Posted: Fri Aug 06, 2004 8:27 am
<center>Chapter 49</center>
~Max~
We won the SEC Championship against Georgia, though it turned out to be a lot closer than the media predicted. Thanks to the neck-and-neck scoring, I didn’t get a chance to set foot on the field, which was a bit disappointing considering Liz was there and I really wanted a chance to show off. But in the end, I’m just glad we won.
The drive back from the Georgia Dome was filled with raucous celebration as the announcement came over the radio on the bus. The LSU Tigers were going up against the Georgia Bulldogs yet again, in the Nokia Sugar Bowl. And this time, it would be on Louisiana soil.
“New Orleans, here we come baby!” my friend from the shower hollers, inciting a round of guffaws as one of the older teammates pulls his jersey over his head, leaving him tangled in pads and equipment.
“All right, all right,” Coach Saban laughs, shaking his head which is still damp from the traditional Gatorade bath. “Shut up and listen up! I don’t wanna see any of your ugly faces for the rest of the weekend. You guys earned it. Don’t let me get any phonecalls in the middle of the night to bail anyone outta jail, because I’m gonna be pissed and I’ll make every damn one of ya report to Charles McClendon Facility to run plays until the wee hours of the goddamned morning. I’ll see you all Monday for practice.”
We all let out a chorus of the fight song, pounding our hands on the backs of the leather seats as he holds the trophy over his head. The laughter continues on around me, but I can’t get the fact out of my mind that in a few hours I’ll be saying goodbye to Liz yet again. After holding her in my arms at night for the past week, I know it’s going to be bad to watch her get back on that plane.
When we reach the university later that night, all the exhilaration over winning has been replaced by sagging fatigue and the wish for a soft bed. After exchanging some words with the other QB, I sling my pack over my shoulder and walk across the parking lot to where the jeep is waiting. Fumbling in my pockets for the keys, I nearly crack my jaw on a wide yawn.
Once behind the wheel I pull out my cell and dial the apartment, hoping to hear Liz’s voice, knowing she left before the team did. Sure enough, a sleepy voice picks up on the other line. “Max?”
“Hey baby,” I murmur, shifting into drive as I hold the phone to my ear. “We just got in, so I’ll be home in a few minutes, okay?” As soon as the words come out of my mouth, a strange sense of perfection washes over me. Home. It feels so fucking amazing to call her and say I’ll be home soon.
Before I can fully contemplate this startling revelation and the thoughts it induces, she answers, “You don’t have to…debrief or something?”
I have to chuckle at her obvious ignorance of football procedure. “We won a game, baby. Not a war. There’s nothing to debrief.”
“Looked like a war from where I was sitting,” she humphs. “That was really…intense, Max. Is it always like that?”
“Only when you take two really closely matched teams and throw them together for a major title,” I answer wryly. “And yeah…it was intense, huh? I honestly didn’t know if we’d pull it off.”
“I never doubted you for a minute,” she says loyally.
“Baby, I didn’t even play,” I feel inclined to point out, even though a sappy smile stretches across my face at her comment. “I was the token bench warmer.”
“You were not!” she gasps vehemently. “You’re just as important as the rest of those guys! Plus, you’re ten times better.”
“Whoa, remind me not to insult myself ever again,” I tease. “I wouldn’t want to piss off my pretty little bodyguard. She’s kinda scary.”
“Har har,” she grumbles. “So…”
“So…” I sigh. “You packed up? Everything ready to go in the morning?”
“You sound so eager to get rid of me,” she pouts in a small voice.
“No way,” I say instantly. “You know that’s not true, baby…it’s going to kill me to see you get on that plane, knowing you’re still going to be in the country and I won’t be able to see you.”
The silence on the other end lets me know she’s busy contemplating something, and sure enough a few seconds later she says softly, “Maybe I could stay a few more days…?”
I sigh, squeezing the steering wheel tightly. “I want you to more than anything,” I answer gruffly. “But it’s not fair to everyone else, Liz. Your family misses you, too. I…I can’t…”
“I know,” she sighs. “I know, I just…”
“I know.”
Another moment of silence, before she says in an overly bright tone, “Well, we still have tonight.” Her voice is teasing and seductive, and exactly what I need to drive away the melancholy feelings creeping in.
“I’m pulling into the parking lot now,” I answer huskily. “How about you meet me at the door…wearing nothing but a pretty smile?”
“Deal,” she giggles breathlessly. I snap the phone off and jump out of the jeep, bounding up the steps with an eager expression on my face. The second my hand falls on the doorknob, it’s wrenched open and an arm yanks me through the opening, soft lips pressing firmly against my own.
I stumble against Liz, turning her around and shoving her up against the door as my hands grip her bare bottom. “Hi,” I manage between scorching kisses as her small hands begin tearing at my clothes. “Whoa…baby, I’m all sweaty.”
“You’re all sexy,” she purrs. “And I want you, right now.”
I’m not about to argue as she pulls my shirt over my head and latches onto my zipper. My hands fall to her shoulders, stepping out of the shorts as she shoves them down my legs. My underwear follows and then she’s in my arms, shapely legs wrapping around my waist as our mouths meet again.
“Bedroom,” she whispers between kisses. “Hurry, Max!”
When we collapse onto my bed minutes later, I catch her hand as it slides down to circle my cock. “Wait,” I manage thickly. “Liz…slow down.”
“No,” she whimpers, her hands coming up to shove me back as she crawls on top of me. “I don’t want to take it slow. I want it hard…” she leans down and nips my lower lip, positioning herself to sink down on me. “I want it fast…and I want it now.”
“Liz…” I trail off on a long groan as she closes around me, her hips grinding as my eyes nearly cross. My hands come up to clench around her hips. “Oh, fuck!”
She bows her back, letting out an entirely feminine sound of pleasure as her hands slide up my slick chest. “Mmm…” she purrs, looking back down at me through darkened eyes as her palms glide up my shoulders then down my arms. Linking our fingers together, she brings them up to her breasts. “Touch me,” she whispers.
I don’t have to be told twice, my thumbs circling her distended nipples and tugging gently as she gasps in response. She stills, arching into my touch. “Ride me,” I rasp, lifting my hips and spurring her back into action.
And boy, does she. Within minutes, we’re both crying out in orgasmic completion, Liz collapsing against my chest as I bury my fingers in her hair, dragging her lips to mine.
