Breaking Tackles: A Taking Flight Novel (5 page)

“Prove it.”

She furrows her brow and tries to smack me again, but can’t get enough leverage to actually hit me. Probably because I’m pinning her arms down a little.

“You’re not playing fair.”

“Maybe not,” I say, moving so that she can move more. “Is this better?”

She pokes me in the ribs. “Now it is.”

“So,” I say, taking in the site of her topless self, “should we resume what we were up to earlier?”

“We definitely should.”

She didn’t have to tell me twice.

Courtney

“So we’re agreed?” I ask after Adam and I have put our clothes back on after our half-naked make-out session.

“Yes,” he says, leaning over and kissing me on the cheek. “We won’t start planning the wedding until after this season.”

“You’re sure you’re okay with that?” I ask, still nervous that I’m disappointing him with my uncertainty over moving to New Orleans immediately.

“I am,” he says with finality. “It makes sense—I’m going to be insanely busy earning my spot on the team this summer and then getting in good with the players and learning the team politics and dynamics. Trying to throw in a wedding somewhere in there would be too much.”

“You’re positive?”

“Do you just want to go to city hall and get married today?” he asks, hope beaming out of his eyes.

Honestly, that does sound appealing. No extensive planning, no spending excessive money on a single day. But no—our families would never be okay with that. I’m pretty sure I can talk my family into something simple, though it’ll still have to be big considering the size of our family. It’s the Kistlers I’m more concerned about.

I wasn’t at Mike and Ashton’s wedding, but I’ve seen the pictures. It was an
event
. I know that Ashton had a lot to do with that, but I also know Vicki Kistler. Even their Super Bowl parties and tailgates are a production. Though I’m sure Vicki is the driving force behind their parties, Jerry Kistler does love playing host.

There’s no way our wedding will be a small, quiet ceremony with little pomp and circumstance.

“You know better than to think our families will be okay with that.”

“I don’t care what our families think,” Adam says.

“You’re not going to have your mother as a mother-in-law for the rest of your life.”

Adam’s face falls and he says, “I guess you’re right. She’d never let us live it down if we just eloped. Even though that kind of makes the idea seem all that more appealing.”

“I think The Score List photo is the most surprise she needs to have in her life when it comes to us. Keeping her in the loop is going to make our lives much, much easier.”

Adam takes a moment to dwell on that and says, “That’s very true.”

My phone bleeps and I see that there’s a text from Willa.

My Adam Kistler Google Alert has alerted me to the fact that your engagement is now public. Eep!

“The hell?” I say aloud in response to the text.

“What?” Adam asks.

“Willa just texted. Apparently people know about our engagement already.”

He shrugs. “I’m sure one of our friends posted something somewhere. No big deal.”

“Still,” I say. “Doesn’t it bother you that everyone already knows about it?”

“Nah. It was going to get out eventually.”

“I guess that’s true,” I say, still feeling unsettled. I take a breath and then Google “Adam Kistler engaged.”

The results that pop up are staggering. We’re everywhere. I click on the first link and begin reading. There’s a photo of the moment Adam got down on one knee and my very surprised face that, apparently, Jason posted.

“It was Jason,” I say.

“Of course it was,” Adam says, coming up behind me and reading over my shoulder.

The article is short and just says that we’re now engaged and relays the details of Adam being drafted to the Saints. I scroll down the rest of the page to see if there are anymore photos, but I hit the comments section.

That’s when things go to hell.

The comments are full of things like,
Seriously? Kistler is slumming it,
and
What are the odds the engagement is off before the end of the summer?,
and
When Kistler gets to NOLA, he’ll realize he’s not interested in being tied down.

My eyes blur with tears and, to my horror, a small sob escapes from my mouth.

“Hey,” Adam says, taking the phone from me. “Don’t worry about those assholes.”

“How could people be so mean?”

“They’re just jealous,” he says, rubbing my back.

I feel stupid for getting upset over Internet comments. But what those people wrote is really hurtful.

But then a voice in my head says,
It’s true though. You aren’t good enough for him.

