Breaking Tackles: A Taking Flight Novel (13 page)

Montgomery comes over to us and says, “Good eye, Kistler.”

I smile and shrug. “I just saw what might work. Y’all are the ones who made it happen.”

Brooks lets out a loud whoop, still feeling that touchdown high, and I turn my attention back to the game. The Falcons are out for revenge now, but our defense shuts them down quickly, and the offense is back out there.

“Let’s do it again, men!” Montgomery shouts as they run onto the field and the anticipation, pressure, and excitement is tangible.

This time, Montgomery doesn’t fake and gives the ball to Deeks, who only gains a couple yards before being tackled. It’s not much, but it’s that much closer to a first down.

On the next play, the ball again goes to Deeks, who swings out to the right side this time and gets the first down. We continue advancing down the field until we’re at the thirty-yard line. I expect Coach to call in special teams for a field goal, but he doesn’t—he wants another touchdown.

Hell, we all want another touchdown.

The guys line up and when the ball is snapped, Montgomery shovel passes to Brooks and he makes a beeline for the end zone. He’s so
fast
. But the defense is keeping up with him, trying to bring him down. One defender goes in for the tackle and almost gets Brooks, but he dodges to the right just in time.

But, another defender has caught up with him, and slams into his right side just as Brooks dodges to the right, tackling him at the ten-yard line. The hit is
loud
—to the point that the fans collectively gasp at the noise of it. I’m used to the sound of helmets colliding with pads or other helmets, but even I recoil from the noise of the hit.

The defender gets up and offers a hand to Brooks, but he isn’t moving.

He probably just had the wind knocked out of him. That happens and hurts like a bitch—he probably just needs a few seconds to get his breathing under control and he’ll be right back up.

Ten seconds pass. Then twenty. Thirty.

He still isn’t getting up.

The medical staff run onto the field to assess what’s going on and a hush falls over the crowd.

He’s going to get up. He just needs a minute.

But then the staff is motioning and Brooks still isn’t moving and I am officially freaking out. I’ve seen players and teammates get hurt before—I’ve seen knees blown out and ACLs torn and, once, a broken collarbone. Every time, the player, though hurt, was at least moving.

Brooks isn’t moving at all.

Jesus Christ.

An ambulance is driven onto the field, and I feel sick as I watch Brooks loaded onto a stretcher and into the back of the ambulance.

Was he just knocked unconscious? Could it be something as simple as that? Or is it something much, much worse?

Suddenly, I see Coach in front of my face.

“Kistler,” he says. “We need you.”

I blink.

“You can do this, son,” he says. “Brooks needs you to do this.”

“What just happened?” I ask.

“We’re not sure yet,” Coach says. “He was knocked out for a bit and then regained consciousness. He’ll be fine. He’s in good hands. But right now, you need to get your head in the game and win this for him.”

I take a deep breath and nod. Coach reaches a hand out, and someone from behind me gives him my helmet, which he hands to me, and I robotically strap it onto my head.

“Give ‘em hell, Kistler,” Coach says, giving me a little push toward the field. And then I’m on the field, running toward the huddle, my mind both racing and completely blank.

I’m playing in my first NFL game.

Brooks is hurt.

I’m standing on the turf of an NFL field while my teammate is in a freaking ambulance.

I hear my name and snap my attention to Montgomery.

“You okay, man?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” I say, focusing on the present.

“Okay,” he says. “We’re running with Deeks, but I’m going to fake to you, Kistler. Don’t think, just do.”

I nod, repeating
Don’t think, just do
to myself over and over again as I head to the line of scrimmage. Directly across from me is the most enormous defensive linebacker I’ve ever seen.

I realize its Benjamin Olamuntu. He was on my fantasy team last year.

“Hey, baby Kistler,” Olamuntu says, laughing at the recognition he must see in my eyes.

I ignore him.

Don’t think, just do
.

