm going to stay." Jake and USC was a conversation Mom and Dad needed to have without me. By their silent nods, they seemed to understand.
My real motive was to make myself visible from anywhere on the field. For Logan.
Mom gave me a gentle hug. "Catch up when you're ready."
The only sounds were the soft rustling of trash remnants and abandoned signs that the cheerleaders taped to the fences and flapped against the wind. With hurried footsteps, the groundskeepers shuffled among the rows of metal bleachers.
What did Grace mean? Would Logan just... walk away from this? While I usually ignored what happened on the field during Jake's practices and games, Logan's talent was next-level. He was better at running an offensive team than I was at breathing and walking simultaneously. Maybe his heart wasn't in it?
Logan's 'I'd rather show you' words quickened my heartbeat. Tonight. This long, achingly painful week was over. The game was over. I hugged my elbows and shivered. My patience evaporated into a mix of dreaded appreciation and a burning curiosity. I tapped my foot on rapid beats onto the bleacher, and a clammy dampness filled my palms. I'd give anything to see any subsequent messages from him.
"Sorry, miss. Closing up."
I stood at the groundskeeper's prompt and padded my feet down the stairs. Tingles and chills ran up my fingers from the metal railings, drying my damp palms. The wind picked up and tossed random strands of my hair across my forehead and cheeks. The tickling movement around my ears reminded me of when Logan and I stood there, his hands tucked back my hair and that whisper of a kiss.
When he said he liked me but didn't kiss me. It felt like forever ago but made a smile tug on my lips. Parents and players, including mine and Jake, lingered and spoke with men in sports coats. Similar exchanges probably happened on the visitor's side. My heart skipped more than one beat as I got closer and hoped somehow I found-
"There you are, baby." A low, confident voice spoke up ahead of me.
My heart skittered a beat at Logan's approach. He wore a maroon-red varsity jacket with a large block S, light khaki pants, and brown dress shoes. A navy blue duffle bag bounced on his back, and he took long steps. His damp hair was one shade darker blonde and messy, hopefully from a much-needed post-game shower. He tucked his head low, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and those beautiful blue eyes tracked the ground.
"Logan!!" Jolted with exhilaration, my heart soared within my chest. I took a few running steps but stopped short a few feet away. With his downcast eyes, he didn't look as excited to see me. Instead, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and refused to meet my gaze.
Oh, no. Statue Logan again? Something was wrong. Was he hurt? Why couldn't he look at me? Both my hands flew to my cheeks and my eyes dragged over his appearance for visual physical damage. This time, we were alone, but this was not the same arrogant and cocky guy I'd become incredibly fond of. It had to be me. What happened?
There are 5 chapters left! 😱 Thank you so much for reading!