“Courtney, look at me,” Adam says, and after I wipe my fingers under my eyes to remove the stupid mascara that has probably run, I look up at him.

“Don’t let the things other people say get to you. You’re amazing and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. That’s all that matters.”

I smile despite everything at those words.

“You’re right,” I say, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I overreacted. I should know better than to read comments. Stupid trolls.”

“Exactly,” Adam says. “So what do you want to do during our last day in the city?”

“Eat,” I say immediately.

“God, you’re perfect.”

I laugh and say, “Anything in particular you want to do?”

He cocks an eyebrow and I say, “Other than me.”

“Top of the Empire State Building?”

“Yes, please.”

“Let’s rally the troops then. Where should we have everyone meet us?”

“Ask one of the New Yorkers among us where the best pizza is.”

“I super love you.”

“I love you, too. Now take me to the pizza.”

Adam

A few weeks later, as I leave my last final and walk out of the building into the warm sun of a May afternoon in Missouri, the weight of this moment hits me full force.

That was my last final
ever
.

The coaches threw the handful of us who were drafted a farewell party last week, and though that was bittersweet, it didn’t feel like a good-bye. Maybe because I knew I still had finals to study for, end-of-year parties to attend. I still had time on campus.

But now, as I walk toward Ninth Street to meet Courtney for lunch, the fact that I won’t be coming back here next year feels incredibly real.

On top of that, I won’t even really get a summer break. I’ll be moving down to New Orleans to set up my apartment and settle in before reporting for training camp in just over a month. So I need to make the most of the little summer time I have. And I know it’ll go by fast.

Especially since my dad has already put together an intense weight training and conditioning schedule for me every morning, which will make it hard to have any crazy, late nights. Although I’ve made it through workouts with hangovers before, so I guess I can live through it again.

As I walk down Ninth to the burrito place, I spy Courtney sitting at a table outside, her head bent in concentration over a textbook. My last final may have been today, but she still has a couple more to go this week.

“Hey,” I say from behind her before giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Hey,” she says. “How was your test?”

I shrug. “It was fine.”

I hate to be blasé about it, but it really doesn’t matter how it went. Or what my grades are now. If I’m being honest, I barely studied for these finals. I know I should have, that I should be thinking about what my back-up plan will be if I, for some reason, don’t make the team, but all I find myself thinking about these days is how much time I can spend with Courtney before I have to move.

“I’m so jealous that you’re already finished,” she says, closing her textbook. Underneath it, I see something that takes me by complete surprise: a magazine with a model wearing a very specific style of white dress.

“Is that what I think it is?” I ask.

Courtney rolls her eyes and says, “Yes, it’s a wedding magazine. My mom sent it in my finals care package.”

“Were you actually looking through it?”

“Maybe a little,” she says. “But it’s all so dumb. I mean, more than half of the pages are just ads and the articles are about how to get your best bridal body and outrageously expensive products you should use to have beautiful bridal skin. It’s seriously the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”

I laugh, but then ask, “Is it giving you any good ideas, though?”

She sighs and says, “Not really. None of it is stuff that looks like something either of us would like. It’s all poofy dresses and black tuxedos and bridesmaids in light pink dresses.”

“Yeah, I can’t imagine you in a poofy dress. Or asking anyone to wear pink.”

“Because I’m pretty sure that’s my worst nightmare,” she says. “Anyway. Let’s get something to eat. I need brain food.”

Courtney leaves the book on the table to reserve it for us and we head inside and place our orders. When I ask for guacamole, the guy working nods and dutifully puts a huge scoop of it on my burrito, then wraps it up and hands it to the cashier.

“Beef burrito,” he says, not mentioning the guacamole, which I know they charge extra for. I furrow my brow a little and the guy says, “Enjoy your burrito, Adam. I’m looking forward to seeing you play for the Saints next year.”

“Thanks, man,” I say, smiling. When I pay, I make sure to throw in the money that would cover the guacamole into the tip jar.

Courtney and I head back outside to our table and dig into our food.

