Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
I check in with the ref on my position, then look back at my best friend, waiting for him to snap the fucking ball.
The snap is made, and I move on autopilot.
She’s got a lot of nerve, showing up here today.
I’m half-surprised she even knows this season’s schedule. I sure as hell didn’t send it to her.
I cut left, deep into the twenty.
Mason sends the ball flying, and it’s coming right for me.
I chase its direction, but I overread, and the safety flies in front of me, the ball falling right into his hands.
Fucking interception.
“Fuck!” I bite down on my mouthpiece, shaking my head as I run off the field.
My teammates try to dap me up, but I ignore them, yanking my helmet off, glaring up at the stands.
She’s reached him.
She’s right fucking across from him, tickling Deaton in his mom’s arms like she has any fucking right.
My dad is stiff beside Noah, and when I look to his face, he tries to smile.
It breaks my fucking heart.
Fuck this.
I charge toward the security guard, tapping his arm to get his attention.
“Can you kick someone out?” I rush.
The man frowns, eyes instantly scanning for trouble. “What’s going on?” He lifts his hand, preparing to press the button on his headset mic.
“The woman in the long navy skirt standing on the stairs.”
He finds her. “Did she sneak down to the section?”
“I—I don’t know, but she needs to go. She’s—”
My gaze locks on my dad as Paige appears at his side.
She takes his hand, and I feel it squeeze around my own damn heart.
“My man?” the security guard prompts.
I meet my dad’s gaze, and he gives the subtlest shake of his head.
My jaw clenches, and there’s pressure behind my eyes. I swallow, spin away, and move back to the sideline.
I close my eyes, feeling my best friends’ steady support beside me. When the defense comes off the field and the offense goes back out, Mason asks the coach for a running play. I’m fucking thankful for it because my feet feel like lead. I can’t move, and then it’s Brady’s turn to be by my side.
I fucking love my friends.
My eyes burn, moisture building.
I can’t believe I ever did anything as stupid as risk losing this, losing my brothers. I will never, ever do that again. I will be better, always. No matter fucking what.
Unfortunately for me, the defense holds us, and if we want to dominate the way Coach has asked of us, we need that first down, which means we need a pass.
“You got this, brother.” Brady claps me on the shoulder pad, shoving me forward, and I jog out, stepping into the huddle.
“Good?” Mase frowns, hating this as much as I am.
I meet his eye, and he sighs, dipping his head and giving the play. We break and get set.
He snaps the ball, and I move on numb legs.
My poor fucking dad.
He doesn’t deserve this. Hell, I don’t even know how he afforded to get here this weekend with flights and hotel fees.
My arms pump, and I shift my hips, cutting wide, leaving my feet completely as Mason fires the ball down the field.
Hands up, palms stretched wide, the ball drops clean into my grip, but before my cleats even kiss the turf, someone barrels into me from behind, full speed. I go down hard, his weight crashing into mine midair.
My shoulder slams the ground first, my neck whipping back, and the rest of me follows.
The ball’s tucked tight, but the hit knocks something loose. It’s not pain exactly, more like a flash, a jolt of wrongness that shoots down my spine so fast I don’t even register what part of me it came from.
I hit the grass and roll, lungs empty, head spinning.
There are whistles and flags. Somewhere, a crowd erupts. But all I hear is the rush of blood in my ears and the hollow echo of my own breath trying to return.
Chest burning, I sit up on instinct, tugging my wrist toward me, forcing air into my lungs until it finally, finally comes.
My teammates crowd around. Mason drops beside me just as Coach jogs up, eyes scanning me hard.
“Got the first,” I rasp, trying to make light of it, trying to ignore how my right hand feels…weird. Not painful, but…slow, like the message got stuck on the way down.
Mason’s grin fades fast. “Holy shit, bro, your hand.”
I look down—and sure enough, my fingers are a mess. Crooked at odd angles, swelling fast.
Coach doesn’t hesitate. He yanks me up by the shoulder pads, already waving toward the sideline.
People try to talk to me, and I know her eyes are watching, waiting, but I can’t look. Not yet.
I duck into the medical tent behind the trainer, climbing up on the table while he slices my glove clean down the middle.