My hands stopped wandering. “Bob. As in . . . Bob the building manager?” I slapped my hands on his chest. “You told Bob before you told me? Seriously, Lund?”
“Hey, you said you weren’t gonna be mad.”
“I wasn’t gonna be mad that you told your family first. But you told Bob?”
Jensen actually backed up at the look in my eyes. “Wait. He’s a big fan—”
“I’m a big fan. I’m also seriously considering calling this off for unsportsmanlike conduct for excessive celebrating in the end zone. Premature celebrating.”
His eyes widened. “I’m sorry. Shit. So sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t.” I pushed him against the back wall in the shower. “Because next time I want to hear it from you first, not Dante.”
“You knew?”
“Dante spilled the beans to me tonight before I left.”
“That big mouth.”
“Speaking of big mouth . . .” I kissed a path straight down his chest and dropped to my knees. “Anything else you want to talk about?”
“Not a damn thing.”
• • •
The following afternoon when I was at work, trying to figure out a plan to explain why I wasn’t at practice and why I probably wouldn’t be cheering at the game, I received a text message from Coach T:
CT: You’ve been reinstated to the team. Practice at six tonight. DO NOT be late or you’re running extra laps.
My thumbs hovered over the keys as I was tempted to text WHY? What changed?
But that might be pushing it and I’d take the end result since that’s all that mattered.
Maybe I had convinced them that Jensen Lund and I really were only friends.
Twenty-five
JENSEN
After I’d finished practice, and before the press conference, Rowan’s friend Daisy cornered me outside the locker room. At first when she’d told me what had happened to Rowan the night before, I hadn’t believed her. Why would Rowan keep something like that from me?
Because she knew how I’d react. I’d do exactly what I did; hauled ass into the business office, demanded a meeting with Brian, and the cheer coach, and the sports liaison, and the highest-ranking management person in the building. Then I delivered an ultimatum: Reinstate Rowan Michaels and table the investigation, or I’d cause a PR nightmare the likes of which they’d never seen. One day before the first game of the preseason. In the billion-dollar stadium.
But it had worked.
Rowan would be on the sidelines today when we played. Where she belonged.
Today was the day. A day of firsts, of new beginnings.
It was hard to process it all. So I didn’t dissect it.
I fucking embraced it.
The sights—a sea of purple, gold and white in the stands.
The sounds—one of the best sound systems in the world combined with the noise of our fans? Twelfth man didn’t have nothin’ on us today.
The scents—nothing beat the scent of a brand-fucking-new stadium.
My team—pumped up like I’d never seen them.
The fans—giddy, crazy in the best way.
My family—loud and proud in the skybox.
The media—even it was on a “Twin Cities Proud” high.
Rowan’s family—I’d scored them tickets in the section where Rowan cheered.
I was antsy in the tunnel, we all were. Waiting for that moment, after the sound of the Gjallarhorn, when we rushed the field, felt the electricity, the anticipation, the love for what we could do, for being part of a long-running history, for making history.
And then it was on.
We were on.
I didn’t get close to Rowan as we rushed by en masse, but I noticed her.
All of the pomp and circumstance remained during the preseason. This exhibition game didn’t “count” but for me, it was the most important game I’d play all year.
I drifted into that place where I heard the coaches, I heard the calls, I heard the crowd, but everything else faded when I hit that field.
The smash. The crunch. The trash-talking. The sweat in my helmet. The digging of my cleats into the turf. Hand on the ground. Ear to the call, brain on the play and eyes on the man standing opposite of me who gets paid a fuck ton of money to stop me.
Try and stop me, motherfucker. We own today.
When it got down to the wire, my fellow tight end Rudolph caught the first pass in the new stadium. That honor would stand until next month when the regular season started.
After the Chargers failed in their attempts to put any points on the scoreboard, the offense was back on the field. I blocked and kept blocking. I’d yet to even get my hand on the ball. Then the QB called the play I’d been hoping for.
I moved from the outside right to the outside left.
Followed the count, heard the snap and booked it around the far outside left and a sluggish middle linebacker. I turned just as the ball hit me right in the numbers.
