Spiked

I suddenly didn’t care quite so much about how tender my heart felt about all things Jacob. I wanted him to win. I wanted the NFL people to see him and be amazed. If I wasn’t Jacob’s type, fine— that was only because he was going to be a super famous football player, the kind you see in Coke commercials and on Dancing with the Stars. Jacob Everett was going to be everything he’d ever wanted to be.

He wheeled his arm back. The clock was ticking down, the last thirty seconds of the game. There was no real way Clemson could win, but it was also unlikely Harton could score again, making the game a tidy win rather than a talked about upset, like Jacob needed. Jacob looked left, looked right, time slowed— this was his chance, his last chance in the game, to do something to get everyone’s attention. I knew, somehow, even before the ball left his hand, that he was going to take it. He was going to end the game and secure his place as the hero. He was going to get everything he’d wanted.

“Come on,” I whispered aloud to the television.

The ball rocketed from his hand, so fast it looked more like it’d been hit than thrown. The wide receiver ran backward, farther, farther, the announcers starting screaming. Forty yards, he’d thrown the ball forty yards, and there was no chance of anyone catching it except—

The wide receiver— Greene, it was Greene— leapt into the air. The ball landed neatly in his arms, and the moment his toes hit the ground, he started sprinting for the goal line. The stadium was in uproar, I was on my feet, my school work scattered on the ground, go go go go go—

“Touchdown! And that’s the game! An unbelievable pass by Everett, that was such an amazing risk and it paid off—“ the announcers were yelling breathlessly, like they’d just witnessed a miracle. The stadium exploded in green and gold color, the cameras panned across the coaches getting soaked with buckets of water, I collapsed back onto the couch, hands knitted together in pain and excitement. I wanted to go to Jacob, I wanted to celebrate with him, I should have been there to celebrate with him.

But it wasn’t meant to be, I reminded myself. That doesn’t mean you can’t be happy for him.

A petite blonde sportscaster on the field elbowed her way amongst the players, looking for Jacob. I stared, rapt, waiting to see his face on the screen—

“This doesn’t look good, I think something’s happening,” the reporter said, trying to look both at the camera and over her shoulder, at the same time. Coaches were shouting, players looked dire, the cheerleaders appeared to be huddled together, vying for the best view. When the crowd cleared, my head sunk.

It was Jacob. Oh the ground, being tended to by sports medicine doctors and coaches. Clutching his shoulder.

“I’d hate to think he played too soon and re-aggravated that injury,” one of the announcers said. “For a quarterback, shoulder problems can be career-ending.”

I turned the television off for several hours, though I couldn’t focus on much of anything. Where was Jacob now? The hospital? With his parents? Where was Adams? Was he celebrating with Piper? As the sun began to set, I dared to turn the television back on, hoping for an update to lessen the now overwhelming desire to text Jacob and check up on him. ESPN was just starting up their evening recap of all the college games, ticking through them before they finally began discussing Harton. Jacob’s pass was considered the play of the week, a bittersweet trophy given what the anchors said next.

“It sounds like he tried to play on that shoulder injury too soon, though, because he’s currently at the hospital with his coaches and family, having that injury assessed. There’s a real possibility he’ll need surgery, and if that’s the case, he might never quite have the arm he used to have,” one of the men said.

“And that’s the risk here, with these young guys— they’re taught that they’ve got to play, that they’ve got to be superheroes, but they’re just as human as the rest of us. Coaches have got to start teaching players to respect their injuries and their bodies,” the other said, looking sad.

“I can tell you though, as a former college player myself, that’s easier said than done,” a third anchor said, leaning over the desk. “You’re a cog in the machine, and the machine fails without you. It’s hard to just say that you’re not feeling great, it’s hard to let the machine down like that. Some people would rather risk permanent injury. Jacob Everett has always been an amazing leader, so I’m not surprised he’s one of those people.”