Going For Two (Chicago Heartbreakers), page 5
The national anthem and coin toss passed in a blur of anticipation as my fingers itched for the first snap and throw of the game. We won the coin toss and decided to receive the kick. After our kick returner got us good positioning on the field near the thirty-yard line, I was running onto the field with the offense.
Coach Randolph, my head coach, called the play, which came in over a headset in my helmet. The cheers from the fans around the stadium were so loud that I could barely hear him. I had to cover the ear holes in my helmet to try and muffle the noise. This wasn’t something new when playing at Gateway Stadium. The energy inside was a part of the home field advantage that we had as a team. We’d grown accustomed to the noise the stadium held on game day. We knew how to respond. It was the other team that had to adjust and figure out how to play in these conditions.
After I relayed the play call to the team, we lined up in formation. It felt like slipping back on a pair of well-worn shoes, perfectly molded to my feet. Or getting back on a bike that I hadn’t ridden in some time—muscle memory took over.
Scan the defense.
Do I see anything I need to tell my team about?
Should the play still be on?
Set. Hike.
In the moment, it felt as though time had slowed down and minutes had passed between lining up on the line of scrimmage and when the ball was snapped, but in reality, it was only a few seconds.
When I finally felt the leather of the football in my fingertips, I went into autopilot. My eyes scanned for my first intended receiver for this play to see that he was covered before shifting to the next receiver. The second I saw an opportunity, I let the ball fly right into the hands of my target.
First down.
For the first time in months, when I thought about football, I didn’t feel the overwhelming need to succeed hanging over me. Instead, I found myself smiling as we executed play after play.
That was until the second quarter.
The first quarter had gone off without a hitch. We’d managed to score a touchdown—a long route for Derek that he’d managed to stretch out for a score—and also get within kicking distance for Hawthorn to get a field goal on a stretch where none of our plays were breaking through for another score. We were winning going into the second quarter ten to nothing, but the momentum changed quickly.
With a few adjustments between quarters, San Diego’s offense had managed to break through our defense to make it a three-point game. With only two minutes left until the half, there was an expectation to get another to keep the lead.
But it seemed that San Diego’s defense had also made an adjustment.
A moment after the ball was snapped into my hands to start the first play of our possession, I realized I was being rushed. There is nothing more terrifying in this world than a three-hundred-pound lineman running full speed at you with the intent of putting you on your back. Panic seized my body immediately. In the matter of a second, all the memories of being sacked from last season flashed through my mind—freezing, panicking, and being unable to think about anything else for the rest of the game.
It’s happening again.
My body slammed violently into the ground with the force of the lineman landing on top of me and smothering me for a few seconds before the pressure disappeared. I was left staring up at the sky above me, the ball still miraculously clutched in my hands. Derek came into my view and extended a hand down toward me.
“Maguire was out of position and missed his block. That’s not on you, bud.” Derek slapped my shoulder pads before looking at me expectantly for the next play with the rest of my team. But there was a ringing in my head that was disorienting me, and I could barely make out what my coach was calling in my helmet.
The clock was running down, and I had no idea what Coach Randolph had called. Before my team could figure out that I was out of sorts, I called a passing play to Derek with the hope that I wasn’t making a mistake. If this didn’t work, my coach wouldn’t be happy that I’d gone rogue.
As soon as I called for the ball, I found Derek on his route. Luckily, muscle memory took over and my body managed to drop a ball into his arms despite the mess in my head. Derek broke the tackle the guy on him was trying to make and ran the ball in for a touchdown.
Cheers erupted around the stadium. Coach Randolph clapped me on the back and told me that was a much better call than what he had on when I ran back to the sideline. Derek and Hawthorn cheered and said things like “the old Nolan is back.”
None of that was true. All I cared about was getting into the locker room before I let my vicious thoughts take over in front of everyone.
The energy in the locker room was high as the coaches tried to calm us down to talk about next half’s game plan, but I could barely focus on the white board in the middle of the room to see what the plan was.
A body stepped in front of me and blocked my view of the locker room. “Come with me,” Lottie told me with her arms crossed over her chest. The look on her face told me that I wasn’t going to avoid her this time.
No one blinked an eye at us as she led me back into the training room off the locker room. The second the two of us entered the room, she turned to look at me.
“What happened out there?”
I blinked. Had she seen me nearly lose it?
“What are you talking about?” I asked. It was better to play it safe and let her reveal her cards first.
“You played the entire first quarter and most of the second quarter like you were back five seasons ago. You looked great.” I didn’t bother with reveling in her compliment. I had felt great that first quarter and a half, but I knew something else was coming. “Then on that last drive, it was like you froze. It reminded me of some of the film I watched from last year. Any pressure on your right side and it’s like you collapse.”
Had that lineman come from my right side? How the hell did she connect all of that?