Pickup of five yards.
I heard my name over the sound system, but I forced myself to tune out.
We marched down the field, a few yards here, a few yards there, taking it one down at a time. Finally I kicked in that burst of speed and ended up with a gain of twenty yards.
First and ten on the thirteen-yard line. This time I had double coverage so the running back took it all the way to the end zone.
We were up by fourteen at halftime and elated, visions of the Lombardi trophy taking a place of reverence in our new stadium spurring us on.
In the third quarter, the QB called the play that put me to the left outside again. But this time the double coverage would be on the running back. Leaving me in the clear if I could get to the spot . . . turn, watch, jump and pull it in.
Which I did. Textbook.
With nineteen yards to go, I watched for the signal the QB had for a running play. But he gave the call for a three-man blitz. One of us on each side, one up the middle.
It seemed I was in the end zone before the outside linebacker knew I’d schooled him. I dodged an aggressive cornerback and watched as the QB looked to me and the two wide receivers.
Then back to me.
I ran to the right a few steps—my cornerback shadow followed. Then I pivoted to the left, shuffled backward and leapt into the air.
The ball was too high; it’d just graze my fingertips. At the moment I saw it slipping through my hand I threw my left shoulder higher and spread my fingers into the shape of a starfish. The ball smacked my palm; I brought it down one-handed, tucking it into my gut, protecting it all the way until I hit the turf.
The stadium erupted.
I heard the distinctive sound of a rocket blast off through the speakers, a sound that had been mine alone whenever I made a touchdown.
My teammates helped me up and clapped me on the back with enough force to knock the damn wind out of me. I skipped the celebratory dance in the end zone. Keeping the game ball was enough for me.
But I needed someone to keep it safe. And I saw her on the sideline. Red hair shining in the sun, leg straight up as part of the kick line.
I ran toward Rowan with the speed I was known for. So I made damn good time.
The other cheerleaders backed away and I could almost feel the puzzlement pulsing in the crowd.
I set the ball at Rowan’s booted feet. I tore off my helmet. Then I grabbed her and kissed the hell out of her.
Murmurs in the crowd got louder and turned into a deafening roar.
When I broke the kiss I rested my forehead to hers.
“Jensen, what have you done?”
“Pretty sure I declared love and war at the same time.”
She laughed.
I kissed her again, picked up my helmet and waved to the crowd as I took my place on the sidelines.
• • •
Nothing that happened the last quarter compared to the third quarter, so even my time on the turf was a blur.
We won the game. Big thing to notch that W in our first game in our new stadium in front of a sold-out crowd of hometown football fans.
I thought my teammates would harass me endlessly about my game ball presentation to Rowan, but they all steered clear of me.
Coach gave his spiel, his shout-outs, his warning to the defense that they’d be watching the game tapes, and ended our postgame pep talk. Then he singled me out. “Rocket. Media room. Fifteen minutes.”
Dante was waiting for me, after I got out of the shower.
“Please tell me you’re aware of the can of worms you just opened.”
“I want to know which worm outed Rowan as my girlfriend.” I glared at him and reached for my clothes. “Did you have a part in that?”
“God no. I was there last night right after the meeting. She made me promise not to tell you what happened. She didn’t want anything to screw up this game for you.”
“That’s the thing, D. Football is a game. She is my fucking life. I can walk away from this if I have to because I know she’ll be waiting for me. I never had that before. I’ve always had my family. But she’s . . . mine.”
“I’m happy for you. I really am. You deserve it.” He flipped me off. “That’s for telling me you were with that Astrid chick. Maybe I won’t tell you the rest, dick.”
“What makes it even funnier is Astrid is a lesbian. But go on.”
“Last night, Rowan forced me to promise not to tell you about the suspension. She didn’t exact the same promise about Daisy. Daisy did exactly what I expected her to—she came to you.”
“Thank you.” I buttoned my shirt. “I need you to do me another favor, please.”
“Name it.”
“Make sure Rowan is at the press conference.”
Dante shifted his stance, a nervous tic I recognized.