Montgomery yells for the play to begin and my body is on autopilot. Olamuntu lunges for me across the line of scrimmage, but I’m not there—I’m running toward Montgomery, reaching for the ball at the same time Deeks reaches for it. The hand-off to Deeks happens in the blink of an eye, and I act like I have the ball, running to the left as Deeks swings to the right.

The defense has seen this play before, and they quickly know that I don’t have the ball as I run around and attempt to block for Deeks, who is tackled after gaining a handful of yards.

I run back to the lineup, no huddle this time, and Montgomery calls WR One.

We don’t have a play called WR One.

I give him a confused look and he says, “This is all you.”

Then it clicks. Wide Receiver One is Brooks. Shit. He wants to run another Hail Mary. He wants
me
to do what Brooks did.

I’m not that fast. I have no idea how to get past Olamuntu. I’m not Brooks.

Don’t think, just do
.

“You’re quick, baby Kistler, I’ll give you that,” Olamuntu says.

For some reason, the comment calms my nerves and makes me focus. If he said something like that on the field, that means I
really
impressed him.

“You bet your ass I am,” I say.

I can do this. I have to do this.

The ball is snapped and I don’t waste any time—I surprise Olamuntu by lunging for him instead of running to the right or left, and I spin, slipping past him.

Then I take off.

I don’t look behind me to see if anyone is there—I don’t want to know.

I run and run until I’m at the twenty, and I turn and look in the air over my left shoulder. I see the ball arcing in the air, Montgomery’s perfect spiral speeding toward me. I keep running, knowing that I need to be directly under the ball to avoid an interception or just completely missing it.

That would be embarrassing.

I keep my eye on the ball and as it’s descending, I realize I’m a little short of it. I reach for it, and my hands find the ball, but I’ve reached too far forward and before I know it, I’m flat on my stomach, lying on the field.

It’s not a touchdown, but I’m at the eight-yard line.

And we have a first down.

I stand and toss the ball to the ref, and then realize that the crowd is yelling and screaming and jumping up and down because of a play that I made. Because of my catch.

I jog to the huddle and Montgomery gives me a huge smile.

“Good job, Kistler. Sorry I overthrew it a little.”

“No worries,” I say. “I should have run faster.”

“You’ll get there,” he says. “Now, men, let’s get this touchdown.”

We get it in two plays and then, somehow, it’s halftime.

I head with the team to the locker room and Coach pulls me aside before sitting the team down for the big speech.

“You feeling good?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, taking a deep breath, trying to wrap my brain around the fact that I’ve been playing in a professional game. He nods once before slapping me on the back and then walks over to confer with the other coaches.

“Gentlemen,” he says, after a few minutes. “We have an update on Brooks. He’s conscious and doing okay, but he has several broken ribs.”

Someone whistles low.

This isn’t good.

Then I realize what it means for the team.

Brooks is out for the foreseeable future.

And I’m first-string.

Courtney

“How do you not eat bread?” I ask Becca.

“It’s not that I have never eaten bread,” she says, “I have. It’s the best thing ever. No wonder someone decided to slice it.”

I laugh at that, despite my inability to understand how she doesn’t eat bread.

“Unfortunately, bread makes my ass fat,” she says, before taking a sip of her green juice. She frowns at the juice and says, “For the record, this is terrible. But it
doesn’t
make my ass fat.”

I look down at my own green juice and grimace. It’s healthy. I need healthy.

“So you avoid bread, like, always?”

“Most of the time,” she says. “I do eat carbs. They’re unavoidable. And they’re healthy in moderation. But I also try to avoid carbs as much as possible.”

“What if you’re craving pasta?” I ask.

“I have eggplant parmesan, without the spaghetti.”

“Huh,” I say, fascinated.

Becca and I have been running together every morning, I’ve been doing yoga with Willa and Sophie a couple times a week, and I’ve gone to spin class every day. It’s more working out than I think I’ve ever done in my life and my body
hurts
.

