be in another relationship with someone who can’t put me first. I deserve better than that.”
“Abso-freakin’-lutely.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“I think you do, but you’re scared. And that’s understandable. I guess the question is, what will you regret more? Giving him a chance to prove that he can put you first, or not taking a chance at all?”
That is the hundred-million-dollar question.
Forty-Seven
Cash
The Thunder’s fans are rowdy and restless for this playoff game to start. I wish I was feeling the same way. I’m standing on the sidelines and instead of warming up my arm, I’m wearing the headset around my neck, ready to relay plays to McKay from the offensive coordinator in the booth. I’ve known all week that I wasn’t going to start, but it’s still freakin’ hard.
A quick search of the crowd, and I see my personal cheering section. My mom, Nan, Joe, and Duke are here, of course, but so are Jared, Cam, Kayla, Marci, Misty, and Elva. The empty seat next to the older woman is like a knife to my heart. I sent the ticket along with an apology to Tiger, but never heard from her. I haven’t called her, because I wanted to speak to her face to face. Not that I deserve her forgiveness, but I was hoping she’d give me a chance to explain. I’m not giving up, but I can’t formulate another plan until this game is over.
I laugh when the kids hold up handmade signs.
Cash is King!
Shoot straight, Bullet!
Cash is the Best!
The Twinkies are holding that one, and it’s so bedazzled with jewels and glitter that you can probably see it from space. I chuckle in spite of my shitty mood. I raise a hand, and they all wave back.
“You ready, Cash?” Coach asks.
“You know it.”
His big paw lands on my shoulder pads. “I know this is hard, son, but I appreciate your good attitude.”
If he believes I have a good attitude, then I might try acting after I’m done with football. “It’s about what’s best for the team, Coach.”
He slaps my pads again. “Good man.”
The Thunder won the toss and has chosen to receive the ball. The special team takes the field, and the crowd begins to chant “Thunder, Thunder, Thunder.”
It’s a deep kick and the receiver, Morgan, calls for a fair catch, putting us on the thirty-five-yard line.
“Alright, get your asses in there, offense,” Coach barks.
McKay jogs past me, but I stop him. “Give ’em hell, Hart.” And I find that I mean it. No one’s more surprised by that than me. But these men have been my family for nine years, and I want them to succeed.
His eyes peek out from behind his face mask. “Thanks, Cash. I appreciate it.” We bump fists, and he takes the field.
The first few plays go off without a hitch, but on the fourth possession, McKay throws a pick six. He misreads the defense and throws it straight into the Seattle cornerback’s hands, who runs it sixty-five yards for a touchdown. After the extra point, the Thunder is down by seven.
The second series is better, but the offense can’t convert and has to settle for a field goal instead of a touchdown. But at least we put points on the scoreboard.
Those are the last points we put up for the rest of the first period.
McKay looks good at the beginning of the second quarter, but after two more interceptions that Seattle is able to convert into touchdowns, I can see the kid losing confidence. While the defense is on the field, I glance around and see McKay on the bench with his head in his hands.
I make my way to him and grab his face mask so he’s looking at me. “Hey, shake it off. It’s just a couple of bad plays. It’s not the whole game, but you’re about to throw it away if you don’t leave that shit right here on the bench.”
He pulls his head from my grip. “I can’t read the defense, Cash. It’s like everything’s happening at hyperspeed, and my eyes can’t follow it.”
I drop onto the bench beside him. “I know, but you’ve been killing it for the past few games. You’re the reason we’re here.” I place my hand on his chest. “Believe that and get your shit together.”
The crowd screams and “Thunderstruck” begins to play. Our heads jerk toward the field in time to see Bedford, our defensive end, running toward the sideline with the ball held above his head. A fumble