“I love burritos,” I say.

“You’re just happy because you didn’t get charged for guac,” she says accusingly.

“That’s not my fault!” I counter. “Besides, I put money in the tip jar.”

“I know,” she says. “I guess you better get used to special treatment.”

“You think?” I ask between bites. “I would figure people would be trying to get me to pay more for things since they know I’ll be making money.”

She just shrugs at that and we both continue eating, lost in our own thoughts.

“So, hey,” I say. “Back to the wedding stuff. Do you think we should be thinking about it already?”

“Nah,” Courtney says. “We have so much time. And you have way more important things to be thinking about than a wedding.”

“All I have to do is kick ass at training camp,” I say. My dad and both brothers have been to training camps and have made NFL teams. I think I have a good idea of what I’m going to go through, and feel good about my chances making the team. Especially considering that my dad isn’t going to let me slack off for the next month. Hell, I’d be willing to bet his training and conditioning will be far more grueling than whatever they have us do at training camp.

“But that’s what you need to be focusing on,” Courtney says.

“I know,” I say. “But my mom was saying that we’ll need to book the church and everything really early.”

Courtney shrugs and doesn’t say anything, her way of saying that she’s through with a conversation.

She’s probably right. We have tons of time to plan the wedding. And we agreed that we wouldn’t focus on it until after I’ve made the team and gotten through my first season.

“What are you going to do with the rest of your day?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

“Study,” she says. “I’m afraid this Kinesiology test is going to kick my ass.”

“I thought you liked that class.”

“Love it,” she says. “But that doesn’t mean I’m ready for this test.”

I nod and polish off the rest of my burrito.

“What about you?” she asks. “Now that you’re all finished with college, what are you going to be doing?”

“Just hanging out with the guys,” I say. “And you. When you’re not studying. Or when you need a distraction.”

She rolls her eyes at that. “I just have Kinesiology tomorrow and then Western Civ the day after.”

“That one should be a breeze,” I say.

She smiles and says, “I know. As much as I feel like non-degree required classes are a waste of time, I must admit that I like how easy they are.”

“So does that mean you won’t need to study tomorrow night and we can go to the baseball game?”

Courtney looks thoughtful for a second and says, “Yeah. I mean, I will need to do some studying, but my Kinesiology final is at nine, so I’ll have most of the day to go over my Western Civ notes.”

“Awesome,” I say. Even though I play football, I really like going to baseball games. And our college team this year is pretty good, which is a plus.

“Who all are we going with?” she asks.

“Drew and Becca, for sure, and probably a few other guys from the team.”

She smiles and then I see her eyes go to her textbook.

I know a sign when I see one. “You need me to go?”

“I don’t want you to,” she says. “But I do need to study.”

“And I’m a distraction?” I ask, leaning across the table toward her.

“Yes,” she says, leaning in herself. “Very much so.”

I give her a quick kiss and then say, “Okay. I’ll let you study in peace. Are you staying here or going to the library?”

“The library is mobbed,” she says. “I assume I’ll get kicked out of here for taking up the table space eventually, but I figure this is better than the library for a bit.”

“Okay,” I say, standing. “If you need anything, let me know.”

“I will,” she says.

I lean down and give her a long, lingering kiss that probably isn’t at all appropriate in public. But I don’t care.

When she breaks away she says, “Okay, you really have to go, otherwise I’m going to be changing all my plans and failing this test.”

I smirk, and even though I would love for her to come back to the apartment with me so that we could have a lazy afternoon together with lots of kisses like the one we just had, I know better.

“Fine,” I say. “I love you.”

“Love you, too,” she says. “I’ll see you later.”

I head back up Ninth Street to campus, where I let myself stroll and really look at the campus. The large, green lawn I’ve horsed around on, the red brick buildings I’ve taken classes in, the impressive Tower of Memorial Union that will never not be grand and always a bit breathtaking.

I take a deep breath, and I realize that this place, somehow, already feels nostalgic.

Which I guess means that I’m ready for my next step.