Slammed #4 (The Slammed Romance Series - Book #4) (6 page)

We finally got to our seats and I started setting
up, taking out my camera to get action shots and taking a few pictures of the
steadily growing crowd. Some of the people attending the game were, I knew,
folks who attended the championship every year; they weren’t invested in one
team over another, but came just to enjoy that particular event. There were
also—obviously—those who were either students or alumni of either school,
crowding the stands in seas of school colors, faces painted and banners waving.
It was hard to separate myself from the intense emotions that everyone around
me was obviously feeling; I could barely hear the marching band for the other
team across the stadium, but they would have been loud indeed for the fans of
that school—just as our school’s marching band was on our side.

I snapped pictures of the crowd, capturing a few
banners. One of them made my stomach flip-flop inside of me; on our side, a
bunch of girls in school color bikinis and tiny shorts were waving a
hand-painted banner that read, “Win the Game and Get a Kiss, Zack!” I told
myself that I didn’t care—that I had broken up with him and he was a free
agent. I might have my regrets, but I couldn’t hold it against the girls that
they were cheering for a single guy and probably hoping to get invited to his
hotel room at the end of the night.

I started to fidget as the pre-game dragged on;
dance teams for both sides were doing routines, there were the mascots to
watch, and I wondered just how long it would take for the enormous stadium to
clear once the game was over. Jess was already having a good time, chatting up
a guy who was seated near us, teasing him about getting her a beer and a hot
dog because she was a poor, broke, college student who came here on my charity.
I tried not to laugh too obviously at her ruse and instead focus on what was
going on around me.
When is this game
even going to start?
I thought, with more than a little impatience.
More than anything, I wanted it to be over, the victory handed to
one of the teams so I could get back to the hotel room and spend the next
several hours dreading the interviews I would have to do—dreading having to
interview Zack.

The teams ran out—ours first, unlike the home games
I had covered. I tried to keep myself from looking for him, but in an instant,
I spotted Zack running out with his team mates, his away jersey spotless and
vivid.

“He’s not looking too bad,” Jess commented between
cheers for our team.

They started their warm ups and I tried not to watch
Zack’s every movement as I caught a few pictures for the article; I tried—I
really tried—to make sure I was getting a fair sample of the whole team in
their exercises.

They took to the sidelines and the other team came
onto the field, looking just as energetic and just as strong. If nothing else,
I thought, it would definitely be a good game—there would be no shutouts in
this match. The other team’s crowd cheered while our side booed, and my heart
was pounding.
I don’t care if we win,
I thought to myself; it would be nice if we did—my interviews the next day with
the different members of the team would go a lot more smoothly if they weren’t
all mourning their loss of the game—but on a personal level, it didn’t bother
me at all.
I don’t care if we win, but
please don’t let Zack get injured.

The entire crowd on both sides watched with bated
breath as the coaches went out for the coin toss. Even though it happened at
every game, there was a definite tension in the moment that was gone from other
games I’d gone
to
. I caught as many pictures as I
could of the two coaches walking up to the center of the field, waiting for the
ref, and then getting the result. The flip went to the other team, and they
cheered loudly enough to almost deafen our side.

I settled in to watch the game as the teams took up
their positions to start. I had done my research on the team we were up
against, just as I had for the previous article I had done. They were known to
have an aggressive offense-based strategy, which was similar to our team’s
typical M.O. I wondered if Coach
Bullden
had managed
to turn up the heat on the defensive line, and watched with interest as the
first play started. For the whole first quarter, it seemed like our team and
the other
team were
feeling each other out—neither
side scored a point, but they were right on top of each other, finding ways
through the defenses, working out where the weaknesses were. Every shift in the
play—whether it was a pass, an interception, or a tackle—brought cheers up from
one side or the other, and I half-wished I had brought ear plugs with me to at
least muffle the huge amount of noise.

The second quarter started and I found myself
watching Zack more and more. I could hear Jess flirting with the guy she was
wrapping around her little finger, but my attention was entirely on Zack. He
clearly wasn’t distracted or cracking under the pressure—he was on top of the
game, working hard, staying focused. It seemed to me like he was probably not
even remotely thinking about me, and while part of me was relieved, another
part was depressed. The second half went back and forth; we scored, and then the
other team managed to even the points; then, just like the first half,
everything was neck-and-neck, with the teams moving from one end of the field
to the other, not quite able to make a break through each other’s lines long
enough to get another touchdown. It was a nerve-wracking game, and the cheers
and shouts around me never abated for even a moment; if I wasn’t focused on
taking notes on the game, watching to try and work out the different
strategies, I might have been swept up in it myself.

The second half finally ended and the two teams ran
from the field to go back to the locker rooms to rest and get ready for the
back end of the game. The half-time show would be longer for this game than
usual, and I was looking forward to watching the marching bands perform. The
cheers cut back slightly, but didn’t die as the show got started. The two
marching bands came out onto the field and started up, getting ready to do
their competing routines. Even as I got excited, even as the two bands geared
up and began playing, my mind was on Zack. I pictured him in my head in the
locker room, drinking water or Gatorade, listening to
Bullden
catechizing the team—telling them what they’d done wrong in the first half and
getting them hyped for the second half of the game. With a tie on the
scoreboard, there’d be pressure for both teams to try and get the first score
right out of the gate.