As we lie there tangled together, she whispers into my neck, “When I transfer here…will we live together?”
The question takes me by surprise, not that she asked it but that she felt the need to. “Was there somewhere else you planned on living?” I answer a tad gruffly, lifting her head to meet my gaze. She nibbles her lips, an uncertain gleam in her eyes. I groan, pulling her down to rest against my forehead. “Baby…talking about this isn’t going to make it any easier to watch you leave me again.”
“I’m sorry…” she whispers, nuzzling my throat. “How is it that I miss you, when I’m right here with you?”
I’m not sure how to reply to those words, other than, “I know.” My arms wrap snugly around her, pulling her against my side as I move to spoon her. The sound of the celing fan whirs over our head, drying the sweat on our bodies as we both lie there in silence.
<center>***</center>
“Are you gonna stay at the hotel with us?” Cam’s eager voice sounds over the phone as I continue throwing clothes into a small duffle bag. “It’s owned by that girl on TV’s family. You know, the one Dad says is a total slut?”
“The Hilton?” I laugh, shaking my head. “And yeah, I’m gonna stay with you guys.”
A loud whoop sounds over the line and I hear him eagerly reporting my answer to whoever’s there with him. Then he yells, “This is so sweet! I hear that place you’re gonna play is like, humongous! I could get lost!”
I raise my brows at his excited tone, but decide not to ask. “Yeah, The Louisiana Superdome’s pretty big,” I confirm. “Different from Tiger Stadium.”
“I read that they call Tiger Stadium Death Valley. What’s up with that?” he asks in a hushed tone. “Did someone die there? Is it haunted?”
I chuckle at his youthful enthusiasm. “Not quite, pal. It’s because back during a game in the eighties against Auburn, an LSU quarterback threw a game-winning touchdown pass and the crowd reaction caused an earth tremor. They had it on record with a seismograph and everything. That’s like a scale that measures earthquakes.”
“Wow…” he breathes. “They yelled so loud it made an earthquake?”
“Pretty much,” I confirm, feeling my skin begin to tingle in excitement as I retell the infamous tale. “Crazy, huh?”
“Dude, maybe you can make it happen in New Orleans,” he answers excitedly.
“Cam, I doubt I’ll play,” I hate to tear down his obvious elation at the thought of his cousin causing an earthquake, but I can’t help but feel the need to let him down gently. “I’m not the starting quarterback, which means they’ll only call me in if something happens…or if there’s no chance of us losing.”
As if he never heard me, he continues on with, “I overheard Dad and Uncle Phillip talking about how there’s gonna be all these television cameras and junk there. People looking for new NFL players. Are you nervous?”
Am I nervous? I’m about to attend my very first Sugar Bowl, which is one of the most prestigious titles in college football aside from the National Championship. Hell yeah, I’m nervous…even though I’ll most likely end up cheering from the bench. But I simply say, “Nah, it’ll be fun.”
Obviously awed by my nonchalance, although he could never know how much it cost me, he goes, “Wow. All those people looking at ya and stuff…I think I’d throw up.”
The wisdom of youth. “You’d probably start doing cartwheels in front of the cameras,” I state wryly, looking over my shoulder for my sandals. Changing subjects I ask, “So how’s Liz?”
He leaps upon the new topic with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. “Dude, it’s so cool! She’s been hanging out with me all the time. We went to see Shrek the other day…”
As he keeps talking, I begin to realize just how pathetic I am when I’m jealous of an eleven-year-old. Plastering a smile on my face, I break into his lengthy monologue by saying, “How’s Channon?”
Instant silence. Then he says a bit defensively, “How should I know?”
Smirking, I return to folding my clothes. “Yeah, right. So I guess you haven’t told her you want to give her a big wet kiss?” I joke, laughing as he makes sputtering sounds into the phone.
“Dude, you’re gross!”
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” I tease. “Okay, kid…I gotta finish packing and call Liz. I’ll see you guys this weekend, okay?”
“Okay,” he grumbles.
We hang up, and I’m preparing to dial Liz’s number when my phone starts ringing in my hand. Expecting it to be Cameron with some last minute request, I answer with a playful, “Get lost, squirt.”
“Excuse me?” Tess demands. “I know you didn’t just call me squirt, Max Evans.”
“Sorry, I thought you were Cam,” I roll my eyes. “What’s up?”
“Why don’t you come and see for yourself?” she says mysteriously, then lets out a muffled shriek. I hear her cover the phone and say something, but I can’t make out the words. “Max, get your ass over here!”
“I’m packing,” I point out. “You should be, too. I know you, Tess. You’re as big a procrastinater as I am.”
“For your information, I’m packed and ready to go,” she returns prudishly. “Now, get your tight butt over here, Max!”
I hear a cry of affront in the background and raise a brow in curiosity. “Who’s over there?” I wonder, dropping a pair of shorts into my bag. “Tess?”
“Be here or be square, Evans,” is all she says before I hear the dial tone. Unable to douse my curiosity, I shrug and put the rest of my packing off in order to drive across campus.
As I jog up the stairs leading to Tess’s apartment, the strangest feeling of expectation lingers in my belly. I let myself in with the spare key we exchanged, and sure enough, find myself staring into three pairs of grinning eyes.
“Look at the big football star,” Michael chuckles, walking across the room and looping an arm around me. “Surprised to see us, Maxwell?”
“Hell yes,” I manage, hugging my best friend as we all laugh. “What the fuck are you guys doing here?” I demand, turning towards Kyle. “I…I thought you were in Roswell.”
“We couldn’t miss this,” Kyle points out with a snort. “You’re going to the fucking Sugar Bowl, Max. We’re there all the way.”
“Yeah,” Michael agrees, rocking back on his heels and meeting my gaze. “We already made reservations at the Hilton and everything. Our bags are in the corner, we’re along for this ride, Maxwell.”
“Max, say something,” Tess laughs.
“I’m not sure what to say,” I admit, vaguely embarrassed to know that I’m pretty damn moved by their presence here. “Damn guys…this is…this is awesome of you.”
Kyle leans forward to regard Michael. “The dumbass really is surprised to see us, Mike. He must think we’re a couple of shitty friends.”
“He’s just overwhelmed by your powerful scent, Valenti,” Michael returns with an exaggerated sniff. “Mr. Way Too Much Cologne Wearer.”
“Suck my dick, man.”
I laugh at the familiar repartee. “Shit, it really is good to see you guys again. It’s been…what…two months since we were all together?”
