Slammed #4 (The Slammed Romance Series - Book #4) by Claire Adams Page A

made it onto the other side of the field, landing in
the Wild Cats’ territory by fifteen yards before they were able to scramble up
their players enough to tackle the player. We had possession of the ball once
more. There was time for one more play. I was in an agony of anticipation—what
would the decision be? Would we go for a touchdown—a decisive
victory—or would there be a field goal attempt? Just
enough of a score to win the game by a few points. Both would be major
risks. Zack ran to the sidelines to confer with coach Bullden ,
and some of the players switched up for the last play of regulation time. I
wasn’t sure whether the shrieking of the fans or the pounding of my blood in my
ears was louder. I watched the two sides form up. The players were in a tight
formation, and I saw Zack and another player cautiously moving farther back
from the line of scrimmage. It could be a field goal. It could be.
    The play started and I watched with wide eyes: it
was a field goal attempt. I clenched my hands into fists—it was a major risk.
The defense kept the other team at bay while they set up the kick. I jumped up
and down with everyone else, screaming as the kick launched the ball into the
air. I watched as it turned end over end, moving inexorably towards the
crossbars. Would it be good? Would it go through, or fall short, or would it hit
instead of getting through?
    It went through—and everyone went silent for just a
moment, reeling in the stands. There were 30 more seconds left in the game, but
there was no real chance for the other team to make the points up. The final play
was almost anti-climactic, a formality to run down the clock. The game was
decided and everyone in our side of the stands was cheering and screaming,
already starting to celebrate.
    I sat down heavily in my seat, happy but exhausted
at how nerve-wracking the game had been. I knew there would be major
celebrations in the city—a party at the hotel, partying in the parking lot, and
probably wherever else any group of fans for our team were staying or could
congregate. For sure, the football team would be living it up for the rest of
the night. I stood as soon as I could recover from my shock and delight and
snapped pictures of the field, the crowd, everything going on. Our team was
running around the field, leaping up and down, the players delirious with
excitement at their win; I managed to capture the moment when they upended the
cooler of Gatorade on coach Bullden .
    For a long time it seemed as though the on-field
celebrations would never end. The members of the team were holding the trophy
up in the air, kissing it, dancing with it—and I couldn’t blame them. Slowly,
as gradually as molasses, people in the stands started filtering out; on the
other team’s side of the stadium, they were subdued and quiet, probably talking
amongst themselves about how they’d do it differently, or how next year would
be better. On our side, no one seemed to want to leave, but everyone knew that
there was a better celebration to go to . I looked
around for Jess; she was making out with the guy she’d been flirting with, the
two of them kissing in such a hot and heavy way that they were only one or two
steps away from public indecency. I decided that I’d wait for her at the gate.
    I watched the people passing by as I stood by the
gate, waiting for Jess to finish up with the guy she had apparently decided to
make out with . I didn’t know if the bus for students
had already left, but there would almost certainly be cabs that we could take
to get back to the hotel. If Jess had decided to take the guy with her, I’d
have to hang out at the pool or somewhere else; maybe I’d start working on the
rough draft of the front-page piece since I couldn’t exactly stay in the room
while she screwed someone. But I was thinking longingly of the big, plush bed
that had come with the room—bigger than my twin bed at the dorm at least, and
much more comfortable. My