I watched and didn’t watch as each marching band
took the field in turn. Our marching band went first, and I absentmindedly sang
along with the crowd as they went through their four songs, recognizable
classics that I thought had probably been played at every major football game
from the first year the songs came out. I took pictures of the formations,
grabbing as many as I could. I would have to ask Jess later on just what had
been played, because I wasn’t sure I would be able to remember it. But I had
the pictures, and I didn’t think the half-time show would be a major focus of
the article and the features anyway. When the other team’s marching band took
the field, I managed to pay a little more attention, catching a more modern
song—OK Go’s
Here
it Goes Again
among the more classic
selections. I got one or two pictures of their routine, but it wasn’t important
enough to do more than that.

“So what do you think about the first half?” I asked
someone near me.

I started collecting quotes, recording people as
best as I could in spite of the shrieking, screaming, cheering noise that
surrounded me. I grabbed a quote from Jess and the guy she was talking to just
as a matter of course—it probably wouldn’t make it to the final article, but it
gave me something to do while I was waiting for the game to start up again.

From the start of the second half of the game, it
was clear that both teams were looking to create a lead and break the tie. The
two teams took the field with just as much energy as they had at the beginning
of the game, rushing out and looking absolutely determined. The other team—the
Wild Cats—managed to break through our defense and get a touch down all in one
play a few minutes into the third quarter. I was on my feet, snapping pictures
and taking notes in my mind and in my notebook throughout the fraught quarter.
Our team tried to even the score but couldn’t seem to quite break through the
other side’s defense. I thought to myself that the other team’s coach,
Gulder
, had clearly stressed defense in his team’s
half-time briefing. I caught a few quick glances at the sidelines, watching the
rest of the team, watching the coaching staff pacing, working hard to try and
find a way to get that all-important score. The other team expanded their lead
with another touchdown, and there was a collective groan through our side of
the stadium while the other side shrieked.

I kept hoping that we would pull the lead that the
Wild Cats had on us closed; but as the third quarter ticked down to the final
seconds, we all knew it was impossible. We would have to have a monumental
fourth quarter—we would have to at least tie the other team in order to get into
overtime, where we might be able to pull ahead. It would really be a miracle if
we were able to pull ahead before regulation time ended.

At the beginning of the fourth quarter, the first
play by the other team—one of their key defensive players went down and we made
it halfway into their end of the field before one of the other tackles brought
our player down. We still had possession of the ball. The defensive lineman was
obviously hurt; he didn’t get up for a long time and the refs came out to
assess the situation. There was no penalty—the tackle had been perfectly
legal—but as medics came out and helped the player limp off of the field, it
was clear that he wouldn’t be playing for the remainder of the game. It was his
bad luck, I thought with a bit of sympathy.

The loss of the other team’s key defensive lineman
seemed to galvanize our team— finally they were able to break through fast and
effectively. We scored a touchdown on our very next play; it didn’t even the
score, but at least we weren’t so far behind. My heart was pounding in my chest
and the people in the stands around me were losing their minds, screaming and
shouting, cheering and chanting. The other team managed to continue to hold us
off through a few more plays—they intercepted once and then lost possession of
the ball in the very next scrimmage—but it was clear that they were really
suffering from the loss of their best defensive player. I was worried about
their offense; it had always been strong, and with one of their other players down,
they’d be looking—at least subconsciously—to even things up and maybe take out
our quarterback.

They nearly achieved it. In one of the plays in the
middle of the fourth quarter, Zack went down under what was practically a
dogpile of players from the other team. He was down for a few minutes, but
before they could bring the medics out, he was on his feet again, shaking
himself off, hopping up and down in place before he resumed his normal
position. The next play after that we managed to finally even up the score—Zack
using a deceptive move to convince the other team he was going to try for a
pass instead of a throw, and then getting the ball as far downfield as he could
to the running back who caught up to it just in time. I nearly went deaf once
more with the shrieks that came up from our side of the stands, but I was
grinning as broadly as
anyone
.

So, with only a few minutes left in the game—and the
championship riding on it—the two teams were once more tied. My mouth was dry,
and my heart was racing. We could end up in overtime, which wouldn’t be a bad
outcome—as long as we won it. I noticed, almost absently, that I was becoming
more and more invested in the game, in spite of wanting to remain impartial, in
spite of convincing myself that I didn’t care who won. If we couldn’t score
something in the next play or two, we would go into overtime—provided we could
keep our defense up and keep the Wild Cats from scoring.

The other team started its play. Everyone in the
stands—on both sides—was standing up, chanting, screaming, clearly at their
wits’ end with excitement at the prospect of such a close game. I had my camera
ready. If the other team managed to somehow get a touchdown in their play, they
would have basically won—it would be nearly impossible for us to score
sufficient points before the time ran out. I was bouncing on the balls of my
feet at the snap, watching, watching. Waiting like everyone else in the crowd
was. For the moment, I wasn’t a reporter at all; I was just another spectator,
watching the fates of the two teams unfolding.

In a moment that made everyone go silent, our team
intercepted the ball in the midst of a pass. After a shocked moment, everyone
on our side cheered. We made it onto the other side of the field, landing in
the Wild Cats’ territory by fifteen yards before they were able to scramble up
their players enough to tackle the player. We had possession of the ball once
more. There was time for one more play. I was in an agony of anticipation—what
would the decision be?
Would we go for a touchdown—a decisive
victory—or would there be a field goal attempt?
Just
enough of a score to win the game by a few points.
Both would be major
risks. Zack ran to the sidelines to confer with coach
Bullden
,
and some of the players switched up for the last play of regulation time. I
wasn’t sure whether the shrieking of the fans or the pounding of my blood in my
ears was louder. I watched the two sides form up. The players were in a tight
formation, and I saw Zack and another player cautiously moving farther back
from the line of scrimmage. It could be a field goal. It could be.