Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
The next week, in the pinball arcade in Hayes Valley, I attack the flippers on the Jurassic Park machine.
The game room is packed for a Tuesday night. It’s never been this crowded.
I’d bet a cool grand someone here tipped off a friend who told a friend who told a friend that Beck and I are here with the couple who won me at the auction.
So sad that my boyfriend sucks at pinball. It’d be such a shame if there were pics on social media tomorrow of Cheyenne and me destroying him and Mitch.
I stab the button on the right, sending the silver ball on a madcap race and padding our score. I sneak a glance at Beck, who’s double flipping.
Such a noob.
Oh well. I don’t have to share all my secrets with him.
A few minutes later, Cheyenne and I decimate Beck and Mitch, and I double high-five the bubbly blonde.
“Yes, we rock at pinball,” she declares, then taunts her husband with some kind of end-zone dance.
“Fine. I will do the dishes tomorrow,” he grumbles.
We take off for the nearby boba shop. Some people snap pics as we go. Out on Hayes Street, Beck reaches for my hand, and I thread my fingers through his.
Cheyenne and Mitch are a few paces ahead of us, so I lean close and whisper, “You doing okay?”
“I’m all good,” he says and squeezes back.
Before we left his home tonight for this date, he did one of his worksheets. It was adorable to see him at the kitchen table, outlining possible scenarios for tonight. That strategy gave him the confidence to know he could handle the eyes on us.
Now, we head into the boba shop, and I treat our guests to some tea and French fries. The four of us grab a table in the back, and Cheyenne and Mitch pepper Beck and me with questions about the playoffs, how we feel when we’re in the pocket, who our favorite receivers are to throw to.
On my turn, I ask them how long they’ve been together, their favorite games we’ve played, and who else they like to follow on the team.
Mostly, Cheyenne wants to tell us that they’ve upped the ante on the chore list they have at stake for the playoffs. If the Hawks win the Super Bowl, Mitch has to take out the trash every night for the next year. If the Renegades win, Cheyenne’s on kitty litter duty.
That’s brilliant. I turn to my boyfriend. “You’re so going to be on litter detail for the next year,” I tell Beck.
He laughs. “I can’t wait for you to handle the litter when the Renegades win.”
Funny, we don’t even live together, but we’re already divvying up chores.
In late January, the Hawks advance past the first two rounds of the playoffs and go all the way to the championship game for our conference. It’s my first time making it this far in the playoffs.
And for the first three quarters against the Denver Mustangs, we’re in striking distance of the Super Bowl.
But sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose.
I go home that night without a win, which sucks big time. My heart aches as I crawl into bed, wishing everything on the field had gone differently.
That’s football, though, and there’s always next year. I try not to dwell on the loss, especially since everything else in my life is pretty damn good.
Like this—my boyfriend is going to the Super Bowl.
EPILOGUE
COMEBACKS
Beck
The crowd was never this loud in Los Angeles when I played here. But then, I had never played a game like this.
With less than one minute left in the Super Bowl, we’re down by four. We are fucked if I don’t engineer a helluva comeback in the next fifty-eight seconds.
I can barely hear a thing in the huddle, and my voice is hoarse from calling plays.
When we go into shotgun formation, I scan the field, read the coverage, and take the snap.
But when I’ve got the ball, the Denver Mustangs are all over my receivers.
There’s no way I can complete a pass.
I hand off to the running back, who carries it just shy of a first down.
We get right back into it, and I go for a play fake, drawing the Mustangs’ defenders to the running back as Carter races downfield.
Yes, baby, yes! Go, go, go!
I sling the ball his way, but a tight end barrels in his direction, hellbent on intercepting.
My heart climbs into my throat as I watch and pray for two seconds that last forever as Carter launches himself into the air and grabs the ball . . . with the side of his motherfucking helmet.
Holy shit.
He’s got one hand on the precious cargo, cradling it against his head. He scrambles out of bounds and puts us twenty yards away from the biggest chance of my life.