The Game Plan (Game On, #3)(66)

Tears threaten to fall, but I breathe through them. I can’t let him see me cry.

When I’m through the line, my cell dings. Glancing down, I almost lose it again.

FearTheBeard: <3 <—mine goes with you. Always.





Chapter Thirty





Dex



Monday Night Football. The audience is not as rowdy as in college. Fans are more likely to shout “you suck” than give their undying love. Because it’s about the win. Sure, we had that need to win in college. But school spirit trumped the team’s record. Here? My job is on the line if I don’t perform.

The stadium isn’t as big. Doesn’t need to be. Cameras are everywhere, taking in every f*cking move we make for an audience that grows year by year—a big, voracious mass of unseen fans. Damn if I haven’t begun to think if it not as a sport but theater. We’re giving them a show, and it had better be good.

Right now, I’m facing off against a big bastard of a nose tackle. Emmet Sampson. We played against each other in college, and I know his ways well. He loves to talk shit. Excels, at it, actually. I’m pretty sure he makes a study of his opposition to find the worst dirt he can on them.

Emmet can’t stand me because I’ve never once blinked in the face of his bullshit. Not that he doesn’t keep trying.

“Lookie here,” he says as we take the field. “It’s old Paul Bunyan. Where’s your big blue ox, boy?”

At your mamma’s house having a smoke.

But I don’t say it. Not speaking is much more effective.

I hunker down, my quads giving a nice stretch that brings me right back into the physical.

“So that shit true, Dexter?” he goes on. “You haven’t busted your cherry? Damn, man.” He shakes head. “Some sorry-ass shit right there.”

I breathe in deep. Pay attention to my team. His team. Watch. Wait. Listen.

“Naw, I don’t believe it. What’s the matter, Dexter? Afraid of the *?”

Emmet is meowing like a cat. The sound fades as I focus on the line. The pads of my gloved fingers rest on the ball, the shape grounding me. I draw in a breath, let my gaze open up until I see the whole picture—my guys, the defense, how they line up.

I call out a play adjustment. My guys hustle, changing positions. And the defense scrambles to follow.

The instant Finn makes his signal, I snap the ball and explode into action. Emmet and I meet like a thunderclap, helmets clacking, bones rattling. My thighs bunch as I push forward, the balls of my feet digging into soft earth as I drive him back. He’s hammering his fists at my wrists, sending shards of pain up my arms, straight to my brain. But I hold tight and strong-arm him to the side to clear a path for my guy.

Emmet goes down in a tumble. And, when the play ends, I lean over him. “If you ran your ass half as good as you run your mouth, I just might be afraid, bitch.”

Trotting back to the huddle, I give Finn a slap on the helmet. “Let’s light ’em up, rook.”

He gives me a grin. “You know it.”

For the rest of the game, we do just that. We play smart, crafty, and light them up like fireworks on the Fourth of July. My guys play like a well-oiled machine—Finn picking apart the defense with a football sense you can’t learn; it’s just innate, and a beautiful f*cking thing to witness.

But the taunts don’t stop, they grow. Doesn’t matter if I play my best. It’s no longer all about my performance. The world is pulling down the walls I’ve built to protect myself, exposing me without my consent.





* * *



Fiona



I love parties. I love the noise and the chatter and the chance to talk to new people. I love free booze and sampling cute little appetizers. I love dressing up and looking at other women’s dresses—I always find myself envying at least one outfit. But this party? Kind of blows.

Oh, the food is stellar. Champagne flows, and the decor is as impeccable as the view. Janice Mark’s penthouse is incredible, with views of the entire city spread out beneath us like a sequined dress, glittering and twinkling in the night.

By all accounts, I ought to be loving this. Dozens of top interior designers are here, giving me the chance to network. And the energy in the room is high.

I just don’t feel it. Because Ethan isn’t here. The sad part is I’m equally sure he’d hate this party. I can imagine him now, tugging at his collar and finding a nice corner to prop up. Now that he holds all my attention, memories of him before we were together come flooding back. He was always in the corner, nursing one of his water bottles, talking to a few guys—or listening, rather, and saying little.

But what he said always seemed to count for more. Ethan chooses his words carefully, never giving up useless spares. I remember that now and how it fascinated me then, because I usually have words enough for two people.

I remember that he used to watch me with those deep-set hazel eyes. It hadn’t made much of an impression then because I was loud, and people usually glanced my way when I was in a room. Never really bothered me. I’d assumed Ethan was doing the same—giving crazy Fi Mackenzie a onceover before going back to his life.

Now I know it had been more. Strangely, this makes me warm all over. He saw when I wasn’t “on” or trying to impress him, but as myself. And he’d wanted me anyway.