1. Tatum

Tatum

Chapter one

It's the most anticipated game of the season; a rivalry game that I'm certain my team will win.

Kickoff is minutes away and yet I'm still standing in the corridors of the stadium waiting for my date to show up. But despite my attempted four calls and seven text messages, I've received no response that he's actually even on his way.

Fans with face paint pass me by, some with Panthers jerseys or player's numbers on their shirts. Meanwhile, here I stand in my blue jeans and my oversized Brees jersey—even though he's not the current quarterback of the Saints, he always was my favorite. I tied my ringlet curls on the top of my head, accented with gold ribbons to complete my look.

I get hit on by a couple of guys wearing blue and white paint streaked across their chest, beer sloshing out of their cups. Other Panthers' fans boo at me as they walk past me into the seating area. I check my phone again in an attempt to ignore the sea of people still getting their drinks and hotdogs. My date is nowhere to be found, I don't even know if he's made it to the stadium yet or not.

Suddenly, an echo of cheers roars the stadium to life.

"Shit," I whisper to myself as I tuck my phone back into my clear bag and make my way to my seat. I missed kickoff. And it's all thanks to being stood up.

I walk down the steps, already littered with popcorn as I find my seat. I have stadium level endzone seats. Right behind the goal post. My dad has season tickets that come with some of the best seats in the house. I asked him if I could have this week's tickets because I thought it would be a good way to impress a boy who claimed he was a big football fan, but then where the hell is he at?

Maybe this was a bad idea for a first date. Maybe it was intimidating to him. Maybe I'm not his type.

Or maybe he's just an asshole who never intended to go on this date with you. Fuck him.

The text message from my best friend reads, her response to my message earlier telling her that my date—Paul is his name—never showed up.

She's right though. Regardless of the reason, the fact that he never communicated to me one way or the other is proof that he didn't care to make this date a priority. Men. This is the reason I never initiate shit. But after being called shallow and inconsiderate by my last boyfriend, I figured this would be a good change of pace…for the girl to come up with the date idea.

I decide to put the thoughts away in the back of my head while I focus on the game, which is already seven to zero and only two minutes left in the first quarter—that flew by fast.

***

It's the end of the fourth quarter, the score is twenty-six to twenty-nine. The Saints have the lead, but the Panthers have the ball and there's twelve seconds left in the game and they're going for a field goal at the twenty-one yard line. A field goal will tie them, and the game would go into overtime.

I love this feeling. The adrenaline rush that comes with the fight before the end, especially when the score is so close and literally anything can happen.

The team lines up along the line of scrimmage except for the kicker and the holder. Everyone is on their feet in anticipation. Obviously, the Panthers' fans are cheering, and the Saints' fans are booing. I'm doing neither, just standing with my hands held tight at my chest hoping we can stop them from scoring this field goal.

The time clock runs down, and the snapper snaps the ball, tossing it back to the…

Wait a second, it's a fake! I bite my lip and hold my breath, waiting for the tackle that never comes. The ball was snapped directly to the kicker who drops back and looks to throw the ball. One of the offensive tackles of the Panthers sneaks through an opening straight into the end zone and waits for the ball to fly from the kicker's hand. The throw was not so bad, and the catch is good as he reaches above his head to grab the ball and brings it into his chest right as his two feet land flawlessly in the end zone. Number thirty-one. That was a hell of a catch.

Half of the stadium erupts into applause and cheers. Panthers' fans jump up from their seats and turn to make faces at Saints' fans.

I find myself in awe of the play, I can appreciate football for what it is, and I know a good score when I see one. But as I listen to the sea of boos scatter around the Saints stadium, I remember that this means we lost.

Well, that blows.

But regardless, I enjoyed the game. Football has always been in my blood. I love the highs and lows. But the lows feel especially shitty when you're wallowing in them alone.

Just then, as some of the fans start to settle down from booing, I hear my phone ding in my purse. I look down for three seconds to pull it out and a bunch of people start cheering and one shouts, "Heads!" but it's too late.

I look up from my phone and in a blink of an eye, a football comes crashing down on my face.

"Fuck!" I shout as I drop my phone and cradle my eye. I can hear people gasp and then a scuffle occurs—fans trying to grab the football that just caused chaos on my face.

I look out onto the field to see that the offensive tackle number thirty-one—who just scored the final touchdown for the Panthers—is celebrating with his team on the field, the asshole oblivious to the fact that he just threw the ball at my head. I feel the pain heat up my face, my cheekbone throbs under my eye. That's going to bruise.

I lean down to pick up my phone just as some little kid reaches out and tries to hand me the football he picked up from the ground.

"Hey, did you want this?" His smile is apprehensive, and a man stands behind him, waiting for me to answer him.

"Kid, that thing just attacked me," I quip. "Why don't you hang onto it." I nod my head at him and smile, really hating life right now. But the kid looks happier after I told him he could keep it. It's sweet that he wanted to do the right thing, I'm surprised that the drunk Panthers fans let him snag it before any of them tried to scoop it up.

In pain, annoyed, and ready to go home, I join the stampede of football fans as we try to exit the stadium. It doesn't go without some pushing and shoving but at this point, I'm too pissed off to care.

Once I get outside, the sky turns from a bright blue to a stormy gray in a matter of minutes, and I hear the slight rumble of thunder in the distance.

This weekend, a major snowstorm is supposed to wreak havoc across the state. We never get snow. Ever. And I don't think anybody truly believes that the forecast is accurate at all. We all expect just a little rain and maybe a hurricane of some sort, but a full-blown blizzard. Unlikely.

I get my phone out, and open the rideshare app. I'm not surprised to see a wait time of thirty-five minutes before a car will be available. Everyone and their mom is trying to get an Uber right now. But I go sit at a corner on a sidewalk down the street and wait patiently because I have no other options right now. I should have just let my dad drive me, but our house is like three hours away from the stadium and I wasn't trying to be a twenty-eight-year-old woman having daddy drive her to a football game for a date.

But as the first snowflake falls from the sky and melts against my skin, I know I'm about to regret everything about today.