4th & Girl

Alma smiled lovingly at his photo. “Isn’t he handsome?”

Handsome was a bit of a stretch for this photo, but in eighth-grade Leonard’s defense, no one, no matter who the hell they were, looked good at that age. I moved my eyes away before I could criticize his most awkward years too thoroughly.

Hell, I was pretty certain my school photo from that time included crimped hair, blue eye shadow, and acne.

“Very handsome,” I lied.

“You know, you should meet my Leonard,” she said with a smile. “He’s a bit of a cocky shit, but as you can see, he’s a real looker.”

Even though I’d yet to see the real-life Leonard, and all I had to go by was his stuffy name and eighth-grade picture, I kind of felt like calling him a real looker might have been a bit of a stretch.

But I kept my bitchy thoughts to myself and just hummed in agreement. The best defense to a setup was always quiet contemplation.

My parents had been shoving prospects my way for years, and they only got really pushy when I rejected the idea outright. I had to assume Alma would be the same way.

Eventually, she’d forget about dreams of me and Leonard.

And maybe one day, I’d be able to forget about her and King Dong.

Ten seconds on the clock—ten seconds away from winning our second game of the season—and I could feel the sweat dripping down my back. The Miami heat was a change of pace from New Jersey’s slow fade into fall, and the adrenaline of maybe playing a part in maintaining a winning season as a rookie was at an all-time high.

Miami’s quarterback grunted the call, loud and gravelly as always, and all of us tensed in our positions. With a clap and a stomp of his toe, he shouted for their center to snap the ball and send it spiraling back for his waiting hands.

I dug my cleat into the turf and took off at a sprint, running my coverage of one of their best receivers with as much speed and precision as I could manage.

My heart pounded, my palms sweated, and time slowed to a crawl.

The ball spiraled toward us, a prediction I’d have made any day of the week given the prowess of Edwards, Miami’s all-star receiver, and I churned my legs to keep up with his moves and then some.

Reading the line of the pass, I juked and turned, spinning to the back and jumping up in front of Edwards in a streak of luck and skill.

I stretched, reaching to my full height and beyond as the skin of the ball met my fingertips and struggled to sail straight through.

But I wouldn’t be stopped—not this time—gritting my teeth into the cushion of my mouthguard and clamping my fingertips with the strength of twenty men.

The ball secure, I fell to my feet and, with assistance from Edwards, continued straight to the ground in a heap with 270 pounds of angry muscle on top of me.

But I had the ball in my hands and could feel the roar of excitement all around me.

Miami’s drive had officially been stopped, the game was over, another tally in the win column in our favor, and I’d been the one to make the game-ending play.

Climbing to my feet, I basked in the moment…

For about a second before the team was upon me and I was back on the ground.

Holy fuck, did it feel good.

“Hell yeah!” Cam yelled, smacking me on the helmet and getting right in my face. The rest of the pile hooted and cheered and shifted until, finally, Quinn Bailey took it upon himself to dig me back out.

With a helping hand, he dragged me to my feet and smacked me on the helmet three times before bringing our heads together.

“That’s what I’m talking about, Landry!” he shouted over the booming and echoing noise in the stadium.

Miami fans booed and groused, but a fair number of New York diehards could be heard in their midst.

“Mavericks, Mavericks, Mavericks!” they chanted.

“You better get ready, son,” Sean Phillips shoved in to announce. “We’re gonna party tonight!”

A smile curved the line of my mouth, and I settled into happiness.

Life on the Mavericks was good.

Beer flowing and excitement in the air, the bar where we found ourselves a couple of hours later was the craziest I’d ever seen one.

Somehow, we’d managed to find a colony of Mavericks fans in downtown Miami, and Sean Phillips was hamming it up with every single one of them.

Quinn Bailey had found a quiet spot, tucked in the corner, and Cam Mitchell hadn’t left my side once, a meaty arm draped around my shoulder.

I was more than happy to have Cam’s devotion, but truthfully, I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t rather have been tucked away with Quinn.

“This guy here,” Cam touted to the crowd. “He’s the real deal!”