The Rivalry

“Diane is around here somewhere.” He craned his neck, looking around for his wife, and then shrugged. “You want something to eat? To drink?”

“Uh . . .” I was still at that stage where it felt weird to drink beer with adults. “What are you drinking?”

Noah smiled. “There’s beer and pop in the cooler. Help yourself.”

The younger man flipped a burger on the grill, and he leveled his gaze at me. “What’s with the shirt? Did you lose a bet?”

“No,” Noah said before I could answer. “This is Jay’s girlfriend. She goes to Ohio State.”

Wait, what? Had Jay told his parents I was his girlfriend, or had they just assumed?

Noah gestured to the tall, athletic-looking man who was probably in his late forties. “Kayla, this is Mike Radcliff.”

We stared at each other with the same amount of shock, and I think we both tried to hide our disgust.

“Radcliff?” I repeated with dread. “Is your son Evan Radcliff?”

“Yes.” He looked proud I knew the name.

How the hell had Jay failed to mention his parents tailgated with the family of Michigan’s starting QB?

This was bad.

I hated Radcliff almost as much as I did Michigan. He was a slippery quarterback, ducking out of sacks and sensing pressure even when it was coming on his six. His offensive line never got holding penalties, giving Radcliff hours to just hang out in the pocket and wait for a man to get open.

Of course, one of those men was Jay.

Without Radcliff, who knew what kind of shot he’d have at going pro?

“My son’s got a hell of an arm.” Mr. Radcliff’s expression was pompous. “Of course, if you watched The Game last year, you already know that.”

I bit down on the inside of my cheek to keep myself from exploding. Wearing the shirt was an invitation for confrontation, and I was surprised I’d made it as far as I had without being challenged. Were Michigan fans soft this year?

I’d tucked a thin gray zip-up hoodie in my purse and pulled it out now, slipping an arm into a sleeve. I was comfortable defending my school, but I didn’t want Jay’s parents to be called out just by association. That wasn’t fair to them. As I zipped the hoodie closed, Mr. Radcliff scrutinized me and looked pleased when my t-shirt was covered.

“There she is,” Noah said. “Diane, Kayla’s here.”

Jay’s mother wasn’t much taller than I was. She was pretty, with soft brown hair and the same dazzling smile her son had. She looked younger than I expected. I never would have guessed she was nearly sixty.

“Oh my goodness, isn’t she cute?” she said to her husband. When I offered my hand, she ignored it and wrapped her arms around my shoulders. “I’m a hugger.”

“It’s nice to”—her hug was ferocious and squeezed the words from me—“meet you.”

Air poured back into my body as she released me and stepped back. Noah was big, but I wondered if Jay’s physical strength came from his mom.

We made small talk for a while, asking each other about the drive into town, and then Jay’s parents were interested in my classes and major. Mrs. Radcliff appeared shortly after, decked out head-to-toe in Michigan attire. I took a sip of my beer to hold my gag reflex back.

Coming to this game was way harder than I’d anticipated. I wanted to strangle myself with a Michigan banner when six shirtless guys wandered past, their doughy bodies painted blue and each with a yellow letter on their bellies that spelled “Go Blue.” It couldn’t be unseen.

We ate hamburgers and played cornhole, and whenever the conversation drifted toward how great Michigan’s football program was, I mentally tuned out. Jay was going to owe me so big for agreeing to tailgate with his parents solo. What the hell had I been thinking?

Mr. Radcliff eyed me through lunch like I was a leper. “Is this your first game in the Big House?” he asked.

“I’m a Buckeye cheerleader, so I saw The Game from the sidelines here my sophomore year.” I didn’t love how he looked down on me, and the dig came out before I could stop myself. “I can’t remember. Did Evan start that game?”

He hadn’t. I deliberately ignored most Wolverine players, but the QB was always on my radar. Evan Radcliff had a rough road toward earning his starting position. Too many interceptions and bad handoffs got him benched the last two games of that year.

A nasty scowl streaked across his father’s face. “No,” he snapped. “The offensive line never found their rhythm that season.”

Typical. He was going to blame the O-line when it was obvious where the real issue lay.

Radcliff brightened abruptly. “They’re certainly clicking this year, aren’t they? Undefeated.” His tone was downright evil, and his grin made me want to strangle him with the Michigan banner. “And ranked number one.”