against New England had spooked Ricks. He didn’t trust her under pressure, it seemed, and with one game left in the regular season, he didn’t want to test that lack of trust.
“So fucking…”
“Why are you pouting?” She heard, Wilson stepping beside her. “You gonna kick?”
“Ask Ricks,” she snapped.
Wilson rubbed his face dry with a towel, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “Go raise hell. He wants you to.”
“I have been. Look.”
They both turned to see Ricks throwing up a signal for a Steamers’ time out, but it wasn’t Ricks that needed the breather. Ryder, for whatever reason, stood in front of their coach, animatedly speaking, hands waving, shoulders shrugging, and then both men looked down the sideline, right at Reese.
“Uh-huh,” Wilson said, brushing her arm with his elbow. “He likes when we put up a fight.”
“Awesome,” she said, frowning when Ryder returned to whatever conversation he had with their coach. “Now if he sends me in it’s gonna look like Ryder convinced him.”
“So?” Wilson said, handing off his helmet when one of the assistants approached him. “Doesn’t damn well matter who put you on that field, Noble. What matters is what you do when you get there.”
Wilson shook his head, nodding toward Ricks when the coach called after Reese. “Get me a field goal, and I’ll owe you a bottle of that Fitz you gave us at the start of the season.”
He offered his hand and Reese took it, slapping him on the arm. “Deal.”
Ryder met her just before she reached the coach, and he turned, his back to Ricks as he lowered close enough to be heard over the roaring crowd, who didn’t seem enthusiastic that Ricks looked like he was about to send Reese out to kick.
“The fake,” Ryder said, straightening as he watched her.
“Are you…you’re serious?” Over his shoulder Ricks eyeballed them, face drawn up tight, jaws clenching. Ryder nodded, bringing her attention back to his handsome face. “Does Coach…”
“Talk to Wilkens. He’ll know what to do. You’ve got exactly forty-five seconds.” She was so flustered by his request, Reese didn’t notice Ryder pushing her forward or his quick-slapping hand on her ass in some weird gesture of good luck.
She only saw Wilkens ahead of her on the field. Then, his faltering smile when she slipped to his side, hands on her hips, attention on the crowd around the stadium.
“You ever do a fake?” She tried for subtle, not wanting to give away to Atlanta that there was anything other than a field goal in their future.
“Ryder told me about one you tried at Duke.”
She turned, nodding once, and as Wilkens’ mouth twitched, his bottom lip curving upward, she knew he’d follow the plan perfectly.
“Let’s do it,” he said, offering her a hand slap.
“I’m ready.”
This time counted more than any other in her life. But this wasn’t college. This wasn’t Duke, and it wasn’t her father on the sidelines ready to scream at her if this shit didn’t work. Reese’s heart pounded like some robot monkey crashing cymbals. She wasn’t sure she could do this. She wasn’t sure Atlanta hadn’t caught on to the fact this would be anything but a normal field goal attempt.
Stop overthinking, she told herself, blocking out the noisy crowd and the roar of insults they flung at her, trying to get her to break her concentration.
Just do this.
Reese closed her eyes, breathing in through her nose, exhaling out. She saw the fake playing out in her mind—the swoop of the ball getting tossed to Wilkens, his quick fingers curling around it, then shooting it right through his legs as Reese backtracked.
She could do it. She saw it clearly.
One last breath and Reese opened her eyes, the tiny nudge of her head moving down a fraction, and the ball got snapped, landed right in Wilkens’ hands, and Reese moved. The ball went under his leg and up. Reese caught it and took off.
There was an uproar of screams and shouts all around her. There was the scramble of defenders all huddled together ready to block, leaving the right side of the end zone unguarded. Reese cradled the ball against her chest, moving to the right, nearly touching the white out of bounds line of the field before she hustled quick, spinning to avoid a bright red jersey coming right at her. Her heart now speeding so quickly she thought she’d pass out. There was sweat, and the scent of the sod at her feet, and the loud, wild noise of