First Down: A Fake Dating College Sports Romance (Beyond the Play)
First Down: Chapter 39

I STEP BACK as a couple guys come barreling in my direction, clicking away all the while. The hardest part of this whole gig has been avoiding the players, who can’t help where they end up out of bounds sometimes. An errant throw by the Alabama quarterback almost ended up hitting me smack in the face back in the first quarter, before I learned I needed to move seriously fast to keep up. One of the ESPN cameramen, Harold, has helped me throughout the game, offering me pointers on anticipating the next moves. Even though he’s an older dude and skinny as a pole, he runs fast and always has his camera in position to get the shot. He’s a total pro.

I love watching the games, but this? This is incredible. My heart hasn’t stopped pounding since the moment the game began, and most of that is from the adrenaline rushing through me. I’m excited and nervous for James, yes, but I’ve been so focused on my work I sometimes forget to even cheer when he makes a particularly good throw.

Of course, I liked this game a lot more before James found out that Darryl kissed me.

The teams line up again. I glance up at the scoreboard. Third down, so James needs to work some magic to keep the drive going.

He takes the snap, fakes a pass, and holds the football tight, taking it to the down marker himself, running out of bounds. He sees me and winks as he tosses the ball back to the referee. I flush, biting my lip as I take a couple of shots of him in the huddle.

After he went back into the locker room, I found the nearest bathroom and pulled myself together. By the time I left, I looked totally normal. I can usually put on a mask when necessary, and this isn’t any different… not that it stops the ache in my chest. I’ve been on edge since then, holding my breath every time I see James and Darryl interact. I promised I wouldn’t distract him, and then I went and gave him the biggest distraction possible halfway through the game.

I just have to hope he’s able to put it out of his mind for the rest of the game.

I still can’t believe I broke down like that. Whenever I think about it, my skin feels itchy, my throat thick with emotion. It was one thing spending the first half of this game trying to forget what Darryl did. Now that I know James knows? The panic threatens to turn into a wildfire.

I look up at the scoreboard again. Seeing the big numbers announce that McKee is still leading, 33-30, makes me calmer. We’re deep into the fourth quarter now, and if James leads another scoring drive here, they’ll be that much closer to putting the game away.

Only when James attempts another pass, it slips out of the receiver’s fingers… and lands right into the hands of one of the Alabama players.

“Shit,” I murmur under my breath. I take a couple of pictures anyway, but my stomach is in knots. They will have a chance at another possession, but the game might be tied then, or beyond that, if Alabama scores a touchdown. I sneak a peek at the McKee sideline as the guys switch with the defense. James rips off his helmet, practically hurling himself onto the bench. He doesn’t throw a lot of interceptions, and while that one was barely his fault, I’m sure he feels awful.

Maybe he can’t concentrate because he’s thinking about Darryl kissing me instead of the game. If his father was right, if my issues lead to them losing…

My stomach turns over at the mere thought.

And it just gets worse when Alabama takes that interception and turns it into a touchdown.

37-33, with under a minute to go. James has plenty of time, but a field goal won’t do; they need the touchdown. I keep reminding myself of that as I watch the team huddle together for a time out, James’ coach talking with his hands as much as his voice. Plenty of time. James is completely capable of leading a touchdown drive under pressure like this; the previous game, they needed to come back from a deficit to tie before ultimately winning.

They start the drive with good field position, but quickly drop down to a third down when two rushing attempts don’t lead anywhere. James throws a pass, then, and they manage to claw out a first down to keep the momentum going. I move along the sideline with them, ducking past players and staff and other members of the press. The roar of the crowd behind me is so intense it’s like a solid wall of sound. I manage to get an awesome shot of Demarius the moment he catches a pass, and another of one of the Alabama defensemen diving to try and sack James, who runs out of the way just in time.

They set up in good position to send the ball into the endzone, but then a stupid holding penalty drops them back fifteen yards. I let my camera hang freely around my neck, digging my fingernails into my forearms as I watch James shout for the guys to get into position. It’s only a second down, so they have a couple of chances, but they barely have time to make it happen. A handful of seconds in football means they have time for two, maybe three plays.

Rather than try the rush, which hasn’t been all that successful this game, they opt for a pass, but it’s broken up in the endzone thanks to good man-to-man coverage.

Third down.

They try again. Same result.

My stomach, which has been in a tight knot all game, gets so taut it almost hurts. I can feel myself sweating everywhere, under my arms, on my forehead, down my back. I shove my hands underneath my armpits, inching as close to the field as I dare. The crowd is as loud as ever; Alabama fans dying to begin celebrating, McKee fans collectively as anxious as I am. I wonder where James’ family is sitting—probably up in one of the boxes. All of them traveled here for this—we had dinner the night before at a fancy restaurant—and yet all I can imagine is Richard Callahan’s face, as intense as ever, as he leans in to watch this one final play.

Fourth down.

Two seconds to go.

Either they score a touchdown and win the game, or they lose.

“Go James!” I shout; my voice doesn’t carry at all, but somehow, he hears me. He looks right at me; I can barely see his face with his helmet and face guard on, but I know he sees me.

He sees me.

Before him, I don’t know if I believed in love—not really. I believed in the idea of it, the way it could hurt people, but I didn’t believe I would truly feel it, or that I deserved it anyway. Every step of the way, James has shown me I do deserve it, that I deserve someone like him, someone good and devoted who makes my heart sing whenever I see him. Someone who makes me feel like I’m worth something more than the life I resigned myself to when I was a teenager. Someone who pushes me and protects me and holds me when I cry.

The moment we locked eyes at that party, he saw the cracks in my armor, and he hasn’t stopped prying it away since.

James drops back, scanning the field. The receivers fan out, but the only one who shakes coverage is Darryl. He has a clear shot to the endzone this way; all James has to do is deliver.

I don’t even bring the camera up to photograph the moment. I want to see the exact second James realizes he just secured the win, that he accomplished the goal he’s been chasing all season.

He slings the pass—but it sails right over Darryl’s head.

The clock runs down to zero.

Cameramen rush past me onto the field to capture the moment. The stunned McKee players, still on the field, and the way the Alabama sideline has exploded with cheers. The stadium, which had been a healthy mix of red and purple before, looks pure crimson now, Alabama fans going nuts as the win sinks in. I look for James, but I can’t see him in the crowd.

“I’m sorry he lost. Tough time to lose his accuracy,” Harold says, giving me a sympathetic frown before jogging past me.

I know I should move—I don’t want to see this moment. I don’t want to see James congratulate the other team on a job well done. I know he can make that pass; I’ve seen him do it all season in spots like this. Darryl was wide open. It wasn’t like he made the throw under pressure; his offensive line kept the Alabama defense away from him.

No, it wasn’t a mistake.

He threw high on purpose.

He threw the pass high because he didn’t want Darryl to catch it—even if it meant losing the game.

And I know he did it for me.