do.”
17
Standing Room Only
Maggie
The game starts, and Desmond hoists me to my feet when everyone else around us is standing. Cymbals are crashing on the other side of the stadium as horn instruments and drums serenade the players after kickoff. I hate that there’s an excitement that flits through me at the crowd’s noise and at the way every eye in the house is trained on the field below. The large monitors zoom in on my dad. Wearing a headset, he paces the sideline, deep in conversation with someone on the other end.
The last time I went to a football game was in Dallas against Seattle. Oddly enough, my dad was the starting quarterback. I still have vivid memories of that day, cuddled up with my sister and mom in the press box. Eyes were trained on my dad like he was the only man on the team. Even after the game, reporters stood in clusters, waiting to talk to him. And he always gave the best, most inspiring one-liners during the post-game interviews with the media. I was so proud. My dad was my hero in more ways than one. He was also the first man who ever broke my heart.
And the last.
The scene before me all seems so surreal.
I feel a nudge at my side. “You okay?”
Desmond is watching me, waiting for me to respond. I don’t know what to say, so I settle on the truth. “I was just thinking about the last game I went to. My dad was playing, and it was in Dallas against Seattle. Ironic, huh?”
Desmond’s eyes turn toward the field as he seems to quickly connect the dots. “Oh, Maggie, why didn’t you say something earlier? You were making all those Dallas-versus-Seattle jokes, and I didn’t even think.”
He genuinely looks sorry. I didn’t even have to explain to him why this football game over any other is probably the hardest to watch.
“Do you want to leave?”
I watch his mouth for many beats after his last words, blinking and wondering if I just made up his voice in my head. “You would do that for me?”
He glances between me and the field. “Well, yeah. If you’re uncomfortable. I brought you here to have fun, but if it’s too much—”
“It’s fine,” I jump in.
He hesitates a moment. “Really?”
“Yes. I’m a big girl. I’ll be fine.” I right my shoulders. “Besides, I’m really counting on those free meals.” Now stop talking and let me watch the game.”
The smile that lights up his face sends a charge of electricity through my body. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that version of the Desmond Blake charm before. It’s not an overblown cocky smile. It’s just natural and kind of sweet. I snap my head toward the field and try to get it out of my mind, but just like with every other thing about him—his long locks that look healthier than mine, his thick lips that could easily swallow me whole—I can’t.
For the next hour or so, I shamelessly sip my booze while he screams his lungs out every time Seattle gains a single yard. And he’s not the only one. These fans are rabid, definitely more intense than any I’ve ever seen before. They’re on their feet to celebrate every inch of forward movement and quick to scream profanities when the refs get it wrong. They’re practically foaming at the mouth in anticipation of a—
“TOUCHDOWN!” Desmond screams. Then he turns to me in what seems like a slo-mo scene in a romantic comedy. He must have forgotten my cup is still full of beer when he comes in for the hug. His arms wrap around me while I’m fighting to make out the words to warn him that things are about to go downhill fast. He pulls me in for a bear hug as my hand holding the cup shoots out and away to save us from a disastrous spillage. But then he lifts me and starts to jump. Not once. Not twice. But three times, in celebration of Zachary Ryan throwing a touchdown pass that puts Seattle in the lead.
He doesn’t even notice that beer has just doused us both until a droplet falls from my forehead to my nose. I can feel the amber liquid sliding over my skin like I’ve just been hosed down. He releases me, and his mouth stretches wide. I can’t hear everything he says, but his apologies are clear. But that’s before he realizes that he has been doused too.