MEETING JORDAN'S FATHER went better than expected. We began talking football when Jordan left for the ladies' room and he came around quickly. Reg is another story. His mouth stayed in a firm line through most of dinner. The only person who had any luck lightening his demeanor was Laura. Now there's a scary woman. She had no trouble batting her eyelashes in my direction and making me uncomfortable.

I drove everyone to the hotel after dinner. The short kiss with Jordan wasn't nearly enough but her father was watching. "Big game tomorrow, don't stay up too late," I whispered in her ear before shaking her dad's hand. Reg and Laura are staying a few rooms down and will come over to Jordan's room after they're settled. I'm heading to my place for beauty sleep before the game. I'm affected by first game jitters as much as I was three years ago and I hope the feeling never leaves.

I'm in my apartment ten minutes after leaving the hotel. I shoot off a text to Jordan as soon as I'm leaning back against the pillows of my bed.

Me: *inhales* *exhales* I'm breathing hard because of- stretching.

Thirty seconds later-

Jordan: I thought orgasms were against the "night before a game" rules???

Me: That's an old wives' tale.

Jordan: Where's your hand?

Me: On my cock.

Jordan: Pretend it's mine and stop making me wet.

Me: I want you so wet-

Jordan: Thanks, I'm fidgeting and receiving strange looks from Dad and Reg.

Me: Reg is jealous.

Jordan: Reg is madly in love with Laura.

Me: That girl is creepy.

Jordan: How's that stiffy now?

Me: Gone.

Jordan: Goodnight!

Me: I love you

Me: Goodnight!

I almost sent the last line before deleting it and retyping it. I have it so fucking bad for this woman. I've also never been in love and the sappy feelings I expected just feel-right.

I fall asleep with a huge smile on my face thinking about Jordan's lips on my cock.

***

Game day.

The nervous energy fills my gut as soon as I inhale the early morning air and head to the kitchen. I drink down a tall glass of water and start throwing vegetables in the blender for a smoothie. If a ball player tells you they don't have game day rituals, they're either lying or they don't mind losing.

The Pronghorns might have the worst record in football but my own personal worst came the day I skipped my morning smoothie. I threw three interceptions and we lost the game by our widest spread to date. All home games get a smoothie.

After swallowing the green puke, I head down to the street for a slow run. The city is quiet at this time on a Sunday morning. I pace myself so I don't strain anything or tire out. The run is to put my head in the proper zone. Each time thoughts of Jordan spring into my mind, I kick them to the back.

Focus.

I check my phone when I'm back in the apartment.

Killian: Rebecca and I will be staying overnight. Late night dinner following the game?

Me: Sounds great. I'll have guests so I'll make reservations.

Killian: Sounds good. May the best team win.

Me: Not a chance in hell. We're kicking your ass.

Killian: Bring it.

There's nothing from Jordan, so I shoot off a quick message to make sure everyone can come to dinner. I laugh when her reply says she isn't telling Laura about Killian until they get to the restaurant. I stretch my warm muscles and fight a hard-on because it makes me think of Jordan's idea of stretching. I take a shower and rub one out, which also relieves some of the internal pressure I feel. It's only been ninety minutes since I woke up. Late games are hard on the psyche.

I arrive at the stadium two hours before game time. My locker is set up with a crisp clean number fifteen jersey. Just the sight of it does something to me. Yep, the tampon is still there and I find myself smiling. I take a seat on the bench in front of my locker and grab the game day program to flip through. This is all part of gearing up for what's to come.

Ten minutes later, I take another quick shower before putting on my pads, football pants, and jersey. I do all this in silence being sure each buckle and Velcro strap is perfectly tightened. I place my legs in the pants, pull them up and adjust the built-in pads, and lastly pull the strings in front tight, tie them in a bow, double knot the bow, and tuck it under at the waist. In bare feet, I head to the training room to have my ankles taped.

I receive today's first glimpse of Jordan. Harry, one of the better prep trainers, is working on her shoulder. Lane is standing beside them. I give Jordan a nod and watch her bite her bottom lip.

She's nervous. We all are.

A kicker has an entirely different pregame ritual, so I leave her in Lane's capable hands so I can keep my eye on the target and that target is kicking some Scorpions ass today. There's not a lot of talk. The Pronghorns' players stay focused. Even Bobby takes it down a level on game days. He walks silently around grabbing towels, checking the gear table, and humming a game day tune quietly.

After the trainer tapes my ankles, I walk back into the main locker room and grab a new pair of socks from the gear table, as is my tradition. If we win today's game, these socks will go home, be washed by Carma, and be on my feet before each game of the season. I bypass the sweatbands and other gear ready for the taking. I have my own. I sit back down on my bench and pull on my left sock followed by my left my shoe. Always in this order.

I sink further into game day mode.

After walking around in a circle to check that everything is comfortable, I head outside to the green. I need to check the traction of my cleats and get the feel for the grass even when we're playing at home. I run onto the field and do a few wind sprints before jumping up and down on my toes. A conditioning coach opens up and I head in his direction. I lay on the grass at the sideline while he lifts my right leg, stretches it, works my ankle, bends the leg at the knee, and then goes through the same process on the other side. I stretch my fingers, wrists, and arms while this is taking place.

When finished, I begin the walk back to the locker room. Jordan is standing at the entrance of the stadium with a slightly green face. I look around. There's too much of a chance we'll be caught if I do what I want to do. It's frustrating because if any lips on this planet need a kiss right now, it's hers.

"Can't kiss you to take that look of terror out of your eyes," I grumble.

"Thank you," Lane says as he walks up to us. "I don't need to see you kissing another player down here."

Jordan ignores him and gives me a faint smile. "Kissing isn't part of my game day tradition," she sasses.

"It was never mine either, but we could try and see if it works," I tease.

Her smile disappears. "I'm going to puke," she says and rubs her stomach.

Lane looks my way and smirks. "She'll be okay after the first kickoff. You good?" he asks me.

"Ready to get out on the field. Are you checking the turf before heading back into the locker room?"

"Yep, got it covered." He turns to Jordan. "Come on rookie, you need to stay busy."

Jordan gives me a half-assed smile before following Lane onto the field. I wish I could tell her it gets easier. It doesn't.

There's always one teammate's iPod hooked to the locker room's sound system that holds the pregame music. For the Pronghorns, that player is Casey Libker our center. "Another Brick in the Wall" by Pink Floyd is playing. It winds down and "I'm Ready," a rap song by The Diplomats, rocks the room. I'm not one of the players who has earbuds in, spacing everything out with my own music. I like the thumping walls of the locker room on game day and the same tunes in the same order. It's my countdown to game time.

Lane and Jordan return and join the circle the team is forming. We're only waiting for Coach now. There's a thick energy in the room. It's a tangible force. The door swings open and coach enters with other staff behind him. The circle widens and he steps into the center.

"Who's ready for some football?" he yells.

He receives grunts in answer.

"I said-who's ready for some football?" he shouts louder. Our hands hit against our chests and helmets and cheers fill the room. When the noise dies down he has us take a knee.

It doesn't matter what religion you are or even if you're atheist. We all know the words and join hands before the coach starts us off.

"Our father who art in heaven"

This grounds us. It completes all of our separate rituals and brings us together as a team. Anticipation pushes us through as we belt out the last verse and end with, "Amen."

It's time to play football.