“Three,” they both answer at the same time, then flush slightly. “Not that I was counting or anything,” Kyle adds quickly while Tess giggles.
“Well, I’m really glad you guys came,” I state sincerely. “It…it means a lot knowing you’re gonna be there.”
There’s a moment of awkward silence as we all deal with the emotion of the moment, then Michael grins and says, “Don’t you make me cry, Maxwell.”
“Definitely a Hallmark moment,” Kyle sniffles, then receives a slap upside the head from Tess. “Damn woman? Don’t you ever quit?”
<center>***</center>
Two days later, I’m standing against a locker, my heart in my throat as I listen to the coach give us the traditional pregame sermon. The air around me is thick with nervous excitement and tension as we all bow our heads during the prayer.
I recall seeing the assembly of media vans outside the Louisiana Superdome, along with the typical crowd of tailgaters and fans. Suddenly, Cam’s words about throwing up don’t seem so amusing. I allow myself a moment of thanks that I won’t be the one in the spotlight, at least this time.
“Amen,” Saban’s voice rings out, and a chorus of echoes sound. Then everything explodes into motion as the warning bell for the opening kick off sounds and we all start out of the room in a line. The sound of the crowd reaches my ears, a deafening roar that’s audible even through the layers of concrete between us and the stadium.
I think of my family and friends out there watching, waiting. Of Liz and the rest of the gang back home watching, waiting. And the butterflies intensify. My feelings must be written all over my face, because the senior quarterback stops me just outside of the arched opening, a concerned expression on his face.
“You all right, Evans?”
“Yeah,” I nod my head, fighting the sickness rising. “I’m just…overwhelmed, I guess.”
He nods at my honesty, clapping my shoulder and leaning forward. “It’s just us out there, man. Forget all the cameras and bullshit. It’s us and the other team. Play the game the way you were born to do.”
I want to ask him why he’s bothering to tell me all this, seeing as how he’s the one who should be worrying. Then I realize he’s simply preparing me for the games to come. The times when I’ll be the one out there, carrying my team on my shoulders.
“Thanks,” I answer sincerely, and pull on my helmet and mouthpiece. “Good luck.”
“Who needs luck?” he grins, then shoves me forward and out into the brightly lit stadium where thousands of fans are cheering. Even though I know it’s not for me, my ego can’t help but receive a burst as I trot over to the sidelines with the rest of the team.
We win the coin toss, choosing to defer to the second half. I watch as the special teams set up for the kickoff to Georgia. The drive is long and caught somewhere down at the thirty, where a Bulldog runs it into the forty before being taken down.
As the defense prepares to take to the field, I search the crowds of people wearing purple and gold, even though I know I’ll never be able to make out my family and friends. Just knowing they’re out there brings a grin to my face.
I turn back in time to see a quick-footed receiver catch the pass and run it in for a first down. A loud groan goes up from the LSU fans as the players line up for the next play. Nothing comes from the next two plays, and Georgia is forced to punt.
By the end of the first half, we’re down one touchdown and the freak heatwave that has risen from the Bayou has even the most seasoned Louisiana natives sweating profusely in the muggy evening. As we leave the field for the halftime break, the Tiger Band erupts into a spirited rendition of “Fight For LSU”.
During the length of the halftime period, we listen as the coaches explain whatever changes they’re implementing into the next half. New plays are mapped out, fresh players are brought in, and I’m…still warming the bench. Not surprising, since at the moment we need our best and that’s the other guy.
The third quarter starts and we manage to even the score on the first possession thanks to a miscommunication between the Georgia QB and his wide receiver, resulting in an intercepting touchdown. The stadium explodes in cheers and groans as the cheerleaders egg the fans on.
Neither team puts any more points on the board until the five minute mark, when something truly horrible happens. I watch our QB set up for a passing play, when somehow a defender breaks through the offensive line and sacks him with all the force of a mack truck into a bicycle.
A loud gasp goes up as he falls to the ground, one leg bending at an awkward angle. I can practically hear the snap as bone breaks and the expression of sharp pain that crosses beneath his helmet.
“Shit, get the medics out there,” Coach Saban’s severe tone sounds, and the rest of the team watches in sheer horror as the doctors rush the field, huddling around the injured player. It’s almost deathly quiet in the stadium as everyone wonders about the outcome of the tackle.
My own heart threatens to stop beating as realization dawns. If something is wrong…I’m up. I’m going to fucking be called on to play in the Sugar Bowl, after participating in a handful of games throughout the season.
Throwing up is a distinct possibility.
To no one’s surprise but everyone’s dismay, a stretcher is called for as the medics lift our senior QB off the field and roll him off to take care of the injuries. My ears ringing, I barely hear the Coach calling for a timeout before my name is snapped.
“Evans, get over here.”
I manage to make my feet move forward even though everything seems to be moving at a fast pace. I’m half-afraid I might pass out at Nick Saban’s feet as he pierces me with an intense gaze.
“You’re in, Max,” he says in a surprisingly gentle tone that contradicts the expression on his face. The fact that he uses my first name…that he even knows it is enough of a blow, but then he adds, “It’s up to you, kid. Can you handle it?”
A million thoughts race through my mind in the few seconds it takes me to answer, and surprisingly…they’re all of Liz. Or maybe it’s not so surprising. She once said that being with me made her feel…invincible. I remember laughing about it at the time, but now her words take on a whole new meaning. I know that somewhere out there, she’s watching me right now. And it’s like something inside of me just…calms. My focus sharpens and I’m a Superhero. I’m every Comic Book character ever written down, and I damn well know I can pull this off. There’s no question.
“Yeah, Coach,” I answer in a firm voice. “I’m ready.”
He eyes me a moment longer, then nods before turning to address the assistant coaches and trainers. When he turns back, he rebriefs me on the plays and gameplans, and then sends me off.
As the whistle is blown signalling the end of our timeout, I take to the field with the rest of the offense. I refuse to ponder my sweaty palms, my rapidly beating pulse. With an assured attitude, I relay the plan in the huddle, call for a break and line up behind the center.
“Blue 22,” I call out through the plastic of my helmet. “Hut, hut hut!” I hold my hands out, awaiting the snap. As soon as the ball lands in my hands, I fall back into the pocket as the players explode into motion. The linemen hold back the rushing defense as I scan the receivers. My receivers.
