Read Online False Start (Eastshore Tigers Book 2) by Alison Hendricks - Free Book Online
Authors: Alison Hendricks
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never expected to see so many people here.
Sure, I knew Eastshore had a decent following. This town has sprung up around the existence of the college, and especially its athletics program. But I didn’t expect the first game of the season to be completely packed to the point where the thick cement walls of the locker room vibrate with the noise from the crowd.
It’s trippy, and as I stand with the other guys for a pre-game huddle in the locker room, I can’t help but feel a burst of nervous, excited energy. It threads through me, making my heart beat that much faster, making my hands a little slick in my gloves, and giving me no recourse but to shift my weight from foot to foot to get rid of some of that energy.
I can’t focus on anything else, even if there’s a big part of me that still feels like an imposter. Mills is suited up as second string, at least. He just looks like any of the other starting guys. Right now, he isn’t riding a bench, so it’s easy for me to fool myself.
When we make our way into the tunnel, I can hear—and feel, yet again—the crowd and the music coming from the marching band’s pit. It rattles through my bones, thrumming down deep in time with my heartbeat. Hairs stand up on the back of my neck, gooseflesh prickles across my arms. I start to rock a little on the balls of my feet because that energy just isn’t going away.
“You ready for this?” Trent asks, clapping me on the shoulder.
I hope so.
“Hell yeah.”
The announcer calls us in, and we jog onto the field. The stadium erupts with noise. There must be thousands of people shouting and hollering and stamping their feet. The stands are awash with Eastshore blue, swallowing little pockets of Alabama red. From down here, I can’t tell if the onlookers are on their feet, or if they just seem that way. A glance at the big screen doesn’t reveal them, though. It pans over us.
I see myself, number 34, and that nervous energy coils into a tight ball before finally exploding. A tremble snakes through me. This is it. This is what it’s like to play college ball. It’s not just a few hundred people watching. It’s not just a sports journalist managing to snap a couple pictures of you.
Right now, it feels like everyone is watching.
Maybe some of my old teammates are in the stands. A couple of them might have made the trek, though I know that’s as unlikely as it is egotistical. But they could be watching on TV, at home or in a bar somewhere. Lydia’s probably watching. She’d find a way to watch, even if she had to stream it on her tablet.
As the national anthem is sung by an Eastshore student, I start to think that maybe even my dad could be watching.
We lose the kick-off, and I’m absolutely ecstatic. I’m put in on the very first play. I stand in my spot in a half-crouch, the tips of my gloved fingers just skimming the freshly mowed grass.
This close, I can hear the QB’s rough voice as he calls the play. I can hear the barks of his offense as they answer him. I can hear our line, taunting theirs. And behind it all, the backbeat of the stadium creates an endless parade of sound bouncing around my helmet.
It’s almost overwhelming, and it takes me a moment to get my bearings and focus on the play.
The ball is snapped, and I run my pattern. I see a hole open up in the left side of the line; the hole the running back is undoubtedly going to vault through. I put on a burst of speed and charge for it, but I’m met by a solid wall of muscle as one of the offensive linemen stops me. He doesn’t hold me—not enough to draw a penalty, anyway—just manages to lock his mass with mine, grinding my momentum to a standstill.
I get a hand on the running back and try to use that to strip the ball, but he tucks it closer. It’s only because of a dive tackle that he’s brought down, but that’s after he gains a few yards.
All right. I can’t stop every drive. I know that. I roll my shoulders and jog to the new line of
Sure, I knew Eastshore had a decent following. This town has sprung up around the existence of the college, and especially its athletics program. But I didn’t expect the first game of the season to be completely packed to the point where the thick cement walls of the locker room vibrate with the noise from the crowd.
It’s trippy, and as I stand with the other guys for a pre-game huddle in the locker room, I can’t help but feel a burst of nervous, excited energy. It threads through me, making my heart beat that much faster, making my hands a little slick in my gloves, and giving me no recourse but to shift my weight from foot to foot to get rid of some of that energy.
I can’t focus on anything else, even if there’s a big part of me that still feels like an imposter. Mills is suited up as second string, at least. He just looks like any of the other starting guys. Right now, he isn’t riding a bench, so it’s easy for me to fool myself.
When we make our way into the tunnel, I can hear—and feel, yet again—the crowd and the music coming from the marching band’s pit. It rattles through my bones, thrumming down deep in time with my heartbeat. Hairs stand up on the back of my neck, gooseflesh prickles across my arms. I start to rock a little on the balls of my feet because that energy just isn’t going away.
“You ready for this?” Trent asks, clapping me on the shoulder.
I hope so.
“Hell yeah.”
The announcer calls us in, and we jog onto the field. The stadium erupts with noise. There must be thousands of people shouting and hollering and stamping their feet. The stands are awash with Eastshore blue, swallowing little pockets of Alabama red. From down here, I can’t tell if the onlookers are on their feet, or if they just seem that way. A glance at the big screen doesn’t reveal them, though. It pans over us.
I see myself, number 34, and that nervous energy coils into a tight ball before finally exploding. A tremble snakes through me. This is it. This is what it’s like to play college ball. It’s not just a few hundred people watching. It’s not just a sports journalist managing to snap a couple pictures of you.
Right now, it feels like everyone is watching.
Maybe some of my old teammates are in the stands. A couple of them might have made the trek, though I know that’s as unlikely as it is egotistical. But they could be watching on TV, at home or in a bar somewhere. Lydia’s probably watching. She’d find a way to watch, even if she had to stream it on her tablet.
As the national anthem is sung by an Eastshore student, I start to think that maybe even my dad could be watching.
We lose the kick-off, and I’m absolutely ecstatic. I’m put in on the very first play. I stand in my spot in a half-crouch, the tips of my gloved fingers just skimming the freshly mowed grass.
This close, I can hear the QB’s rough voice as he calls the play. I can hear the barks of his offense as they answer him. I can hear our line, taunting theirs. And behind it all, the backbeat of the stadium creates an endless parade of sound bouncing around my helmet.
It’s almost overwhelming, and it takes me a moment to get my bearings and focus on the play.
The ball is snapped, and I run my pattern. I see a hole open up in the left side of the line; the hole the running back is undoubtedly going to vault through. I put on a burst of speed and charge for it, but I’m met by a solid wall of muscle as one of the offensive linemen stops me. He doesn’t hold me—not enough to draw a penalty, anyway—just manages to lock his mass with mine, grinding my momentum to a standstill.
I get a hand on the running back and try to use that to strip the ball, but he tucks it closer. It’s only because of a dive tackle that he’s brought down, but that’s after he gains a few yards.
All right. I can’t stop every drive. I know that. I roll my shoulders and jog to the new line of
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