SweetVanillaGirl: You’re both very persistent. Can I finish my run now?

It’s true. We both are, so perhaps it’s a family trait. Regardless, I choose to take it as a compliment. Ambition without persistence gets you nowhere.

Brody: By all means… finish ur run.

I close my eyes and spend time thinking about the upcoming game. We’re well prepared. We watched a lot of additional play this week, and my extra training sessions are paying off. I’m working harder than I ever have. There’s no reason why we should lose.

Before I know it, the gentle rocking of the bus lulls me into a light doze. Eddie nudging my shoulder wakes me. He says something, so I pull the headphone away from my right ear. “What?”

He holds out a water bottle. “Hydrate, dude.”

“Thanks.”

He disappears and I crack the lid, tipping half the contents down my throat in one hit. When I pull the bottle from my lips, my eyes fall back to my phone. Restraint and self-discipline are traits every professional athlete should possess, and I like to think I have both in spades, but with Jordan … Perhaps she’s my kryptonite because I can’t stop myself from sending another message.

Brody: How was ur run?

SweetVanillaGirl: Don’t ask.

Brody: U fell in a ditch, didn’t u?

No response. The message was meant teasingly, but Jordan is a tough nut to crack. Perhaps she’s not a morning person. That leads to thoughts of Jordan in bed: naked, mussed hair, tangled sheets, and sweet, warm skin. My whole body begins to vibrate like it just received an electrical charge. I exhale in a deep huff and flick to a hardcore Eminem song on my playlist. There’s nothing sexy about his music.

SweetVanillaGirl: I don’t like mushrooms.

Her message comes in and I want to fist pump the air. I don’t though, because that would be lame and this is not some cheesy eighties’ movie. Hmmm … what next?

Brody: My middle name is Abraham.

I down the rest of my water. When I tuck the empty bottle beside me, her reply comes in.

SweetVanillaGirl: As in Lincoln?

Jordan knows some American history.

Brody: Yes. My dad is a politician. He was hoping I wud follow in his footsteps.

SweetVanillaGirl: Was?

How perceptive of Jordan to pick on that.

Brody: His dream. Not mine.

SweetVanillaGirl: And your dream is football?

Brody: Yes.

From the moment I came alive with that leather ball in my hands.

SweetVanillaGirl: My middle name is Matilda.

Jordan Matilda Elliott. Why am I smiling when I say that in my head? My phone vibrates again before I can reply.

SweetVanillaGirl: I have to go. Leah and I are going out for breakfast. Talk to you later?

I swallow the disappointment.

Brody: L8r

It’s a nice casual response, but my insides curl with pleasure because I’m looking forward to it.

I manage to draw Jordan into messaging me on and off during the day. And when I’m sitting in the locker room adjusting the lace on my cleats before the game, the alert on my phone goes again.

So close to kick off I should leave it for later, but the anticipation is too much. If it’s Jordan and I don’t read it right this moment, I’ll be thinking about it all game. Preoccupation could cost us a win, I tell myself as I reach for it. My brow furrows when I check the screen. The message is from Lindsay, one of the cheerleader’s always hanging off Jax. I know she does it to get close to me. She’s not the only one. And after my cousin’s display last night, I get the impression he’s over it.

Lindsay: I don’t know why you lied about dating that stupid jock. I set her straight. You can thank me later xo

“Fuck!” I shout and kick the locker door in.

“Christ, Madden!” Eddie glares at me from where he sits, readjusting his glove. He has a soft, gooey center when it comes to girls. I know my dating Jordan will have his full approval. “What crawled up your ass and died?”

“Not what, but who.”

I begin stabbing at buttons on the screen, intent on calling Lindsay to find out what she said. When it starts dialing, I put the phone to my ear at the same time Coach Carson storms inside the locker room.

“Now is not the time to be calling your goddamn mother and thanking her for giving birth to your sorry ass!” His bellow echoes through the mostly empty area Brows, drawn together, form one long, fuzzy caterpillar. It’s his grouch face, and I’m not eager to be its focus. “Get out on the field, Madden!”

“Yes, Coach,” I say quickly.

“Now!” he roars.

I hit the end call button before it answers and toss the phone in my locker before double-timing it out onto the field.

We end up losing the game. No matter how small the margin, it still burns like a motherfucker. When tied at fourteen apiece, we were forced into taking some crazy risks that didn’t pay off. Carter threw me a long bomb and I reached up, but the ball tipped off my fingers and right into the hands of the opposing team. With Eddie winded, I was left open for a split second and took a huge hit. After getting slammed into the ground, it was a long while before I could peel myself off the grass. With a throbbing shoulder and three minutes left in the game, UCLA scored a field goal, and nothing short of a miracle would’ve saved us after that.

I jog off the field, grimy, sweaty, and devastated at the loss, knowing we let down the entire state of Texas tonight. I force a smile for the reporter waiting for an on-field interview. It doesn’t reach my eyes, but no one who really knows me would ever notice. No matter what, you never show the media the truth. They don’t want to see the self-recrimination and the self-doubt, or hear about it. They want sportsmanship. They want you to accept defeat with a rueful smile. They want to hear you felt honored to play a great game against a great team, and that you’re coming back bigger and stronger for the next one.

“You play Iowa State next week and then you have a bye.” I tuck my helmet under my armpit and brush the damp hair from my forehead while she speaks into the microphone, her perfect face angled professionally toward the camera. “After that you have Oklahoma. How are you going to come back from tonight’s loss in preparation for what’s touted as one of the biggest upcoming matches of the season?”

“That’s a good question. Oklahoma is a grudge match for sure. They’re going to come at us hard, but we’ll be ready.” I flash her a cocky grin alongside the diplomatic response. NFL scouts watch how you speak in front of the media. They want you seen as the all-round nice guy, bred tough. “We’ll watch a lot of film and we’ll work as hard as time allows. Despite the loss tonight, we’re playing better than we ever have. I’m confident we’re going to win, and not just for the team or CPU, but for the state of Texas.”

She gives me a professional pat on the arm, no doubt hiding the grimace at the transfer of sweat to her perfectly manicured fingers. “Their hopes are riding on you, Brody Madden.”

No fucking pressure, I reply silently. I give her a nod and the camera a cheeky grin and wave before I jog away, leaving her to sign off.

When we get back to our hotel room, Carter hands over a bottle of whiskey stashed in his suitcase. Tonight I don’t hesitate and grab it swiftly. Tipping back my head, I pour it down my throat, relishing the burn because oblivion can’t come fast enough. There are no bars tonight. No one wants to celebrate a loss. A small group of us gather in the twin room Carter and I share, and we drink in a show of solidarity.

It’s not until we finish a long, drunken dissection of the match, and argue about our game plan for next week, that I remember Lindsay’s message. The room spins when I stagger to my bag and rummage for my phone.