“Here, let me look at your knee.” Lottie motioned for me to get onto the training table before she pushed up the leg of my pants. She rubbed her hands together and breathed into them first. “Sorry, my hands are always cold.”
My eyes snagged on the way her lips puckered as she blew out hot air. I nearly had to physically shake my head to snap out of the trance the dark red of her lips had caught me in.
“How’d you notice that I panic with pressure on the right side?” I asked as she pressed on my knee.
“I watched film.” Her answer was short, which was probably deserved after I had dodged all her attempts to try and help me this week.
“I spent this last week reading all of Roger’s notes on your recovery after surgery. You barely completed half of the evaluations you needed to before the team threw you back in last season. Your knee hasn’t quite recovered, and I think you know it. You’re painfully aware of it on the field. Any pressure from that side has you reeling.”
I wanted to glare at her and tell her that she was wrong. I wanted to laugh at her and say that maybe she wasn’t as good at her job as she thinks she is, but then … I’d be lying.
When Lottie looked up at me, I realized I had never told anyone what exactly went on in my head during games post-surgery. The war I started with myself once I realized my body would never be the same felt like a slow poison that would kill me before my knee would. If I wanted a shot at winning the Super Bowl during my last year, I was going to have to clue someone in. I wasn’t going to last the full season unless I figured out some way to address this.
“The injury happened when I was rushed on the right side two seasons ago.” Lottie nodded her head. She must have watched the film from that game. Part of me hated knowing that she had seen me on the ground, helpless. “I did the normal therapy post-surgery. Brace, crutches, the whole nine yards. The coaches had been anxious to have me back on the field when last season rolled around, but I knew I was going to be short of getting my knee back to where it needed to be. I tried to compensate for it, but all I could think about was my knee during the game, which made my reaction times slower. I was more at risk for a sack.”
“I can help you, if you’d let me.” Lottie’s face was set with determination, as if she was expecting a fight.
“I have one season left.” It was meant to be a brush off, much like what she had expected from me, but there wasn’t much fight to my words.
“Here’s the deal, Hill.” Lottie faced me as if she were a soldier preparing to head into battle. “You want to win a Super Bowl. That’s every quarterback’s goal heading into the season. You want it more than anything else you’ve ever wanted in life—especially this season. You want to leave this game the hero you’ve painted yourself to be your entire career. But you will only get sacked enough times that you get replaced by the rookie you glared at this entire week during practice if you don’t let me help you.”
“I didn’t glare at Caleb all week,” I managed to mumble through the partial shock of her words.
“I’m not going to even argue with you on that, because you and I both know you were.” Lottie pulled tape from her bag and started adding extra support to my knee. When she was done, she pulled my pant leg back down and gave me a look that I knew she’d used many times throughout her career whenever she faced opposition.
“Let me do my job, Nolan.”
Lottie had called me out on what I wanted most—to win. If I wanted to do that, the two of us were going to have to work together.
“Fine.”
“Great, we’ll start tomorrow at six in the morning.”
Six in the morning? Was she crazy?
I opened my mouth to protest, but she silenced me with another scathing look.
“Now, you still need to win this game. So, here’s what we’re going to do. This should provide you with enough support that when you do get pressed from the right side, it over-compensates for you. But we’re going to try and keep that from happening. Work out of the left side of the pocket, no matter what side the defense is pushing from. And trust yourself, for fuck’s sake—you’re Nolan fucking Hill. You’re a two-time Super Bowl champion and you own about ten different records in the NFL. Now go win the damn ball game. I hate losing.”
I had to stop my jaw from hitting the floor as I watched Lottie leave the room. Her thick blonde hair was in a braid that swished from side to side in time with her hips as she walked away. I had to give it to the woman, she had teeth, and she knew how to use them.
Chapter 7
Lottie
Nolan listened to my advice during the second half and played to the strength of his left side, rather than trying to make something happen with his right that would only put him at risk. After he threw his second touchdown of the third quarter and came off the field celebrating with Derek, he paused long enough to catch my eye from where I stood behind the team. If I hadn’t been watching closely, I would have missed the almost imperceptible nod of his head.
Our defense managed to hold off San Diego’s attempt at tying the game up at the end of the fourth quarter, clinching the first win of the season. The team celebrated on the field as reporters flooded around them to grab a photo of the players. An ESPN reporter stopped Nolan a few feet away from me.
“Nolan, that was an impressive game you had today. You threw for five total touchdowns at nearly three hundred yards passing. You must be happy with the strong start of this performance for the season.”
The reporter, I recognized, was Harper Nelson. She was up-and-coming on the scene. Players loved her because she often asked knowledgeable questions during her interviews. Fans loved her because she was beautiful, with tan skin that balanced her chocolate-brown hair and hazel eyes. I had to admit that she was striking, but my heart still ached for the girl that had to combat being relevant for her looks rather than how good she was at her craft. I remembered seeing an article where she talked about being a female reporter in the sports industry and how she worked hard to remain knowledgeable about the game, so she was known for more than being a woman.
