“Wonder who it was today?” Kiersten wondered aloud to Piper.
“I think it’s that Asian girl, Zoë? She’s sucked him a few times, lucky bitch,” Piper said under her breath. I wondered if Piper would believe me if I explained that the whole “blowjob before every game” thing was all a myth.
And I hated the fact that I wanted to defend him when he’d so easily forgotten about me.
The game began, a blur of yards gained and lost and shouts of “GO GO GO!” from the bar around me. Even without much football knowledge to fall back on, I could still tell Jacob was commanding his team with military-precision. Whenever the camera got close to him, I felt my stomach clench— he was sweaty, and firm-jawed, and seeing him in a uniform that accentuated his muscles reminded me of how easily he’d carried me to the cabana in the pool house.
Ugh. How could I be so turned on by someone who had clearly used me and then thrown me away like a disposable camera?
It was just before halftime when someone from North Caro tackled Jacob to the ground, sacking him moments after he’d completed a long, powerful pass that got Harton nearly a third of the field. It seemed fine at first— a few people around me even used the break between plays to order fourth or fifth beers. Then, however, something became clear— Jacob Everett wasn’t getting back up.
“Looks like number forty-two, star quarterback Jacob Everett, is still down. Medics and coaches joining him on the field now. Let’s take another look at that play, here,” one of the sportscasters said. They pulled up the clip, and the whole bar watched anxiously as, in slow motion, the North Carolina player drove Jacob to the ground.
“It doesn’t seem like a particularly bad hit, but you never can tell— it looks like they’re tending to his shoulder now…”
The announcers trailed off as a camera zoomed in on Jacob’s face. He was thin-lipped and a little pale. I tensed, as did everyone else in the bar—
“And he’s up!” the announcers said. “Back in the game. Looks like there’s time for one, maybe two more plays before the half. Let’s see what Everett sends us out with.”
The bar as a whole gave a sigh of relief so loud that people chuckled afterward, then leaned in, eager to see how the first half of the game would close. Horton had scored earlier, and lead with seven points, but that wasn’t a strong enough lead to merit too much confidence just yet.
They set up the play— lots of shouting of numbers and phrases and I really had no idea what it all meant. The ball snapped into play, the announcers narrated loud and quick and the ball passed to Jacob. He reeled back to throw—
The ball barely made it ten yards— I figured I could have thrown it that far. Jacob grabbed at his shoulder the moment the ball left his hand, though he tried to keep playing—
The ball was intercepted by a North Carolina player, who narrowly dodged being tackled and began to sprint. The bar went crazy, shouting, screaming for someone from Harton to catch him, but it was no use— the player ran the ball in for a touchdown, and the North Carolina crowd went wild. When they ran the ball in, I saw the scoreboard click up— North Carolina, eight points, and Harton, seven.
“That was insane,” Kiersten said to a stranger next to her. “Five seconds left in the half and they run in a seventy-five yard touchdown?”
“Look,” the girl said, pointing to the television screen. The announcers were replaying what happened when Jacob tried to make the failed pass— when he clutched his shoulder, obviously in pain.
“Looks like he might have a more serious problem. Sure wish he’d let the coaches know so they could replace him,” one of the sportscasters said.
“Absolutely, and you know, that’s sometimes the trouble with having a team hero— they want to stay in at all costs, and that’s clearly not always the best move. Now Harton is going to have to recover in the second half, and I’m guessing Jacob Everett isn’t going to be the one to lead that charge.”
The sportscasters had predicted correctly— when the Rams reemerged after halftime, Jacob was nowhere to be seen, and Adams was leading the charge.
Horton won the game, but there was a sense of unease, of frustration, even, around the campus as everyone returned to their dorms and suites and apartments. Relief that it’d worked out, but worry over Jacob’s injury, frustration that he’d tried to soldier on and nearly ruined it all.
I found myself feeling worried for Jacob too on a more personal level, but it wasn’t all too difficult to squash those feelings down long enough to make cereal for dinner and settle onto our tiny balcony with a book while Piper and Kiersten caught up on the lives of the Kardashians in the common room.