Breaking Tackles: A Taking Flight Novel (12 page)

“I didn’t realize you were coming back! I figured you’d transfer since, you know, the engagement and everything.”

“That’s what most people thought would happen,” I say. “But I didn’t want to move to New Orleans and then have Adam be released from the team and just have to move somewhere else.”

“That makes sense,” she says. “We should hang out soon.”

“Definitely,” I say. “Do you want to try and get coffee or something tomorrow?”

“Sure,” she says. “I could meet you early, like around eight, after my morning run. Unless that’s too early for you.”

That gives me an idea. “Actually, would you mind if I run with you? I’m trying to start working out more.”

“Sure!” she says. “Meet at the union at six forty-five?”

I nearly groan at how early that is, but know that I’ll never get up and run on my own. If I want to be serious about getting in shape and losing weight, then I need to make myself do this kind of thing.

“That sounds great.”

“Awesome. I’ll see you tomorrow then, bright and early!”

Bright and early, indeed.

Adam

I walk into the field house a little before eight with my headphones on, blaring the new playlist I asked Willa to make for me. She killed it, and this one has me feeling confident and strong and in an awesome mood. All things that are important today.

Because today is game day.

Technically it’s a preseason game. There are no stakes for me at all—I most likely won’t step foot onto the field this season. I’ll be dressed out on the sidelines, watching and learning.

But I still have a game day routine, and that includes getting in the mental zone for the game, even if I’m not actually playing.

As I walk into the locker room, I see that most of the other guys are doing the same thing I am: headphones on and nodding along to their own personal soundtracks.

My phone bleeps through the headphones, and I look at it to see who is messaging me this early in the morning.

Definitely neither of my brothers. They’re both playing later this week and are most likely in weight rooms right now.

When I look, I expect to see something from my dad, who has always been an early riser, but am glad when I see it’s from Courtney. I slide my thumb across the face of the phone and it opens to a photo of her, looking radiant. Her face is a little red and there’s a bead of sweat glistening on her brow—she mentioned that she’s been getting up early to run with Becca, so I assume that this is a post-run selfie—and she’s all smiles and her eyes are bright.

Your good luck charm is rooting for you! Go Saints!

I smile and text back.

I’m glad I have luck on my side. Love you!

Making my way to my designated locker, I see that hanging in front of it is my New Orleans Saints jersey, with Kistler emblazoned across the back.

If the playlist and photo of Courtney didn’t already have me in a good mood, this puts me over the edge and hurtling toward cloud nine.

I snap a quick picture of it and send it to Courtney and my family. I’m pretty sure I’m allowed to post this on social media, but want to check before I do anything. We can have personal accounts and post our own stuff whenever we want, but when it comes to stuff that is about the team, I’d rather be safe than get my ass chewed out.

Someone smacks me on the shoulder, and I turn to see Deeks grinning at me.

“Hey, man,” I say, pulling off my headphones.

“Pretty cool, huh?” he asks, pointing toward my jersey.

“Definitely cool,” I say, finding it hard to repress my smile. I’m such a rookie.

“How are you feeling? Have those first game nerves set in yet?”

“I’m feeling sky high. Ask me the same question an hour before game time and I assure you the answer will have changed.”

“Gentlemen!” the head coach’s voice booms across the locker room. “All y’all know the importance of today. I expect nothing but the best. Now get your asses to conditioning.”

“You hanging in there?” Darrell Brooks, the starting wide receiver, asks me as we take a water break between running drills.

“Yeah,” I say. “Feeling strong.”

“I noticed,” he says. “You’re killing it out there today. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t overdoing it before the game.”

“Well, it’s not like I’ll be playing,” I say, giving him a grin. “You’re a starter for a reason.”

“True,” he says, smiling good-naturedly. “But it’s possible that we’ll be up by thirty at half and Coach’ll decide to pull first-string. You need to be ready.”

We’re playing the Atlanta Falcons today, and I seriously doubt we’ll be up by thirty at half. In all likelihood this game will be a battle. I know that Brooks is speaking the truth and that I should be ready to get in the game, but I really don’t see that happening.

Brooks is at the top of his game. He’s been playing for the Saints for the past four seasons and was a first round draft pick five years ago. He was explosive last season and is expected to do even better this year. I can vouch for that since I see him in practice every day—the guy is a beast.

I’ve learned a lot working with him this summer and know that my game has improved just from observing him. The way he runs, the way he watches the coverage and finds the hole to fill, the way he creates opportunities both for himself and the team. He’s a smart, consistent, reliable player—the kind of guy Montgomery knows he can count on to execute plays. The kind of player I need to be.

