17. Hannah: Thursday

SEVENTEEN

HANNAH – THURSDAY

Holy. Shit.

I rub my palms against my thighs.

I knew college football was a thing. Like a big thing. But I still wasn't prepared.

The crowd around is screaming . The game hasn't even started, yet they've been screaming since the teams ran into the stadium in a blur of band music and cheerleaders.

What in the hell did I get myself into?

A guy next to me jumps into the air, startling me, and I press my hands against my stomach.

Why am I so nervous?

The starting players run out onto the field, and my stomach does another somersault.

I don't know why I'm pretending to myself. I'm nervous because I'm here to watch Maddox play.

Maddox, the sandwich-sharing defensive tackle who has lifted me— twice— like I weigh nothing. The man who seems to be built from stone but who I don't want to watch get hurt.

I force myself to take a slow breath through my nose.

I know the most basic of basics when it comes to football. I know a touchdown is six points. And I'm fairly certain it's called a field goal when they kick it through the post things. But I also know it's dangerous. And violent. And… I press my hands harder against my stomach.

Breathe.

A girl a few rows ahead of me, dressed in blue and black like the rest of the crowd, holds a sign high above her head. The back is blank, but after she bounces a few times, she turns around so the sign faces the rest of the student section.

HOP ON

Mad Dog

#99

It takes focus not to scowl at her sign.

Does she have a history with Maddox? Or is she just trying to do a play on words?

I drag my eyes away from the sign and look at the girl again.

She looks… familiar.

Was she a part of the crowd Maddox was standing with that first time I saw him?

Dozens of people start chanting Mad Dog , and I suddenly feel even more out of place than I did before.

I might not admit it out loud, but that girl's sign fills me with jealousy.

I have no right to feel that way. He's not mine. And even if he were, there's nothing wrong with classmates, or fans, holding up signs.

I'm happy Maddox has so many people cheering him on.

Inhaling through my nose again, I try to calm my nerves.

The student section, where I'm seated— in name only, since everyone is standing— is filled with tangible energy. While I soak it in, I focus on the important information from the sign. Maddox is number ninety-nine.

The home bench is across the field from where I am, and with helmets and all the padding the players wear, I couldn't tell which one was Maddox.

I mean, I assume he's the biggest guy on the team, but that's just an assumption. And now I can focus on looking for his number.

A whistle blows, and the HOP U team moves as one.

The guy in the center kicks the football, and the team sprints down the field.

Students are jumping around, blocking my view, making it hard for me to see the players, let alone read their jerseys.

The other team catches it, and then they're all running toward each other.

I feel sick.

One of our players tackles the guy with the ball, and a whistle is blown.

Just breathe, Hannah.

I spent some of my shift today looking up football terms and rules, but I'm still so lost.

Someone in the ridiculous HOP U mascot costume runs down the sideline in front of us, a giant school flag in his hands. Why our mascot is a panda, I'm sure I'll never know.

The students hoot and holler at the woodland creature, but I keep my attention on the field.

I squint, trying to read the numbers as the team huddles together. I'm about to turn my attention to the guys standing on the side of the field, because maybe Maddox isn't playing right now, but then the huddle breaks. And I see it.

Him .

Even at a distance, he's intimidating.

The teams line up facing each other. Maddox is right in the middle of everything, staring into a sea of opposing players decked out in green.

My adrenaline kicks into overdrive.

I don't like this.

A guy in green hikes the ball.

Both lines move.

Maddox crashes into an opposing player nearly as big as he is.

I really don't like this.

They shove at each other.

Maddox breaks free.

The quarterback throws the ball.

Maddox changes direction.

The ball is caught.

Another whistle blows.

My shoulders sag, and I pull the front of my bright white tank top away from my body, trying to get some air.

I don't know how people watch their loved ones play this game.

Not that Maddox is my loved one.

I barely know him.

Once again, the teams line up.

How long are these games?

My eyes lock on to Maddox's extra-large frame.

The crowd is still standing. People are still screaming.

They can't keep this up the entire game, right?

Except they do.