Tackling Love - Kathleen Kelly Page 0,44
heavy.
I look around the stadium, fans on both sides are going crazy. I look at my teammates and know I have to do better. I rub my chest and nod repeatedly to myself, take in a deep breath and call out the plays. The ball is in my hands, and I throw it just as they break through our defenses and pile on top of me.
Thirteen minutes left in the game.
Gray appears, holding out a hand, and I get to my feet.
He slaps the side of my helmet. “Make this… and it’s the sky’s the limit, baby. Nothing but champagne and roses. Sky’s the limit!” He jogs back to his position.
Sky’s the limit.
Skye’s the limit.
I need to go get my girl.
I call out the plays, the ball is in my hands, I throw, Jordane catches it, but is quickly tackled. We move forward ten feet, crawling our way toward the end zone.
Nine minutes left in the game.
Again, I call out the plays, and again the ball is in my hands. No one is clear, so I tuck it under my arm and run. My legs are pumping as I give it my all, running toward the line. There’s someone at my back. If he tackles me, we’re finished. I hear a growl and grunt but don’t stop, I keep going, increasing my speed, my legs burning.
I cross the line.
The stadium erupts in cheers.
Holding the ball high in the air, I turn around. Gray is on the ground lying next to the other team’s man. He flips and stands, one fist in the air, the other hand pointing at me.
We are tied.
Four minutes left in the game.
We reassemble. All we need to do is kick the ball through the goalposts, and we’ve won. Breathing out, I release all of the air in my lungs. There’s nothing left for me to do, it’s all up to Roman. Taking a breath, I watch as he runs toward the ball, his foot makes contact with it, and I know before it even reaches its destination, it’s gold. The crowd cheers, the whistle sounds, my teammates surround me.
We’ve won.
The New England Warriors are going to the Super Bowl.
I rip off my helmet and charge through the chaos. Running toward the parking lot, I realize I don’t have my keys or my wallet, and I’m still in my uniform. I spot a car leaving, so I run toward it.
The driver sees me and stops. “Colt Anders?”
Inside the car is a husband and wife and two young boys all dressed in the New England Warrior jerseys.
“Yes, sir. I was wondering if you could do me a favor?”
“Name it.”
“I need a lift to the airport. It’s a matter of life and death.”
“Get in.”
Opening the car door, the two boys scoot over as I sit on the seat then the dad drives away.
“You didn’t stay for the end of the game?” I ask.
The youngest of the two boys look at me. “You were losing.”
I grin broadly at him. “We won.”
“What?” erupts the family in unison.
“Yeah, I scored a touchdown, then Roman kicked a field goal.”
The wife slaps the husband on the top of his arm. “We missed it! All because you wanted to get out of the parking lot early.”
“Yes, dear.” The man points over his shoulder at me. “And if we hadn’t, Colt Anders wouldn’t be sitting in our car right now.”
The woman narrows her gaze, then looks at me and smiles. “I’m Jeanette Ruthven, this is my husband, Roy, and our two boys, Tom and Jack.”
“Nice to meet you all.”
“Colt, could you sign my ball?” asks Jack, the younger one.
“Sure, buddy.”
I’m signing the ball when Roy asks, “Which airport are we going to Colt?”
“The Boston International Airport… I have to stop my girl from getting on a plane.”
“You have a girlfriend?” asks Jeanette.
“Yes, ma’am.” I frown at her. “Well, sort of. If I don’t make the flight, and she leaves for the UK, I may not have one.”
Jeanette again slaps Roy’s arm. “You heard the man, Roy, step on it!”
“Yeah, Dad,” chimes in Jack.
Tom pulls a face and whispers, “Gross.”
The Ruthven’s pull up in the drop-off zone at the international airport.
“Thank you so much. I’ll get you tickets for the next game.”
“But that’s the Super Bowl,” says Tom.
“Sure is, and we’re going to win.”
“Wait!” yells Jeanette. “How are you going to get us the tickets?”
“Give me your phone.”
Jeanette hands it over, and I type my number into it quickly. “This is my private number, please don’t give