Epilogue

LILY

‘I t’s Donaghue taking it all the way to the touchdown!’ yells the announcer. I’m screaming as he hurtles into the end zone with minutes to spare before half time is called.

The Armadillos are two points ahead of the Sarasota Snakes, and I might need a defibrillator before the end of the game. Can my heart take much more of the excitement? It’s already had a year’s worth of adrenaline overload in the last couple of crazy hours.

The whole stadium is a blur of colour and noise, and my pulse has been pumping at double time since the first strains of ‘America the Beautiful’ drift up from the stage in the middle of the field. Like everyone in the family-and-friends enclosure, tears run down my face as the gospel choir belts out the chorus. I might not have quite the same attachment to the US national anthem, but I was deeply moved and felt the tremor in my heart at the fierce pride of the crowd and quite possibly at the sight of Tate on the field singing along. Once ‘Lift Every Voice and Sing’ finished, I was a mess.

Thankfully, the military bands and the flypast, exciting as they were, pressed pause on my emotional overload. At least until the moment Tate and the team ran out into position, in their blue and white kit, to the storming bass of DJ Katz. My heart pretty much stopped with pride.

‘Doesn’t he look fine,’ yells Pammie beside me, who, despite her ordeal has fared well, although that might have more to do with her tearful reunion with Winston and the proprietorial arm he has around her shoulder, as if he’s never letting go.

‘Hands off my boyfriend, you’ve got your own man,’ I tease her, although I have to agree, Tate looks mighty fine.

We’re now in the final seconds of the second quarter, and Pammie and I keep anxiously checking the clock, waiting for the referee to blow the whistle. Being in the lead at halftime is a huge psychological advantage, or so I’ve convinced myself.

As the players leave the field, there’s a rush of activity as a stage and music kit appear, almost as if by magic. Here in the enclosure, drinks and food are being served, and I find myself with a large plastic cup of beer and a mustard-smothered hot dog. The smell of onions is so tantalising, I manage to scarf it down despite the nerves twisting my stomach like a double helix.

‘It’s soooo exciting,’ Pammie says, with the biggest, broadest smile on her face. ‘And I’m so glad Tate’s found you again. He needs someone on his side. His dad is not an easy man. Ambitious for himself as much as for his kid, if you know what I mean.’

I nod. I’ve got a pretty good idea.

‘I was so happy when I heard about your engagement,’ Pammie goes on. ‘It always worried me a little that he might never have anyone love him properly, but I can see you do.’

‘I do,’ I tell her earnestly. ‘I really do.’

‘And he loves you. I can tell from the way he looks at you. Like he’d go into battle a dozen times over to keep you safe. It’s kind of hot, if inappropriate for me to say.’ She grins.

Suddenly the crowd quietens, and a solitary guitar is amplified throughout the stadium as the figure of Ed Sheeran and his pedal loop take the stage.

There are another couple of songs before, with the same slick efficiency, the stage is dismantled. The brief interlude has been a bit of relief on my poor stress-laden body, but now every cell is back on tenterhooks. The teams run onto the field.

‘Here we go,’ says Pammie.

And suddenly, just like that, my nerves melt away. Whatever the outcome of this game, it doesn’t matter. For the first time in forever, a sense of peace– fulfilment, even– descends on me. I don’t need my career to define me anymore. I’ve always been striving for a nameless, nebulous something, taking assignment after assignment to find a purpose. I’ve no idea what the future holds, but I know with Tate sharing it with me, we can do anything we want.

My smug contentment is quickly kicked to the curb– my nerves crashing back with annoying enthusiasm– seven minutes into the third quarter, when the Sarasota Snakes take the lead by one point.

They’re still in the lead at the end of the quarter.

During the break, I find myself pacing, unable to drink a sip of my outsize beer.

When the whistle blows for the final quarter, I’m sitting on the very edge of my seat, my thighs tense with the effort of keeping still as I watch every movement on the field with laser focus. I can hear Tate calling out a play, and I grip my knees with my hands as the ball flies through the air. It’s hard keeping track of where it is, with bodies flying this way and that. There’s a fumble and the Armadillos lose the ball. I groan, and Pammie beside me drops her head in her hands.

Right at the front of the enclosure I can hear Tate’s dad screaming abuse at the player. He’s avoiding looking at me, and if he knew what Tate had done earlier, abandoning his team and the game, he might never speak to me again. But he’s going to have to learn to live with me… Not literally but figuratively, because I’m not going anywhere, and Tate’s already acknowledged that his dad needs some help and that their relationship is going to be different going forward.

I cover my eyes with my hands. ‘I’m not sure I can bear to watch.’

‘It’s only a game,’ says Pammie, before adding, ‘you have to watch and tell me what’s happening.’ When I turn to her, I see she’s peeping through her fingers as well.

The game is hotting up and tempers are starting to fray. There’s a flare-up over on the far side of the pitch, but it’s quickly doused by the other players, who are obviously worried about a fifteen-yard penalty.

Then suddenly, as I’m really starting to get anxious, Blake intercepts a pass from the offence, and in a perfectly choreographed play, the ball passes from player to player before being captured by Tate. He tucks the ball under his arm and dodges around a player, head down, forcing his way through to reach the end zone. I’m on my feet, clapping and screaming.

There’s a roar from the crowd when he slows on the line and slaps the ball down with arrogant panache before pointing one finger and dancing to an invisible beat, his arm scanning around the stadium until it reaches our enclosure. He blows a kiss.

They’re four points ahead with less than a minute to go. I swear everyone in the stadium holds their breath as another one of the team steps up to take the conversion.

We all hear the thud as his boot hits the ball and every head cranes to watch as it arcs up in a perfect parabola towards the uprights of the goal. It sails through and the crowd erupts, music blaring, and then it’s all over. I’m not sure anyone actually heard the whistle, but when the players remove their helmets it’s a signal for the whole place to go completely crazy. I’ve never experienced anything like it. I’m crying, laughing, screaming, hugging and being hugged by everyone around me. Sheer joy is filling the air around us and my cheeks are wet with tears, my cheeks aching with all the smiling I’m doing. All the while, I’m keeping an eye on the field, waiting for Tate to come closer.

When he starts to walk towards the enclosure, his dark hair plastered to his head with sweat, I focus on his big, strong body and my heart, which has put in quite a performance all afternoon. Tate is smiling at me, all his attention focused my way like a tractor beam. I wiggle my way through the hordes of people, vault over the barrier and run towards him. I launch myself at him and he plucks me from the air, holding me as I wrap my legs around his waist.

‘You did it.’

‘Fuck yeah.’ He kisses me, hot and sweaty and I sigh with pleasure. ‘Now, how soon do you think we can get out of here?’