Prologue
Quinton
Game One
The crowd’s cheers echo in the tunnel. Screams of excitement bounce off the concrete floor and vibrate through my cleats and into my veins.
I live for this feeling. The anticipation of running onto the field. Never knowing what is coming or what might happen.
I’ve always kept my head down. I’ve listened to the coaches. Made the plays. I’ve done my job like the good little athlete they’ve trained me to be.
But today is different.
The piece of black tape feels as if it weighs a thousand pounds hidden in my glove. My knee itches to touch the ground.
I can’t keep quiet any longer. I won’t keep quiet any longer.
No.
This is the day I will take a stand by taking a knee.
Today is the day I look up.
One
Elliot
I’ve never had actual work benefits.
I mean, sure, I’ve got medical and a 401(k), but I’m talking about benefits that mean something. Like my friend Liv’s Nordstrom discount or Marie’s endless supply of cupcakes.
But now, I’m finally on their level. I have perks. The best perks possible: discounted and readily available Denver Mustangs tickets.
Sure, the parking costs a mint, the food is outrageous, and don’t even get me started on the drinks . . . but I’m here! My first ever professional football game and I’m part of the Mustangs family.
My dad would’ve freaking loved this.
“Why’d you make us get here so early?” Marie’s freckled arm stretches in front of me to nab one of the cheese-covered nachos in my lap. “I’m going to burn to hell and back.”
I made her apply sunscreen in the car, but even so, she’s right. She’s still going to burn. She burns just thinking about the sun. When we took a trip to Vegas for her twenty-first birthday, she burned so bad at the pool that I thought she needed to go to the emergency room.
“Because, if we didn’t get here when we did, the parking would’ve been impossible, the lines to the concessions would’ve been a mile long, and you would’ve been complaining that you were hungry and needed beer when I wanted to watch the game.”
“Okay, but now the team’s about to come out and I’m almost out of beer and you’re not being a good nacho sharer, so I’m going to complain anyways.” She grabs the last cheesy nacho in the tray and shoves it into her mouth before I can steal it back. And, because I work for the organization, I can’t punch her in the arm like I really want to. Maybe if I was a trainer or something that sounded a little more aggressive, I could get away with a light swat. But, since I work in public relations—aka the department that extinguishes fires, not ignites them—it’s probably not the best idea.
In my next life, I’m so going to be a wrestler.
“Asshole,” I mumble beneath my breath, which turns out to be unnecessary because that’s the moment the announcer decides to let his presence be known.
“Denver, Colorado! Get on your feet! Let’s hear it for your Denver Mustangs!” Jack, the announcer the Mustangs have used for the last five seasons, shouts through the speakers. I met him this week; he was kind of obnoxious, but I guess that’s perfect for his job.
The metal floor rattles beneath my shoes with synchronized anticipation as everyone jumps to their feet.
Everyone, that is, except for me.
This is the first professional football game I’ve ever been to. I’ve wanted to come to one of these games forever and I promised my dad that he’d be by my side when I did. We were going to celebrate his remission with the best seats and all the beer he could drink.
Grief is such a bitch.
Because even though I woke up with a smile and have been looking forward to this for weeks, grief has decided to take this moment to drop a brick on my chest and wrap itself around my throat. The tears fall before I even have the chance to stop them and the only coherent thought I have is that I hope none of my new coworkers are around to witness this absurd meltdown.
“Hey.” Marie squeezes my shoulder and sympathy emanates from her sapphire eyes. “I know he would love this. But I also know he’d have a fit if he thought he was the reason you missed the Mustangs’ grand entrance you both obsessed over. So wipe those tears away before he comes back and haunts me for not straightening you out.”
That gets a laugh out of me. More like a chorkle—laughter mixed with crying does not make for pretty noises. My fingers linger over his watch, which he had resized for me right after the doctors told him the chemo wasn’t working anymore, before I swipe the tears off my face. “You’re right.” I stand up with the rest of the crowd, who are thankfully too busy watching the offensive starters get called out of the tunnel to notice the crazy girl hysterically crying in the plastic chair next to them. “I’m done. We’re going to have a fucking blast for the rest of the game.”
“Yeah we are.” She lifts her hand into the air for a high five that is purposefully too high for me to reach. “Plus, you pulled it together before they called that new hot quarterback out.”
I decide to keep my dignity intact and not jump for the high five. Instead I let her hand linger above me and focus on the field in front of me.
Because—even if I’m not sure I can say this anymore, since I work here—Quinton Howard Junior is very hot.
Like smokin’.
He’s a legacy player—his dad was a lineman in the eighties and early nineties—but it was his ability to lead his team to a championship win last year that brought him to Denver . . . and a contract worth a lot (and I mean a lot) of money. He was originally a sixth-round draft pick and didn’t have the opportunity to start until the quarterback he played under suffered a season-ending injury during Quinton’s fifth season. This is his seventh year and so far he’s had a killer preseason. Every time I turn on ESPN, there’s another commentator placing their bets on him leading the Mustangs to his second championship ring.
As if conjured by pure willpower—or really good timing—his picture appears on the JumboTron. The screams that held an undertone of bass from grown men transform to the screams you hear at a boy band concert. And Marie, who has made her disinterest of the sport clear to me throughout our entire friendship, is suddenly staring at the JumboTron like she’s preparing to write a paper on the juxtaposition of having a perfect face and getting tackled for a living.
Even though I want to give her shit and pretend like I’m above ogling the hot quarterback—I mean, can you say cliché?—I give in and stare right along with her and just about every other person in the stadium.