EXCERPT:
Prologue
Ivy
Super Bowl Sunday
Miami Gardens, Florida
I wring my hands nervously before realizing this won’t do me any good.
The overwhelming pandemonium from the NFL fans in the Hard Rock Stadium is nearly deafening, and I stare down at my palms, flexing my fingers as an anxiety-ridden anticipation courses through my body. I don’t want to do this, but it’s my only choice. There’s no other way.
Even though I’m certain it’s too late.
A slap on my shoulder jars me, drawing me from my conflicted thoughts, and my gaze locks with Corbin Hartson, the coach of the Jacksonville Jaguars.
“All set?” he yells to be heard over the raucous crowd.
I nod. “All set!” I holler back with far more conviction than I feel.
“Then get out there. Let’s do this!” A slap on my shoulder punctuates his enthusiasm, and I resist the urge to rub the spot. What is it with coaches and players and the slapping thing? Geez.
I close my eyes and drag in deep breaths meant to be soothing, attempting to psych myself up to follow through with this plan. And I can’t help but be amazed at how this all came to be.
My eyes flash open, and I know this is it. It’s time. I can do this.
With my first step onto the field, carpeted with crunchy Bermuda grass, I force myself to put one foot in front of the other. My focus is centered on one thing—on one object—sitting on the fifty-yard line.
For the first time in my adult life, I’m wagering what I’ve long believed was cold and bitter. Useless.
My heart.
Author Bio:
RC Boldt is the wife of Mr. Boldt, a retired Navy Chief, mother of Little Miss Boldt, and former teacher of many students. She currently lives on the southeastern coast of North Carolina, enjoys long walks on the beach, running, reading, people watching, and singing karaoke. If you’re in the mood for some killer homemade mojitos, can’t recall the lyrics to a particular 80’s song, or just need to hang around a nonconformist who will do almost anything for a laugh, she’s your girl.
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