But I also feel great. I relish waking up and feeling the ache in my muscles. I like the worn-out, sweaty, post-workout feeling and how exhausted I am at the end of the day because I know that I worked hard and earned the sleep.

I haven’t lost any weight yet, though. I figured that by working out more, I’d automatically lose weight. But apparently not. Which is why I’m talking with Becca about her eating habits.

“If you think cutting out carbs entirely is going to be too tough, then just cut back on carbs,” she suggests.

“I’ll try the no-carb thing for two weeks and see how it goes,” I say, already knowing it’s going to be the hardest thing I’ve ever done. “Wait, what about desserts?”

“I have fruit,” Becca says, smiling. “Or, if I’m really desperate for something, frozen yogurt. It’s has fewer calories than ice cream.”

“Okay,” I say. “You’re making this sound doable.”

“I promise you that it is. The first week will be rough. You just have to focus on the fact that you’re doing something good for yourself and that it’ll all be worth it.”

“Let’s hope so,” I say. “If I text you about my dreams of pasta and brownies, don’t make fun of me, though.”

“There are cake emojis for a reason.”

I laugh and decide to take a drink of the green juice while I’m in a good mood.

“Jesus, that’s terrible.”

“Yep,” Becca says cheerily. “Maybe next time we’ll get it without the wheatgrass shot?”

“Sure,” I say, taking another drink—a big one this time—because the faster I drink it, the faster it will be gone.

“So how are things with Adam going?” Becca asks. I don’t miss her gaze lingering on my ring, which is looking especially sparkly in the bright afternoon sun.

“Don’t tell anyone, but he is scared shitless about starting.”

“Of course he is,” Becca says. “Drew is third on the Rams depth chart and thinks he’s going to vomit before their games. And there would have to be
two
injuries for him to see any playing time.”

“Adam’s been putting in some extra hours this week, getting ready for the game against the Bengals.”

Becca nods and then says, “Okay, enough about football. Tell me about your relationship.”

To be honest, there isn’t a lot to tell. We talk on the phone every night and text during the day. He’s stressed, I’m adjusting to college life without him, and we miss each other like mad. It’s . . . well, it sucks.

“Things are good,” I say.

“I envy that,” Becca says. “I miss Drew so much I think I’m going to explode sometimes. When I’m not in class or busy with friends, I feel like I’m going insane with how completely empty and lonely my life feels.”

I nod, understanding that. I’ve been trying to keep myself as busy as possible so that I don’t have time to focus on how much I miss Adam.

“I’ve been thinking about transferring to the St. Louis campus,” she says.

“Really?”

She nods. “I just started my junior year and already don’t think I can do long distance for two more years. Drew’s so busy he rarely even has time to talk to me. If he’d propose, I’d move in a heartbeat. But he hasn’t yet. Obviously. I think maybe he’s waiting until Christmas to do it.”

I bite my lip. I know that she isn’t passing judgment on me and my decision not to move to New Orleans, but it kind of feels like it. I’m sure I’m just being overly sensitive, though.

“But you’re barely long distance. It’s only a couple hours between here and St. Louis.”

“Yeah, I know,” Becca says. “We’ve been together since freshman year. Before the draft we talked about the future—marriage. I get to daydreaming and now I have these grand delusions of him making a special trip here to propose. It’s so stupid, I know.”

“It’s not stupid,” I say.

“I’m going to see him this weekend for the first time since he made the team,” Becca says. “I think I’ll bring up the idea of me transferring. Just to see how he reacts.”

“I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”

“I’m sure,” Becca echoes, but I don’t miss the hint of uncertainty in her voice.

I wake up on Saturday to the sound of a video call coming in on my phone. I swipe and Adam’s face fills the screen of my phone.

“Good morning, love.”

“Hey,” I say groggily, my voice sounding more like a croak. “What time is it?”

