she’s looking a little dazed. E leans back in his seat, a satisfied smug expression on his face.
“Try to tell me that won’t go viral.” He snatches B’s phone from him and posts a few of the pictures to his Instagram.
The marching bands for both schools each take their turn doing their thing for the pregame entertainment, T dancing in her seat and pulling B in to join her. CK rests his head between my shoulder blades, his body shaking with restrained laughter when B starts to vogue. I slyly record these fools and send the video to G, who couldn’t travel with us this time because the Hawks basketball team has a game of their own tomorrow.
Both Alabama and U of J use AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” as their entrance songs when they play in their home stadiums, so when it blares from the sound system, a familiar rush comes over the entire crowd. Seventy-five thousand fans scream and cheer as a sea of red and white take the field. Not much of a color variance between the schools.
A pop star sings the national anthem with a fighter jet flyover as the big finish.
There’s an undercurrent of anticipation as Mase and the other captains head out to the fifty for the coin toss. This game isn’t just a national championship; it’s a rematch, a game of redemption for the Hawks.
With his hands hooked into the collar of his jersey and pads, Mase stalks behind the team bench for our other game-time ritual. Kissy sounds fill my ears, and I see E and B each blowing exaggerated kisses down to my boyfriend.
E goes stock-still when Mase holds his hand up in our family’s hang-loose gesture. With wide eyes and a hung jaw, he swivels to face me. “That’s our thing.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to hold back a laugh and nod. Why does he sound betrayed?
“He knows what it means?”
I shake my head. “He’s never asked.” Mase knows the basics—it’s why he’s been doing it since he surprised me at one of our cheer competitions—but he doesn’t know that the gesture stems from E.
“Hmm,” E hums. “No wonder you’re willing to freeze your butt off in the stands to cheer him on when he plays.”
Aww. I think someone is feeling a bit salty.
“Leave your sister alone,” Bette chastises. I’m surprised she didn’t say anything when she saw Mase do it during the Cotton Bowl. E tugs her close and kisses her temple. Joining Bette in the WAGs box is why I typically don’t watch his games from the stands once the mercury on the thermometer no longer reaches north of fifty degrees.
Me sitting my butt in the stands in more layers than I can count and letting myself get pelted by rain was one of my brother’s first clues to how deep my feelings are for Mase.
But like my inner cheerleader said…he’s salty about it. Doesn’t stop me from reminding him how today it’s a balmy seventy degrees here in Santa Clara. Sure as hell beats the four inches of snow we left behind in Jersey.
“Eep! I’m so excited.” T’s ants are back in her pants as she wiggles around in her seat clapping.
“Me too,” CK agrees, causing all of us to look at him in surprise. “What?” He shrugs, blushing at all the attention. “Is it wrong that I’m looking to forward to seeing E have to root for the Hawks?”
T snorts, reaching out a fist for CK to bump. “Oh yeah, I bet it breaks his little Nittany Lion heart.”
E scoffs. “Who says I’m not cheering for the Tide?”
“Right…” CK drags the word out into long multiple syllables.
“You would never,” T confirms. “You value your eyebrows too much.”
When T and I fall over each other in laughter, B perks up, sniffing out the potentially embarrassing story about his friend like Scooby-Doo looking for Scooby Snacks. We promptly fill him in on the time E and JT had an unfortunate encounter with a buzzer growing up.
With the shrill of the referee’s whistle, the first half starts and the battle of the offenses begins, each team trading touchdowns.
“I know everyone has been talking about Mase declaring for the draft, but has Trav made any noise about it?” B asks after the man in question throws a bomb of a spiral to Alex for another Hawks touchdown.
I breathe through the anxiety that comes on any time someone brings up the draft and the reminder that this routine we’ve settled into, this