“You can do this, Evans,” I murmur to myself, spotting a purple, white and gold jersey to my left, open for the moment. Without giving myself time to think, I hurl the ball in a perfect arc into his hands. As soon as it hits his chest, he’s off, trotting across the grass as red jersies trail after him.
He’s brought down at the forty, marking a first down as the crowd erupts. I close my eyes, swallowing hard as we line up at the new mark. I set up to run the same play.
Another ten yards gained. Then five. Then three, but not enough to gain the much needed points to break ahead. As we leave the field for the special teams to punt, I tear off my helmet and take a sip of the proffered Gatorade thrust at me by one of the trainers.
“Good set, Evans,” Saban calls out, pacing the sidelines without looking at me. “Need some points up on the board.”
The next two possessions reap no consequence, despite my best efforts otherwise. I refuse to be disappointed, assuring myself that I’m doing just what my fellow quarterback told me to do. I’m playing the game, the best way I know how. The rest will come.
“How ya doing?” a voice calls out, and I look over to meet the gaze of the freshman I’d talked with in the shower. He’s sweaty and tousled as a result of coming in to replace one of the overworked linemen on offense. “Getting pretty intense out there.”
“Superman,” I mumble without thinking as he gives me a strange look.
“Superman?” he echoes.
“Nothing,” I grin to myself, tossing back the rest of the drink. “Just a little self-motivation.”
“Care to share?” he asks wryly. “Because we have less than five minutes to make something happen out there, or nobody’s taking home the damn title.”
“Could be worse,” I shrug my shoulders, although inside I’m ready for war. My nerves are stretched tight and ready to snap, but at the moment I manage to find some inner peace that’s holding me together. “We could be down a touchdown.”
“Don’t even say it,” he groans as we trot out to take our places for what’s possibly the last possession of the game. I make the audible directed at me, exchanging an intense glance with the center.
Snap. Pocket. Throw!
The receiver bolts forward, all but jumping over the diving defenders as he rushes for the first down mark. When he makes it, a whoosh of breath escapes my throat as the crowd cheers and the band plays a triumphant melody.
The next play, we’re brought down a yard short of making first down. The next pass is incomplete, stopping the clock at under a minute as sweat begins to pour down my back. This is it. I’ve got to somehow make something happen out here, something amazing.
Liz’s face swims into my vision, her smile as she gazes at me through those velvety brown eyes thick with love. Her lips part and she whispers, “Something amazing, Max.”
Superman.
I yell out to the center, wiggling my fingers as a strange energy courses through me. This is it. This moment…something amazing can happen. “Hut hut!”
As if in slow motion, the ball arcs between the center’s legs, coming up to land in my arms as I step backwards. I look left, right, desperately trying to ignore the flashes of red nearing my vision. I search for an open receiver, but red jersies are everywhere.
My hearing dims to the thick beat of my heart and I blink, sweat stinging my lids as my heavy breath echoes within my helmet. In a last ditch effort, I look all around. No one’s open.
I see Coach Saban jumping up and down on the sidelines, but I can’t hear his words. I can’t hear anything. I glance up at the clock. Forty-five seconds. We’re on the thirty yard-line.
The thought explodes in my mind in a whirlwind of realization, nearly making me stagger as I think, Of course. I tuck the ball to my chest, catching sight of an opening to my right. Inhaling sharply, I offer up a quick prayer before sprinting forward through the miniscule gap. The second the other team realizes my intent, they’re on top of me, breathing down my neck.
I’m steps ahead of the red wave, staring ahead as the endzone looms before me. The twenty. The ten. Ten more yards…
The feel of a shoulder clipping into my side causes me to stagger, a grunt spilling forth as I stumble over my feet. I hurl myself forward, feeling my balance fade as the earth comes up to meet me. I hit the ground with a thud, stretching as far as I can as the opposing player moves to finish the tackle.
The sound of the end of game horn blows at the exact second a collective inhalation goes up in the crowd. I force my gaze up from the ground, following my outstretched arms…to see the ball cradled in my hands, set down just after the white line.
The uniformed official raises his hands up in the touchdown symbol and the crowd explodes into a deafening cheer as arms begin pulling me up, hands slapping my butt and shouts being thrown in my face. I barely comprehend the jubilant expressions on my teammates faces as they rush the field. I’m lifted onto several shoulders and paraded around as the sound of the LSU fight song goes up in the air.
I swear I could feel the ground quake.
Reporters throw out questions, cameras flash as a tall, sandy-haired man approaches me with an outstretched hand. “Good game, son,” he yells over the roar. “I’d like to keep in touch with you, I believe we have an agreement for you to consider.”
I manage to nod, looking down at the card he presses into my hand. All I see is the name New Orleans Saints Athletic Department. “Oh God,” I mumble, feeling faint as I look back up to recognize my congratulator as a talent scout for the NFL.
“Evans! Max Evans!” a pretty female rushes forward, a crew of television cameras trailing her that bear the ESPN symbol. She reaches my side, a delighted expression on her face.
“Well, Mr. Evans,” the reporter exclaims loudly to be heard over the triumphant roar of the crowd. “Cindy Williams, ESPN Sports Network. You’ve just won your first Sugar Bowl… and will undoubtably have the draft of your choice. What do you plan to do next?” She thrusts the mike in my face, an expectant expression on her face.
I open my mouth to respond with the usual Disneyland quip. “I… I want…”
Cameras are flashing, the crowd is cheering, and my mind is spinning with so many emotions, I can barely recognize myself. But the most prominent one of all has me opening my mouth and blurting, “I want to marry Liz Parker!”
Just my luck, my microphone has been patched over the main speaker system, so the entire stadium is privy to my emotional outburst. The cheers trail off as people begin murmuring in confusion, but I can only stare at the television camera and the slightly puzzled expression on the blonde reporter’s face.
I imagine that I hear the vague shout of, “Go get her, Max!” that suspiciously sounds like Kyle’s voice, but I know it’s impossible over the thousands of fans packed inside the stadium. I imagine coming home every day to see Liz there waiting for me, that adoring smile on her face, making love with her every night. Dark-headed children running around.
Then a smile spreads across my face, and I let out a whoop, dropping my helmet to the ground and throwing my hands in the air. “I love you, Liz! Marry me!”
The scoreboard zooms in on my face, the words Marry Me, Liz! glowing beneath my profile as I stare into the cameras expectantly. I know if she’s watching, I’ll receive my answer soon.