“It’s the kind of start we wanted to have as a team. But this season is a marathon, not a sprint. There’s a lot of games ahead of us that we’ll have to chip away at.” I watched Nolan morph into the player that was the nation’s beloved quarterback. Gone was the hardened gaze and the pessimism I had witnessed this past week. He was the All-American guy as he talked with Harper.
“You battled through some adversity with your linemen not quite getting into position at times. What do you think you need to do moving forward as an offense?”
“I think it’s just practice and getting more looks together. The offense will gel. We have some new blood on the line, and I think with more practice and a few more games, we’ll be running on all cylinders.”
“Thanks, Nolan.” Harper flashed him a quick smile before she backed away with her cameraman.
Nolan noticed me waiting for him in the tunnel when he approached. He slowed from his previous jog to a walk as he got closer. His gaze held none of the disdain he usually looked at me with.
Progress.
“Thanks,” Nolan told me. I had to bite back a laugh at how hard it seemed it was for him to say that word. “For the advice you gave me at halftime.”
“I wasn’t the one that just went out there and threw for nearly two hundred yards in the second half. You just needed a little reminder about who you are.” I gave a small shrug of my shoulders. Nolan’s eyes bounced around my face as if he were looking for something. I almost missed the ever-present annoyance that was on Nolan’s face and the absence of it had me searching for something to fill the silence that was starting to grow between us.
“I think maybe a truce is on the table. No more avoiding me at the practice facility?” I asked cautiously. A sheepish smile crossed Nolan’s face like he’d been caught red-handed. I noted the way that smile softened his facial features and showed me a different version of him.
“I’m a man of my word. I’ll see you tomorrow at six.”
Nolan Hill was indeed a man of his word. The next morning, his black Range Rover pulled up next to my car at ten minutes until six while the sky was still dark. I had been leaning against the hood of my car waiting when he pulled up.
I watched Nolan take in my leggings, running shoes, and long-sleeved workout shirt. He was dressed in a pair of shorts and a well-worn Bobcats crewneck; a Cougars baseball cap covered his normally tousled brown hair.
“You are not dressed in your usual attire,” he said, speaking the obvious.
“Well, that’s because we aren’t doing the usual routine.” I pushed off the hood of my car and started off toward the trail head that wove its way through the woods of the residential area that surrounded the Bobcats’ practice facility.
“Where are we going?” Nolan asked, his long strides keeping easily up with my short ones.
“For a run. I want to switch things up and see how you do before we get into the training room.”
I took off into a light jog the moment my feet hit the pavement of the trail head. Nolan and I fell into a steady rhythm with each other, the first few minutes of the run passing with comfortable silence. I appreciated Nolan’s sudden willingness to listen to me and not fight over his treatment.
“So, you want to tell me about why you avoided me all last week?” I asked as we passed the first house in the surrounding neighborhood.
Birds chirping in the morning air and the pounding of our shoes on the pavement were the only sounds filling the space between us before Nolan finally answered me. “I don’t particularly like therapy.”
He gave me an embarrassed look, much like the one he gave me at the game the day before.
“It reminds me of the reason why I got hurt in the first place.” I could tell that whatever Nolan was thinking about, it often weighed heavily on his mind. “I had missed those defensive players rushing me on the right side because I’d been lost the whole game. I hadn’t had time to read the playbook that week as thoroughly as I should have … I had other things going on that drew my attention elsewhere. So, I wasn’t as quick at finding my receivers that game and it eventually caught up with me. I let other things distract me and it cost me nearly everything.”
“What was on your mind that week?” The professional side of me wanted to know what I was up against with trying to mend him, but I was also curious to know what could have shaken Nolan so much that it would affect his game like that.
“Now, I don’t think it’s fair that I’m the one answering all the questions here.”
I noted Nolan’s evasion, but I appreciated that he was at least trying today—even if it was difficult for him. It was only fair that I met him halfway. “What questions do you have?”
I could feel Nolan’s gaze heavy on me. “You seem to know a lot about football.”
“That’s not a question,” I replied.
The scowl I was used to seeing Nolan wear passed over his face again. “Why do you know so much about football?”
“My father coached high school football. I grew up with a game on all fall and winter. He liked to joke that it was in my blood.”
What I hesitated to share was how football was the only thing that my father had ever really cared about. He thought coaching high school football was more important than even his family. Games became more important than holidays, birthdays, and eventually his marriage.
“He seems like a dedicated father,” Nolan commented, oblivious to my pained expression.
I remembered a time when I desperately wanted my father to come home, only to be told that he had game film to watch—for a high school football game. He acted as if he were on the verge of winning the Super Bowl with the level of importance he thought it deserved.
