Amelia

I hate that my mother got to take Carson to his first big game of Cal’s. I wanted so badly to be there cheering him on too, but I’m here once again in front of the television screen. At least I can honestly say I have never missed a game. Even if I’m not able to be there in person, I always make sure to watch him and cheer for him.

Defense intercepts the ball at midfield. I know Cal is about to make something happen. The crowd in the stands is going wild. Every pan of the camera shows fan after fan dressed in red and black with jerseys, shirts, and even some with what appears to be spray paint across their bodies.

Number 87 is branded everywhere.

Posters are waving in the still-humid air, and children are standing in chairs with giant foam fingers pointed and shouting, ready to see Breezy work his magic.

It never ceases to amaze me the lengths some fans will go to for that one player who steals their heart. The amount of loyalty someone can have for another human being they haven’t ever met in real life . . . but that’s the way of life in football.

It’s normal.

It’s expected.

It’s crazy.

Cal jogs onto the field, turning and tossing a hand up in the direction of Carson and Griffin. I wish I could see them. I wish I were there with them, but no . . . I’m stuck here in bed like an invalid.

Making his way to the center of the field, he listens briefly while the quarterback calls the play. The huddle breaks, and Callum lines up wide left, leaning forward on the balls on his feet, ready for the snap.

They need to get at least to the thirty-yard line for a shot at a field goal. Forty-three yards to go, with no time outs left in the half. He will have to get out of bounds to stop the clock.

The ball snaps, and Cal cuts back to the sideline. The pass is on the money. He turns up field just as the ball glides into his arms. Tucking the ball tight, he turns, and we get a prime example of why he is called Breezy Johnson. No one can touch him. He floats up the field on feet as light as wind, breaking two tackles and diving out of bounds at the forty-two-yard line seconds before the tackle.

The offense hurries to the ball, not taking time for a huddle and keeping the defense on their toes. No time for them to gather themselves. Cal lines back up to the left once again. Defense is man to man coverage. The crowd holds their breath, waiting to see what will happen next. Will they make it to thirty? Will he go all the way?

Everyone on the field knows where the ball is going.

Everyone in the stands has their suspicions.

Cody, the quarterback, takes the snap again, firing out to Cal on a screen play. He clears the corners, but the safety makes the stop after an eight-yard gain. Second and two on the thirty-five-yard line. If they wanted to take the chance, they could try for a field goal now, but Noah, the FG kicker, hasn’t been having the best season this year.

I wouldn’t take the chance.

I mean, it’s only two yards, and I know Cal can get the first down.

Easy peasy.

Then again, I may be a bit biased.

The play clock is winding down. Seconds tick by slowly. It’s midway through the fourth quarter and the Bucks are down by three. We need this score.

If nothing else, to tie the game up.

It’s Cal’s time to shine. He’s already gotten 184 yards receiving with three touchdowns. Defense is playing like hell, though. They need to just keep throwing the ball to Cal because the defense can’t stick him.

No one can.

He moves like a breeze down the field.

Cal lines up slot right, hoping to get a mismatch with the linebacker, but the strong safety rolls over to help. They aren’t stupid. Every member knows which guy needs the most coverage, and they will do anything to stop him.

The ball snaps, and Cal slants across the middle. The linebacker dropped deep. He slips the safety easily, then glides down the field to receive the pass. Cal spins left, looking for the ball, and his step falters. I see it happen.

Like when you see something, and your mind can’t process it so you have to do a double take.

He wanted a double take, but he was moving too fast to get it.

In the next second, my world implodes around me.

6’ 3”, 240 pounds of all-American linebacker barrels down on him hard. I can feel the hit in my bones. My pancakes threaten to come right back up, but I swallow repeatedly, refusing to let them.

I see the hit over and over in my mind, and then I realize that’s because it’s on replay across the screen. Some dickhead announcer is boasting about the Giants having a chance to win now, and I wish I could reach through the screen and choke the shit out of him.

Cal’s head hits the ground first, followed shortly by the rest of his body as it folds around him on the hard, grassy terrain.

Over and over.

Again and again.

The station broadcasting chooses this moment to go to commercial, and I am up pacing the room. I call Griffin. He doesn't answer, no doubt just as worried about Cal as I am right now.

I try my mother's phone next, but it goes straight to voicemail.

Bitch.

I dial Griff again and then sit on the edge of the bed as the announcers come back on the screen. Cal still hasn’t moved. Trainers surround him on the field. I can only imagine what they are thinking right now. I see one of the coaches call for something across the field right as Griffin’s voicemail picks up.

“Call me, Griffin. I need to know what’s happening.”

I hang up and slide my feet into some flip flops, the only thing that fits my feet anymore without making them swell up to the size of cantaloupes.

“Hi, Siri.”

“Google taxi cabs near me.”

“Searching Google for taxi cabs near me. Here is a list of taxi cabs near me.”

I glance down at the list and click on the first one with a phone number. I’ll be damned if I sit here and wait for him to wake up on the field. I’ll be damned if stay here period.

Grabbing my purse, I lock the bottom lock of the front door and pull it shut behind me. The cab said he would be here in fewer than five minutes.

I guess being in this big rich ass house does have its advantages.