So I wait.
~Max~
We won the SEC Championship against Georgia, though it turned out to be a lot closer than the media predicted. Thanks to the neck-and-neck scoring, I didn’t get a chance to set foot on the field, which was a bit disappointing considering Liz was there and I really wanted a chance to show off. But in the end, I’m just glad we won.
The drive back from the Georgia Dome was filled with raucous celebration as the announcement came over the radio on the bus. The LSU Tigers were going up against the Georgia Bulldogs yet again, in the Nokia Sugar Bowl. And this time, it would be on Louisiana soil.
“New Orleans, here we come baby!” my friend from the shower hollers, inciting a round of guffaws as one of the older teammates pulls his jersey over his head, leaving him tangled in pads and equipment.
“All right, all right,” Coach Saban laughs, shaking his head which is still damp from the traditional Gatorade bath. “Shut up and listen up! I don’t wanna see any of your ugly faces for the rest of the weekend. You guys earned it. Don’t let me get any phonecalls in the middle of the night to bail anyone outta jail, because I’m gonna be pissed and I’ll make every damn one of ya report to Charles McClendon Facility to run plays until the wee hours of the goddamned morning. I’ll see you all Monday for practice.”
We all let out a chorus of the fight song, pounding our hands on the backs of the leather seats as he holds the trophy over his head. The laughter continues on around me, but I can’t get the fact out of my mind that in a few hours I’ll be saying goodbye to Liz yet again. After holding her in my arms at night for the past week, I know it’s going to be bad to watch her get back on that plane.
When we reach the university later that night, all the exhilaration over winning has been replaced by sagging fatigue and the wish for a soft bed. After exchanging some words with the other QB, I sling my pack over my shoulder and walk across the parking lot to where the jeep is waiting. Fumbling in my pockets for the keys, I nearly crack my jaw on a wide yawn.
Once behind the wheel I pull out my cell and dial the apartment, hoping to hear Liz’s voice, knowing she left before the team did. Sure enough, a sleepy voice picks up on the other line. “Max?”
“Hey baby,” I murmur, shifting into drive as I hold the phone to my ear. “We just got in, so I’ll be home in a few minutes, okay?” As soon as the words come out of my mouth, a strange sense of perfection washes over me. Home. It feels so fucking amazing to call her and say I’ll be home soon.
Before I can fully contemplate this startling revelation and the thoughts it induces, she answers, “You don’t have to…debrief or something?”
I have to chuckle at her obvious ignorance of football procedure. “We won a game, baby. Not a war. There’s nothing to debrief.”
“Looked like a war from where I was sitting,” she humphs. “That was really…intense, Max. Is it always like that?”
“Only when you take two really closely matched teams and throw them together for a major title,” I answer wryly. “And yeah…it was intense, huh? I honestly didn’t know if we’d pull it off.”
“I never doubted you for a minute,” she says loyally.
“Baby, I didn’t even play,” I feel inclined to point out, even though a sappy smile stretches across my face at her comment. “I was the token bench warmer.”
“You were not!” she gasps vehemently. “You’re just as important as the rest of those guys! Plus, you’re ten times better.”
“Whoa, remind me not to insult myself ever again,” I tease. “I wouldn’t want to piss off my pretty little bodyguard. She’s kinda scary.”
“Har har,” she grumbles. “So…”
“So…” I sigh. “You packed up? Everything ready to go in the morning?”
“You sound so eager to get rid of me,” she pouts in a small voice.
“No way,” I say instantly. “You know that’s not true, baby…it’s going to kill me to see you get on that plane, knowing you’re still going to be in the country and I won’t be able to see you.”
The silence on the other end lets me know she’s busy contemplating something, and sure enough a few seconds later she says softly, “Maybe I could stay a few more days…?”
I sigh, squeezing the steering wheel tightly. “I want you to more than anything,” I answer gruffly. “But it’s not fair to everyone else, Liz. Your family misses you, too. I…I can’t…”
“I know,” she sighs. “I know, I just…”
“I know.”
Another moment of silence, before she says in an overly bright tone, “Well, we still have tonight.” Her voice is teasing and seductive, and exactly what I need to drive away the melancholy feelings creeping in.
“I’m pulling into the parking lot now,” I answer huskily. “How about you meet me at the door…wearing nothing but a pretty smile?”
“Deal,” she giggles breathlessly. I snap the phone off and jump out of the jeep, bounding up the steps with an eager expression on my face. The second my hand falls on the doorknob, it’s wrenched open and an arm yanks me through the opening, soft lips pressing firmly against my own.
I stumble against Liz, turning her around and shoving her up against the door as my hands grip her bare bottom. “Hi,” I manage between scorching kisses as her small hands begin tearing at my clothes. “Whoa…baby, I’m all sweaty.”
“You’re all sexy,” she purrs. “And I want you, right now.”
I’m not about to argue as she pulls my shirt over my head and latches onto my zipper. My hands fall to her shoulders, stepping out of the shorts as she shoves them down my legs. My underwear follows and then she’s in my arms, shapely legs wrapping around my waist as our mouths meet again.
“Bedroom,” she whispers between kisses. “Hurry, Max!”
When we collapse onto my bed minutes later, I catch her hand as it slides down to circle my cock. “Wait,” I manage thickly. “Liz…slow down.”
“No,” she whimpers, her hands coming up to shove me back as she crawls on top of me. “I don’t want to take it slow. I want it hard…” she leans down and nips my lower lip, positioning herself to sink down on me. “I want it fast…and I want it now.”
“Liz…” I trail off on a long groan as she closes around me, her hips grinding as my eyes nearly cross. My hands come up to clench around her hips. “Oh, fuck!”
She bows her back, letting out an entirely feminine sound of pleasure as her hands slide up my slick chest. “Mmm…” she purrs, looking back down at me through darkened eyes as her palms glide up my shoulders then down my arms. Linking our fingers together, she brings them up to her breasts. “Touch me,” she whispers.
I don’t have to be told twice, my thumbs circling her distended nipples and tugging gently as she gasps in response. She stills, arching into my touch. “Ride me,” I rasp, lifting my hips and spurring her back into action.
And boy, does she. Within minutes, we’re both crying out in orgasmic completion, Liz collapsing against my chest as I bury my fingers in her hair, dragging her lips to mine.
As we lie there tangled together, she whispers into my neck, “When I transfer here…will we live together?”
