Hate You Still by Lyssa Lemire

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

KNOX

I’m fucking pumped.

Adrenaline is coursing through my veins. I can’t stand still for a single moment. I’m literally hoping from one foot to the other as we stand grouped together as a team, in the entrance way to the field.

My first game of the season. After two long months on the bench, I’m back.

Fuck, it feels good just to be suited up on gameday. I love the feeling of the cleats on my feet, the pads on my shoulders. I love having my jersey with my number on my chest. I even love the helmet on my head. I even love how the facemask obscures my vision.

My heartbeat pounds in my chest. There’s an electric energy in the air. The stadium is packed, and we can hear the loud rumble of the crowd.

Everyone out there knows it’s my first game of the season, and they’re all hoping that we’ll still be able to turn things around.

My teammates are excited, too. We’ve been hurting bad this season, but with how I’ve been tearing it up in training these last two weeks, hopes are high once again.

I’m ready to get on the field and dominate. To show everyone that I haven’t lost a step.

Most of all, I’m ready to make up for my mistakes to everyone. Ready to make it up to Coach, to my teammates, to the fans.

I know I fucked up a lot of shit this year. Fucked it up by not being here for my team when they needed me, by my absence forcing a change in the entire scheme and strategy of the team. As many different problems as the team has had this season, it’s impossible to deny that my benching has been one of the biggest.

But that’s over now. I’m back. And I’m ready to show everyone that I’m still the explosive, dominant, unstoppable player that I’ve always been.

Enter Sandman by Metallica starts to blare through the stadium speakers, signaling that it’s our time to walk out. Onto our home field. Damn right, my first game back is a home game.

The rest of the team is a ball of energy waiting to explode. Some guys rub their hands together, some guys are banging on each other’s helmets, some are just screaming incoherently. But everyone’s as fucking pumped as pumped can be.

I’m reveling in it.

“You fucking ready, Delton!?” One of our defense rushers, Benson, screams at me.

I nod, my nostrils flaring. “You’re fucking right I am.”

Lars slaps the top of my helmet. “That’s the fucking attitude! I’m ready to chew these fuckers up and spit them out!”

One of the stadium workers gives us the signal that it’s time for us to storm out onto the field. We all break into a gallop, running down the concrete hall and exploding out onto the field where we’re greeted by a frenzy of cheering and shouting from the fans.

I stand on the grass and breath it all in. The sun is beating down on the field, the sky is blue, the crowd is packed and loud. Everyone’s excited, everyone’s ready to leave every ounce of themselves on the field.

This is where it all turns around. This is where the Alton Eagles remind everyone that the so-called Golden Age of our team isn’t over, that we’re still a force to be reckoned with, that we’re still one of the best.

And this is where I show everyone that although there really is a new Knox Delton off the field, there’s no new Knox Delton between play whistles.

I’m still the best tight end in college football. It’s time for everyone to remember that. It’s time for me to remind them.

I’m running down the field as fast as my legs can carry me. Every time I push off against the ground, my quads burn.

I’m pushing myself hard, but the fucking cornerback riding my ass is no slouch. He’s keeping up with me for the whole length of my route.

I know I need to do something to shake him.

I stick out my left foot and suddenly spin, turning my hips and changing directions. The cornerback catches it and goes to follow – but he’s only fallen for my trap. I swivel my hips back instantly and explode with my right leg back down my original trajectory.

The cornerback tries to readjust, but he overcommitted to my feint. He stumbles over and falls down. The crowd explodes in cheers.

The ball’s all mine.

I turn around and see the ball floating to me. No defenders are in my radius. I’ve got a clear path to the endzone.

I reach my hands out to accept the perfect pass that Garrett, our quarterback, threw to me.

And it passes through my hands, falling to the ground.

Again.

A loud groan from the crowd fills my ears.

“Fuck,” I exclaim, kicking the ground. I look up the field and see the opposing team celebrating.

Celebrating my failure.

It’s not the first time this afternoon.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

With my head hung, I walk back to the sidelines. I dare to glance at the scoreboard while doing so. 23-10. We’re losing. Seeing those numbers, it feels like a sharp, jagged wooden stake is being driven through my chest.

Gavin clasps my shoulder as I drag my feet across the sidelines, my head low and my shoulder slack. “It’s just rust man. Shit, you hardly have been able to even practice for the last two months. Everyone understands.”

Although my teammates, and even Coach, have shown sympathy with my pathetic performance, what he says isn’t true: that everyone understands.

Because I sure as fuck do not understand.

This has always been easy for me. A lot of people say that, but most of them are just bullshitting. I’m not. This game has always been easy – actually, easy isn’t the word. It’s been natural.

Shaking defenders, breaking tackles, catching even the most uncatchable of passing, it’s all been like breathing. Sure, I work hard to stay in good shape and to learn the plays, but I’ve never had to truly work my ass off and put in long hours of practice learning the fundamentals like many have.

I just knew how to play this game. Always. From the first play I ran, everything always went my way. Raw talent, everyone said. Inexplicable.

But today, nothing’s going right. The defense has shut me down. Last play was the first time I was able to get open, and even when I did, I let a picture-perfect pass sail right through my hands.

I punch myself in the thigh as I sit on the players’ bench, trying to release some frustration.

I spend our opponents’ set of downs replaying every mistake in my head. The more I think about how much I fucked up today, the angrier at myself I get. What are our fans thinking? Shit, what are the NFL scouts thinking? I still need to worry about my draft prospects. This season might just tank my whole future.

Without football, what do I have? Nothing.

There’s no way I’ll be able to get a real job with the degree I’m going to graduate with. Even with how much better my grades have been this semester, my final GPA is going to be the kind of number that earns my resume a one-way ticket to the trashcan in hiring offices nationwide.

Before I know it, it’s time for the offense to get back on the field. As I put my helmet back on and fasten the chinstrap, I feel something I’ve never felt before while walking onto a football field: nervous.