“Right around seven.”

“Why are you calling me in the six o’clock hour on a Saturday?”

“I’ve been up since four thirty,” Adam says, as if that’s any justification for why he’s waking me up so early on a Saturday.

“Why?”

“I went running.”

“You’re a man obsessed.”

“Like you can talk, Miss I-Haven’t-Eaten-Carbs-All-Week-And-Am-Always-Grumpy.”

That isn’t a lie. Not having pasta or bread or cookies or brownies has really made me an unpleasant person to be around. But I’ve lost two pounds in five days. I can’t be grumpy about that.

So of course at this moment my stomach growls. Loudly.

Adam laughs and I say, “If you mention pancakes, I will cut you the next time I see you.”

“Which is in a week,” he says excitedly.

“I can’t wait.”

“Me, neither. You, me, Kansas City. Hotel room paid for by the team.”

I smile, but my stomach does an involuntarily clench. I’m still clearly not ready if my stomach is clenching at the thought of sharing a bed with my fiancé, the man I stayed the night with almost every single night last year without ever feeling pressure to have sex.

I know the pressure isn’t coming from him. It’s coming from me. Which is why I can’t figure out why I both want to and don’t want to. Shouldn’t I be able to just make up my mind and do it?

“I’m sure we won’t actually be at the hotel much, though,” I say. “I mean, you’ll be prepping for the game and then playing in the game.”

“I know,” he says. “But I’ll still get to wake up next to you. God, I miss that.”

“I do, too,” I say, thinking back on all the mornings last year I’d wake up tucked against his chest, feeling warm and safe and loved.

We’re quiet, both of us lost in wistful thoughts, until Adam says, “So what are you up to today? Going to the Mizzou game?”

“Yeah,” I say. “My family is coming to tailgate.”

“Tell your family I say hello. I hate that I can’t get them all tickets for the Kansas City game.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “You’re still in preseason, so they aren’t too upset yet. But when you play the Chiefs during the regular season, that’ll be a different conversation.”

“I’ve already reserved four tickets for the game,” he says, smiling. “And told my parents they’ll need to go watch Mike or Jason that week.”

“You’re the best,” I say.

“Anything for you and my future in-laws.”

“Ew, weird.”

“What?” he asks. “In-laws?”

“Yeah. All of these adult words that keep popping up are still an adjustment.”

He laughs at that and I ask, “So what are you doing today?” even though I know he’s traveling to Ohio.

“Meeting Montgomery in about an hour to do get some passing drills in before heading to Cincinnati with the team.”

“Oh,” I say. “Does that mean you need to go?”

I know him and there’s no way he’s packed yet.

“Yeah,” he says. “Still need to pack before I meet Montgomery. I love you and miss you like crazy.”

“I love you and miss you, too. Tell Montgomery hi for me.”

Adam laughs at that and says, “I will. Have a good day, love.”

“You, too. Travel safe.”

After we hang up, I try to go back to sleep, but it’s no use. I roll out of bed and head into the small kitchen, grabbing a Greek yogurt out of the mini-fridge. I scarf the thick, sour-tasting yogurt and wash it down with a bottle of water.

Then I head to my room and change out of my pajamas and into running clothes. As I head toward the front door, I hear another bedroom door open and Sophie emerges from her room.

“Morning,” she says sleepily. “Are you off to the gym already?”

“Adam called and woke me up early. I couldn’t get back to sleep. Figured I’d use the energy and go for a run.”

“If you wait, like, ten minutes I’ll go with you,” she says, stretching her arms over her head and walking toward the bathroom.

“Okay,” I say, glad that I’ll have the company since Becca is in St. Louis.

“Ready,” Sophie says, a few minutes later. “My only stipulation is that after the run we get coffee. You still drink coffee, right?”

“Right.”

“Good,” she says, stretching her right quad. “If you said no I was going to have to decide you had been abducted by aliens or turned into a robot.”