“What?”
“Is that a good idea? I mean, what if she doesn’t want to be there?”
“Tell her I said tough shit and to get her ass into the media room.” I grinned. “That ought to get her fired up and even more anxious to yell at me.” I snapped out the cuffs of my shirt before I slipped on my suit jacket and shoes. Ties were required postgame, so I headed to the mirrors to tie the noose.
I glanced in the mirror behind me at my media escort, who’d finally shown her face. I said, “Let’s go.”
• • •
I stayed off to the side while the coach did his thing. Then the big franchise players had their moments. That took a while. Then the offensive line coach tipped his chin at me and it was go time.
We had our choice to sit or stand, and I opted to sit.
There had to be fifty reporters and at least twenty cameras set up. The lights were blinding and I wished I had grabbed a ball cap.
My media escort opened it up to questions. As an unwritten rule, the local TV stations got the first questions.
“Rocket, it’s been twenty months since your injury. How did it feel getting back on the field today?”
“Like it’s been a long time coming.” Laughter. Then I did the PR spiel that had been drilled into me, with a few additions here and there that were more honest than I was supposed to share. I fielded question after question about any changes in physical abilities, my field time, the stress of blocking versus running on my Achilles. The press was very thorough, but I’d never been a two-word-answer player. Yet no one had asked the question that I’d been waiting for.
Misti Lane, local TV reporter who’d done the interview with Axl and Annika last year after Axl’s on-ice proposal, signaled to me. I nodded at her; she’d be fair and yet not shy away from the tougher questions.
“Jensen, after your touchdown, you sought out Rowan Michaels, a member of the Vikings cheer team, and presented her with the game ball. What can you tell us about that?”
“The game ball is pretty self-explanatory, so I’m guessing you’re really asking why I kissed the hell out of her.”
Nervous laughter.
Misti smiled. “Yes, tell us about that kiss and why you chose to violate the no-fraternization rule during the middle of a prime-time game on national TV?”
“Well, first off, I kissed Rowan because she’s my girlfriend. She was right there on the field and I wanted to share that special moment with her. Second, the no-frat rule is archaic and unfair.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Look, I’m not a guy who uses my media time to stand on a soapbox. But this rule, issue, whatever, has been shoved under the radar for far too long.” I pointed at the cameraman behind Misti. “If you started a relationship with him and your bosses found out, would either of you lose your job?”
Misti cocked her head. “No.”
“Exactly. And I have a big problem with a rule that tells me who I can’t be in a relationship with.”
That started a buzz in the room.
A bunch of hands shot up. I nodded to another local reporter. He said, “What are the repercussions for violating the rule?”
“For me? Nothing probably. For Rowan? She’s a professional athlete too, but she’ll get released from the cheer team she’s invested five years of her life in.”
A few gasps, some louder grumbling about unfairness.
I didn’t look to the media rep or the coaching staff. “So I ask . . . since when is falling in love a punishable offense? Football is just a game. It’s fun, it’s frustrating and I love it.” I pointed to Rowan, still wearing her cheerleading uniform, leaning against the back wall, next to Annika and Axl. They’d struggled with their own relationship issues in the media last year and had come out on top with a romantic love story people couldn’t get enough of. “But as much as I love football? I love that woman more. I figured if the rule stands and it’s the first and last time she gets to cheer on the field, at least she deserved a game ball so she doesn’t go home empty-handed.”
All the cameras whirled around to get her reaction.
“I get to go home with you. And that’s enough for me.”
Boom. Microphone drop.
I slipped out when everyone’s focus was on Rowan. I’d given Annika a heads-up about my postgame plans, and I knew she’d run with it. Having the media immediately associate Rowan and me as star-crossed lovers like she and Axl had been—PR gold.
It wasn’t like I’d thrown Rowan to the wolves and abandoned her. Astrid was bringing my Hummer to a prearranged exit point. My agent was in the media room keeping an eye on things. I needed to make a couple of quick phone calls and grab my stuff. Then I could grab my woman and go.
Of course, we made sure the reporters witnessed everything. If