“It’s possible,” I say. “But not probable.”

The whistle blows and we head back out to finish the last set of drills. Once that’s finished, the team does a cooldown before heading inside to eat and prepare for the game.

I sit with Deeks and Brooks, who regale me with stories of their first professional games, making sure to mention how nervous they were and cracking up over the mistakes they made. I think they’re trying to psych me out. It’s not going to work.

“Kistler, dude, lemme get a picture of you. We need to document this sense of calm before it breaks,” Deeks says, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

I grin stupidly at him and he throws his head back, laughing. Brooks looks at the photo and says, “Has anyone told you that you look like that superhero guy? The one with the hammer?”

I chuckle, thinking about Sophie’s reaction the first time she saw me in person. “Thor? A time or two.”

“I’m putting this on Instagram,” Deeks says.

“Speaking of,” I say, “is it cool if we post stuff of, say, our lockers, on there? Or do those have to be cleared?”

“Awe,” Deeks says. “Does the rookie want to post a picture of his first NFL jersey on the Internet?”

“Maybe.”

“Do it,” Brooks says. “Just make sure there aren’t any naked dudes in the photo.”

“The naked dudes would make it go viral,” I point out.

“Touché, second string. Touché,” Brooks says, standing up. “Time for me to get my game face on. See y’all later.”

I busy myself posting the photo of my jersey—I don’t care how rookie it makes me look. I
am
a rookie. And it’s damn cool to see my name on the back of a Saints jersey. When I’m done, Deeks is smiling over his phone at me.

“What?” I ask.

He turns his phone around and I see that he’s made one of those photo collages of the photo he just took of me and a still of nearly the exact same expression of the actor who plays Thor.

I roll my eyes. “You already posted it, didn’t you.”

“I sure did.”

I shake my head and laugh.

“Ready to put that jersey on you’re so proud of?” he asks.

“Hell yes.”

Standing on the sidelines feels both surreal and familiar.

I’ve been in this situation so many times before. But never was it in an NFL stadium, hearing the roar of an NFL crowd, staring at a field full of NFL players.

Everything about this experience is bigger, louder, faster, and more explosive than what I’ve experienced before. I fucking love it. Even when I’m just watching, learning, absorbing this super-charged version of the game from the sidelines.

At the end of the first quarter, we’re tied 7-7 with the Falcons and it’s been hard fought, even this early in the game.

Brooks grabs a bottle of water and sits beside me on the bench. I take the opportunity to talk with him while the game is paused for a commercial break.

“Hey, man.”

“Hey, second string. The defense is all over me tonight. I can’t get free. Got any advice?”

I nod. “Because they know you’re a fast motherfucker and they can’t afford to let you get an inch on them. Otherwise you’ll be in the end zone.”

“I’ll buy real estate in the end zone and make it my home.”

“Exactly,” I say. “Unfortunately, I think the only thing to do is surprise them. Montgomery keeps calling running plays instead of passing. If you can break away at the start of the play and get him to lob that ball downfield for a Hail Mary, I think we’ll get the lead on them.”

“Go big or go home,” Brooks says, nodding. “It’s always a gamble, but I’ll talk with QB and Coach. See what we can do.”

He smacks my shoulder and then walks over to where Montgomery and the head coach are talking, both of them looking at a whiteboard the offensive coordinator has scribbled plays on. I watch as the three of them confer, and then Brooks points over at me.

My first instinct is to look away when Montgomery and Coach look at me, but that would be a beta move. Instead, I hold their gazes and nod in their direction. Montgomery nods back and then the three of them turn their attention back to the whiteboard.

The referee blows the whistle, signaling that the commercial break has ended, and the offense runs out onto the field, quickly huddling around Montgomery before lining up.

When the ball is snapped, Montgomery very convincingly fakes the ball to Deeks, and Brooks takes off and is down the field, completely by himself in seconds. The offensive line has done a great job of keeping up the ruse of the fake, giving Brooks time to run, and Montgomery takes a step and lofts the ball high in the air, spiraling perfectly toward the end zone.

The Falcons have realized what’s happened, and their defenders are barreling down the field, but they’re too late. Brooks is basically
standing
in the end zone. He catches the ball easily, gaining the touchdown and then taking a bow and blowing a kiss at the crowd, who is on their feet, going insane.

I can’t believe it worked.

But it did. Holy shit, it did.

Unfortunately, it won’t work again—the Falcons will be expecting that kind of play now. But at least we have the lead.

When Brooks gets back to the sideline as the defense runs onto the field, he grabs me by the jersey and yells, “Kistler! You are the fucking man!”