LINE OF SCRIMMAGE
Gillian
I WAS OKAY.
Or I would be okay soon. That was what I told myself every day over the past four and half months as I went through the motions of finishing school and job hunting, both of which were now complete.
The Mayo Clinic Sports Center in Minneapolis had offered me a job three days ago, and I had two weeks to give them a decision. I was going to take it, of course. I just hadn’t told them yet.
I would, soon.
Things with my father were better. He had come to Gainesville for my graduation in December. It was the first time I’d seen him since that morning in the dorm. Sure, we’d spoken on the phone, but the conversations had been bland, and we’d never spoken of Lucas again.
I was no longer upset with my father. I knew from the start how he’d react when he found out, if he found out, so what happened shouldn’t have shocked me like it did. The thing about it was he didn’t care about the feelings I had for Lucas, or I should say, didn’t want to hear about them, and I think that was what still bothered me.
Was it easier that way for him?
In the end, did it really matter? It was Lucas’s decision to end things. He was the one who told me he loved me and then left me without saying goodbye.
It was the final game of the regular season. I hadn’t flown up for a single one all year, and my father hadn’t asked me to either. But this was one I couldn’t stay away from. This game meant everything to the Bears, and despite the tension between my father and me, and despite my complete break with Lucas, I loved this team and wanted them to succeed.
With three minutes and twenty-two seconds left in the fourth quarter, the Bears had taken over at their own eight-yard line. The Packers were up 27–21. They’d scored three touchdowns and kicked two field goals, and we’d scored three times.
The Green Bay Packers had already sealed a playoff spot, so you would have thought they would have rested their starters to avoid an unnecessary injury, but that was not the case. Chicago versus Green Bay was one of the league’s most storied rivalries.
It seemed that back in the nineteen twenties, Chicago pounded the Packers 20–0, and for extra measure, one of their guards threw a sucker punch that broke the nose of one of the Packer’s tackles. And ever since then the two teams shared a love/hate relationship, which is why they weren’t about to back down now, even with their own spot secured.
At eleven wins and four losses for the season, the Bears were a far cry from last year’s complete reverse. But their position in the playoffs rested on this one game.
Snowflakes fell over Soldier Field, but the cold drizzle did nothing to dampen the mood of the Bears fans. They wanted this for Chicago. The team wanted this for Chicago. I wanted this for Chicago, for my father, and for Lucas.
The clock was ticking and I found myself biting my nails. I’d opted against being on the sidelines with the trainers like I always had been at every game before, because . . . well, just because.
On the first and ten, Lucas handed the ball off to the running back, who ran it for one-yard. Running it all the way wasn’t going to be easy. The Packers defense was one of the best in the league.
On the second down, Lucas changed strategies and passed it to Preacher, but the play was incomplete.
Tick-tock.
Time was running out. Finally, after getting a clean snap, Lucas dropped back. With his feet firmly planted beneath him, he had just pulled the ball back to throw it for a pass when a Packer’s tackle blitzed him, and he fumbled the ball.
The ball was on the ground, but it was live at least, and when Lucas stood and dove for it, I held my breath. This wasn’t a dropped snap though. He couldn’t fall on the ball and cover it. No, he had to reach for it. With several three hundred pound tackles converging on him, he extended his right arm.
Oh, my God, I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
Was he hurt?
But then he recovered the ball and I finally exhaled.
The crowd around me roared, and I swiped a stray tear away. It was nothing. It didn’t mean anything. I had not allowed myself to cry for all this time, and I wasn’t about to start now. I would force myself to laugh when this was over and I knew he was okay before I cried.
Moments before Lucas hit the ground, he threw the ball to Kutch. There were only twenty seconds left on the clock. The ball was safe, but Lucas was not. With the play already in motion, Kutch caught the ball. At the same time, the Packer’s defensive tackle did what every defensive tackle would do in that situation; he took a legal shot at the quarterback—at Lucas.
The force of the collision was ferocious, and I gasped, “Lucas.”
The team box was filled with people, but it was only then I noticed a man off to my left that looked so much like Lucas, only he was a bit older. He had to be Nick, and he was holding his hands over his face in distress.
That hit that Lucas took hadn’t come alone. It came with the weight of the other tackles that were now piled on top of each other, on top of Lucas.
With the Packers going after Lucas, Kutch was more than able to run the ball all the way. It was unbelievable, but somehow he managed to score a touchdown before the whistle blew.