The question takes me by surprise, not that she asked it but that she felt the need to. “Was there somewhere else you planned on living?” I answer a tad gruffly, lifting her head to meet my gaze. She nibbles her lips, an uncertain gleam in her eyes. I groan, pulling her down to rest against my forehead. “Baby…talking about this isn’t going to make it any easier to watch you leave me again.”
“I’m sorry…” she whispers, nuzzling my throat. “How is it that I miss you, when I’m right here with you?”
I’m not sure how to reply to those words, other than, “I know.” My arms wrap snugly around her, pulling her against my side as I move to spoon her. The sound of the celing fan whirs over our head, drying the sweat on our bodies as we both lie there in silence.
<center>***</center>
“Are you gonna stay at the hotel with us?” Cam’s eager voice sounds over the phone as I continue throwing clothes into a small duffle bag. “It’s owned by that girl on TV’s family. You know, the one Dad says is a total slut?”
“The Hilton?” I laugh, shaking my head. “And yeah, I’m gonna stay with you guys.”
A loud whoop sounds over the line and I hear him eagerly reporting my answer to whoever’s there with him. Then he yells, “This is so sweet! I hear that place you’re gonna play is like, humongous! I could get lost!”
I raise my brows at his excited tone, but decide not to ask. “Yeah, The Louisiana Superdome’s pretty big,” I confirm. “Different from Tiger Stadium.”
“I read that they call Tiger Stadium Death Valley. What’s up with that?” he asks in a hushed tone. “Did someone die there? Is it haunted?”
I chuckle at his youthful enthusiasm. “Not quite, pal. It’s because back during a game in the eighties against Auburn, an LSU quarterback threw a game-winning touchdown pass and the crowd reaction caused an earth tremor. They had it on record with a seismograph and everything. That’s like a scale that measures earthquakes.”
“Wow…” he breathes. “They yelled so loud it made an earthquake?”
“Pretty much,” I confirm, feeling my skin begin to tingle in excitement as I retell the infamous tale. “Crazy, huh?”
“Dude, maybe you can make it happen in New Orleans,” he answers excitedly.
“Cam, I doubt I’ll play,” I hate to tear down his obvious elation at the thought of his cousin causing an earthquake, but I can’t help but feel the need to let him down gently. “I’m not the starting quarterback, which means they’ll only call me in if something happens…or if there’s no chance of us losing.”
As if he never heard me, he continues on with, “I overheard Dad and Uncle Phillip talking about how there’s gonna be all these television cameras and junk there. People looking for new NFL players. Are you nervous?”
Am I nervous? I’m about to attend my very first Sugar Bowl, which is one of the most prestigious titles in college football aside from the National Championship. Hell yeah, I’m nervous…even though I’ll most likely end up cheering from the bench. But I simply say, “Nah, it’ll be fun.”
Obviously awed by my nonchalance, although he could never know how much it cost me, he goes, “Wow. All those people looking at ya and stuff…I think I’d throw up.”
The wisdom of youth. “You’d probably start doing cartwheels in front of the cameras,” I state wryly, looking over my shoulder for my sandals. Changing subjects I ask, “So how’s Liz?”
He leaps upon the new topic with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. “Dude, it’s so cool! She’s been hanging out with me all the time. We went to see Shrek the other day…”
As he keeps talking, I begin to realize just how pathetic I am when I’m jealous of an eleven-year-old. Plastering a smile on my face, I break into his lengthy monologue by saying, “How’s Channon?”
Instant silence. Then he says a bit defensively, “How should I know?”
Smirking, I return to folding my clothes. “Yeah, right. So I guess you haven’t told her you want to give her a big wet kiss?” I joke, laughing as he makes sputtering sounds into the phone.
“Dude, you’re gross!”
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” I tease. “Okay, kid…I gotta finish packing and call Liz. I’ll see you guys this weekend, okay?”
“Okay,” he grumbles.
We hang up, and I’m preparing to dial Liz’s number when my phone starts ringing in my hand. Expecting it to be Cameron with some last minute request, I answer with a playful, “Get lost, squirt.”
“Excuse me?” Tess demands. “I know you didn’t just call me squirt, Max Evans.”
“Sorry, I thought you were Cam,” I roll my eyes. “What’s up?”
“Why don’t you come and see for yourself?” she says mysteriously, then lets out a muffled shriek. I hear her cover the phone and say something, but I can’t make out the words. “Max, get your ass over here!”
“I’m packing,” I point out. “You should be, too. I know you, Tess. You’re as big a procrastinater as I am.”
“For your information, I’m packed and ready to go,” she returns prudishly. “Now, get your tight butt over here, Max!”
I hear a cry of affront in the background and raise a brow in curiosity. “Who’s over there?” I wonder, dropping a pair of shorts into my bag. “Tess?”
“Be here or be square, Evans,” is all she says before I hear the dial tone. Unable to douse my curiosity, I shrug and put the rest of my packing off in order to drive across campus.
As I jog up the stairs leading to Tess’s apartment, the strangest feeling of expectation lingers in my belly. I let myself in with the spare key we exchanged, and sure enough, find myself staring into three pairs of grinning eyes.
“Look at the big football star,” Michael chuckles, walking across the room and looping an arm around me. “Surprised to see us, Maxwell?”
“Hell yes,” I manage, hugging my best friend as we all laugh. “What the fuck are you guys doing here?” I demand, turning towards Kyle. “I…I thought you were in Roswell.”
“We couldn’t miss this,” Kyle points out with a snort. “You’re going to the fucking Sugar Bowl, Max. We’re there all the way.”
“Yeah,” Michael agrees, rocking back on his heels and meeting my gaze. “We already made reservations at the Hilton and everything. Our bags are in the corner, we’re along for this ride, Maxwell.”
“Max, say something,” Tess laughs.
“I’m not sure what to say,” I admit, vaguely embarrassed to know that I’m pretty damn moved by their presence here. “Damn guys…this is…this is awesome of you.”
Kyle leans forward to regard Michael. “The dumbass really is surprised to see us, Mike. He must think we’re a couple of shitty friends.”
“He’s just overwhelmed by your powerful scent, Valenti,” Michael returns with an exaggerated sniff. “Mr. Way Too Much Cologne Wearer.”
“Suck my dick, man.”
I laugh at the familiar repartee. “Shit, it really is good to see you guys again. It’s been…what…two months since we were all together?”
“Three,” they both answer at the same time, then flush slightly. “Not that I was counting or anything,” Kyle adds quickly while Tess giggles.
“Well, I’m really glad you guys came,” I state sincerely. “It…it means a lot knowing you’re gonna be there.”
There’s a moment of awkward silence as we all deal with the emotion of the moment, then Michael grins and says, “Don’t you make me cry, Maxwell.”
“Definitely a Hallmark moment,” Kyle sniffles, then receives a slap upside the head from Tess. “Damn woman? Don’t you ever quit?”
<center>***</center>
Two days later, I’m standing against a locker, my heart in my throat as I listen to the coach give us the traditional pregame sermon. The air around me is thick with nervous excitement and tension as we all bow our heads during the prayer.
I recall seeing the assembly of media vans outside the Louisiana Superdome, along with the typical crowd of tailgaters and fans. Suddenly, Cam’s words about throwing up don’t seem so amusing. I allow myself a moment of thanks that I won’t be the one in the spotlight, at least this time.
“Amen,” Saban’s voice rings out, and a chorus of echoes sound. Then everything explodes into motion as the warning bell for the opening kick off sounds and we all start out of the room in a line. The sound of the crowd reaches my ears, a deafening roar that’s audible even through the layers of concrete between us and the stadium.
I think of my family and friends out there watching, waiting. Of Liz and the rest of the gang back home watching, waiting. And the butterflies intensify. My feelings must be written all over my face, because the senior quarterback stops me just outside of the arched opening, a concerned expression on his face.
“You all right, Evans?”
“Yeah,” I nod my head, fighting the sickness rising. “I’m just…overwhelmed, I guess.”
He nods at my honesty, clapping my shoulder and leaning forward. “It’s just us out there, man. Forget all the cameras and bullshit. It’s us and the other team. Play the game the way you were born to do.”
I want to ask him why he’s bothering to tell me all this, seeing as how he’s the one who should be worrying. Then I realize he’s simply preparing me for the games to come. The times when I’ll be the one out there, carrying my team on my shoulders.
“Thanks,” I answer sincerely, and pull on my helmet and mouthpiece. “Good luck.”
“Who needs luck?” he grins, then shoves me forward and out into the brightly lit stadium where thousands of fans are cheering. Even though I know it’s not for me, my ego can’t help but receive a burst as I trot over to the sidelines with the rest of the team.
We win the coin toss, choosing to defer to the second half. I watch as the special teams set up for the kickoff to Georgia. The drive is long and caught somewhere down at the thirty, where a Bulldog runs it into the forty before being taken down.
As the defense prepares to take to the field, I search the crowds of people wearing purple and gold, even though I know I’ll never be able to make out my family and friends. Just knowing they’re out there brings a grin to my face.
I turn back in time to see a quick-footed receiver catch the pass and run it in for a first down. A loud groan goes up from the LSU fans as the players line up for the next play. Nothing comes from the next two plays, and Georgia is forced to punt.
By the end of the first half, we’re down one touchdown and the freak heatwave that has risen from the Bayou has even the most seasoned Louisiana natives sweating profusely in the muggy evening. As we leave the field for the halftime break, the Tiger Band erupts into a spirited rendition of “Fight For LSU”.
During the length of the halftime period, we listen as the coaches explain whatever changes they’re implementing into the next half. New plays are mapped out, fresh players are brought in, and I’m…still warming the bench. Not surprising, since at the moment we need our best and that’s the other guy.
The third quarter starts and we manage to even the score on the first possession thanks to a miscommunication between the Georgia QB and his wide receiver, resulting in an intercepting touchdown. The stadium explodes in cheers and groans as the cheerleaders egg the fans on.
Neither team puts any more points on the board until the five minute mark, when something truly horrible happens. I watch our QB set up for a passing play, when somehow a defender breaks through the offensive line and sacks him with all the force of a mack truck into a bicycle.
A loud gasp goes up as he falls to the ground, one leg bending at an awkward angle. I can practically hear the snap as bone breaks and the expression of sharp pain that crosses beneath his helmet.
“Shit, get the medics out there,” Coach Saban’s severe tone sounds, and the rest of the team watches in sheer horror as the doctors rush the field, huddling around the injured player. It’s almost deathly quiet in the stadium as everyone wonders about the outcome of the tackle.
My own heart threatens to stop beating as realization dawns. If something is wrong…I’m up. I’m going to fucking be called on to play in the Sugar Bowl, after participating in a handful of games throughout the season.
Throwing up is a distinct possibility.
To no one’s surprise but everyone’s dismay, a stretcher is called for as the medics lift our senior QB off the field and roll him off to take care of the injuries. My ears ringing, I barely hear the Coach calling for a timeout before my name is snapped.
“Evans, get over here.”
I manage to make my feet move forward even though everything seems to be moving at a fast pace. I’m half-afraid I might pass out at Nick Saban’s feet as he pierces me with an intense gaze.
“You’re in, Max,” he says in a surprisingly gentle tone that contradicts the expression on his face. The fact that he uses my first name…that he even knows it is enough of a blow, but then he adds, “It’s up to you, kid. Can you handle it?”
A million thoughts race through my mind in the few seconds it takes me to answer, and surprisingly…they’re all of Liz. Or maybe it’s not so surprising. She once said that being with me made her feel…invincible. I remember laughing about it at the time, but now her words take on a whole new meaning. I know that somewhere out there, she’s watching me right now. And it’s like something inside of me just…calms. My focus sharpens and I’m a Superhero. I’m every Comic Book character ever written down, and I damn well know I can pull this off. There’s no question.
“Yeah, Coach,” I answer in a firm voice. “I’m ready.”
He eyes me a moment longer, then nods before turning to address the assistant coaches and trainers. When he turns back, he rebriefs me on the plays and gameplans, and then sends me off.
As the whistle is blown signalling the end of our timeout, I take to the field with the rest of the offense. I refuse to ponder my sweaty palms, my rapidly beating pulse. With an assured attitude, I relay the plan in the huddle, call for a break and line up behind the center.
“Blue 22,” I call out through the plastic of my helmet. “Hut, hut hut!” I hold my hands out, awaiting the snap. As soon as the ball lands in my hands, I fall back into the pocket as the players explode into motion. The linemen hold back the rushing defense as I scan the receivers. My receivers.