Everyone cheered, except for Lucas’s brother, and me. We were both holding our breath. Yet after the immediate roar of the crowd, there was a stunned silence throughout the stadium as the fans, and me, and Nick, waited for the bodies to lift and for Lucas to emerge.
One by one they stood until Lucas was the only one still on the ground. “Get up,” I willed, “get up!”
When he rolled over, and struggled to push himself up with his left arm, I knew something had happened to his right shoulder. It was still compromised from when I’d struck him with the water cart at training camp.
The team converged on him, but Thor was the first by his side, bringing him to his feet. By the time Lucas had stood, the medical staff had flown into action.
Watching him was terrifying, and my heart was nearly pounding out of my chest. He looked like he was in agony as he walked toward the sidelines, and all I wanted to do was run down there.
But I couldn’t.
The quarter was back in play, and after kicking for the extra point, the Bears had just won the game, and they were going to the playoffs.
It was the first time in ten years, and I took a moment to glance at my father. Whether he was aware of the win or not, he wore a look of utter concern on his face as he hurried toward Lucas.
The minute the team physician had finished probing around his injury, I felt a whoosh of relief, but it didn’t last. I could see, even from here, that his right arm was tilted at a disturbing angle.
Then he did something I never expected, he glanced at the scoreboard, and then his gaze shifted up to the box, the place I was sitting, and that easy smile crossed his lips.
My pulse raced. I knew he had to know I was up here. Was that smile for me, so I wouldn’t worry?
After he huddled with the team, and then broke away, every fan in the stadium went wild, including me.
Standing.
Clapping.
Cheering.
Echoes of, “Lucas! Lucas! Lucas!” pulsed through Soldier Field as he thrust his fist in the air.
Holding his right arm, he ran toward the end zone, jumped the guardrail, and climbed up into the stands.
“Lucas! Lucas! Lucas! Lucas!” the crowd chanted.
My heart swelled, this was his house, his time, and suddenly I knew he had made the right decision in choosing football over me.
Jumping down from the ledge, he started running like he was hot stuff. And he was. He definitely was. Television cameras, photographers, and fans followed. They thought so too.
This was his victory lap, and it looked so good on him.
The team joined him, and by the time he made it all the way around the stadium, the team owner and my father were waiting for him.
My eyes welled up again.
“You must be Gillian.”
I turned to see who I knew had to be Lucas’s brother standing beside me. I was surprised he’d known who I was. “Yes, and you must be Nick.”
He smiled. “Yeah, that’s right. So what do you think?” he asked. “Is our boy going to be okay?”
Our boy?
He wasn’t our boy, not anymore. I drew in a breath. “Well, I’m not a doctor, but it looks like he dislocated his shoulder. It’s going to have to be popped back into place, but in a couple of weeks, with a lot of rehab, he should be fine.”
“You should help him with that,” Nick said, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“I . . . we . . .” I stumbled with my words. “We aren’t together.”
Nick shrugged, and he looked so much like Lucas when he did. It was that I don’t give a fuck thing that Lucas wore so well. “Well, if you ask me, you should be.”
I had a thousand questions to ask him. Why would he say that? What had Lucas said? Had Lucas moved on? I mean come on, women everywhere were dying to get near him.
Just as I opened my mouth to speak, I saw Lucas back on the bench with the team’s physician, Dallas, and Aiden.
My stare had Nick whirling around.
And together we watched as the team physician extended Lucas’s right arm and pulled it until I knew it had snapped back into place.
“Shit,” Nick winced. “He’s probably headed to the hospital. I’m going to see if I can get down there and ride along. It was nice to finally meet you, Gillian.”
I nodded, tears stuck in my throat. “You too,” I managed.
He walked away, but then turned, “Gillian,” he called. I glanced over. “Don’t let him try to convince you it was for football.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
His cryptic words hung in the air because then he was gone. I walked down the steps and pressed my face against the glass to look down.
I felt like a kid outside a candy store who was not allowed to go in.
When I found Lucas on the field, he was just entering the tunnel with Dallas and Aiden and even Drake by his side.
The need to be down there with them had never been so strong, and I felt a wave of anger surge through me like I never had. I was mad. Pissed. Furious even, that I wasn’t.
I knew in this instant where I belonged.
And it wasn’t Minnesota.