“You can do this, Evans,” I murmur to myself, spotting a purple, white and gold jersey to my left, open for the moment. Without giving myself time to think, I hurl the ball in a perfect arc into his hands. As soon as it hits his chest, he’s off, trotting across the grass as red jersies trail after him.
He’s brought down at the forty, marking a first down as the crowd erupts. I close my eyes, swallowing hard as we line up at the new mark. I set up to run the same play.
Another ten yards gained. Then five. Then three, but not enough to gain the much needed points to break ahead. As we leave the field for the special teams to punt, I tear off my helmet and take a sip of the proffered Gatorade thrust at me by one of the trainers.
“Good set, Evans,” Saban calls out, pacing the sidelines without looking at me. “Need some points up on the board.”
The next two possessions reap no consequence, despite my best efforts otherwise. I refuse to be disappointed, assuring myself that I’m doing just what my fellow quarterback told me to do. I’m playing the game, the best way I know how. The rest will come.
“How ya doing?” a voice calls out, and I look over to meet the gaze of the freshman I’d talked with in the shower. He’s sweaty and tousled as a result of coming in to replace one of the overworked linemen on offense. “Getting pretty intense out there.”
“Superman,” I mumble without thinking as he gives me a strange look.
“Superman?” he echoes.
“Nothing,” I grin to myself, tossing back the rest of the drink. “Just a little self-motivation.”
“Care to share?” he asks wryly. “Because we have less than five minutes to make something happen out there, or nobody’s taking home the damn title.”
“Could be worse,” I shrug my shoulders, although inside I’m ready for war. My nerves are stretched tight and ready to snap, but at the moment I manage to find some inner peace that’s holding me together. “We could be down a touchdown.”
“Don’t even say it,” he groans as we trot out to take our places for what’s possibly the last possession of the game. I make the audible directed at me, exchanging an intense glance with the center.
Snap. Pocket. Throw!
The receiver bolts forward, all but jumping over the diving defenders as he rushes for the first down mark. When he makes it, a whoosh of breath escapes my throat as the crowd cheers and the band plays a triumphant melody.
The next play, we’re brought down a yard short of making first down. The next pass is incomplete, stopping the clock at under a minute as sweat begins to pour down my back. This is it. I’ve got to somehow make something happen out here, something amazing.
Liz’s face swims into my vision, her smile as she gazes at me through those velvety brown eyes thick with love. Her lips part and she whispers, “Something amazing, Max.”
Superman.
I yell out to the center, wiggling my fingers as a strange energy courses through me. This is it. This moment…something amazing can happen. “Hut hut!”
As if in slow motion, the ball arcs between the center’s legs, coming up to land in my arms as I step backwards. I look left, right, desperately trying to ignore the flashes of red nearing my vision. I search for an open receiver, but red jersies are everywhere.
My hearing dims to the thick beat of my heart and I blink, sweat stinging my lids as my heavy breath echoes within my helmet. In a last ditch effort, I look all around. No one’s open.
I see Coach Saban jumping up and down on the sidelines, but I can’t hear his words. I can’t hear anything. I glance up at the clock. Forty-five seconds. We’re on the thirty yard-line.
The thought explodes in my mind in a whirlwind of realization, nearly making me stagger as I think, Of course. I tuck the ball to my chest, catching sight of an opening to my right. Inhaling sharply, I offer up a quick prayer before sprinting forward through the miniscule gap. The second the other team realizes my intent, they’re on top of me, breathing down my neck.
I’m steps ahead of the red wave, staring ahead as the endzone looms before me. The twenty. The ten. Ten more yards…
The feel of a shoulder clipping into my side causes me to stagger, a grunt spilling forth as I stumble over my feet. I hurl myself forward, feeling my balance fade as the earth comes up to meet me. I hit the ground with a thud, stretching as far as I can as the opposing player moves to finish the tackle.
The sound of the end of game horn blows at the exact second a collective inhalation goes up in the crowd. I force my gaze up from the ground, following my outstretched arms…to see the ball cradled in my hands, set down just after the white line.
The uniformed official raises his hands up in the touchdown symbol and the crowd explodes into a deafening cheer as arms begin pulling me up, hands slapping my butt and shouts being thrown in my face. I barely comprehend the jubilant expressions on my teammates faces as they rush the field. I’m lifted onto several shoulders and paraded around as the sound of the LSU fight song goes up in the air.
I swear I could feel the ground quake.
Reporters throw out questions, cameras flash as a tall, sandy-haired man approaches me with an outstretched hand. “Good game, son,” he yells over the roar. “I’d like to keep in touch with you, I believe we have an agreement for you to consider.”
I manage to nod, looking down at the card he presses into my hand. All I see is the name New Orleans Saints Athletic Department. “Oh God,” I mumble, feeling faint as I look back up to recognize my congratulator as a talent scout for the NFL.
“Evans! Max Evans!” a pretty female rushes forward, a crew of television cameras trailing her that bear the ESPN symbol. She reaches my side, a delighted expression on her face.
“Well, Mr. Evans,” the reporter exclaims loudly to be heard over the triumphant roar of the crowd. “Cindy Williams, ESPN Sports Network. You’ve just won your first Sugar Bowl… and will undoubtably have the draft of your choice. What do you plan to do next?” She thrusts the mike in my face, an expectant expression on her face.
I open my mouth to respond with the usual Disneyland quip. “I… I want…”
Cameras are flashing, the crowd is cheering, and my mind is spinning with so many emotions, I can barely recognize myself. But the most prominent one of all has me opening my mouth and blurting, “I want to marry Liz Parker!”
Just my luck, my microphone has been patched over the main speaker system, so the entire stadium is privy to my emotional outburst. The cheers trail off as people begin murmuring in confusion, but I can only stare at the television camera and the slightly puzzled expression on the blonde reporter’s face.
I imagine that I hear the vague shout of, “Go get her, Max!” that suspiciously sounds like Kyle’s voice, but I know it’s impossible over the thousands of fans packed inside the stadium. I imagine coming home every day to see Liz there waiting for me, that adoring smile on her face, making love with her every night. Dark-headed children running around.
Then a smile spreads across my face, and I let out a whoop, dropping my helmet to the ground and throwing my hands in the air. “I love you, Liz! Marry me!”
The scoreboard zooms in on my face, the words Marry Me, Liz! glowing beneath my profile as I stare into the cameras expectantly. I know if she’s watching, I’ll receive my answer soon.
So I wait.
