Rookie Move (Playing for Keeps #1)(73)

Everyone broke away after that. I approached Garrett before we made our way out of the locker room. This game meant a lot to him. He didn’t have to tell me that for me to know because…well, fuck, because I knew Garrett. He could hide his nerves with everyone else, but he couldn’t with me. “You okay, G?”

His gaze darted away. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“You don’t have to hide with me.”

He sighed, then shrugged. “Guess I couldn’t even if I tried. I want this win, Rams. I fucking need it.”

I’d held myself back from doing it since we put the brakes on this thing between us, but I didn’t now. I smacked his ass. “Then we’re gonna do it. I promise.”

We both knew that wasn’t something I could guarantee, but instead of calling me on it, he smiled and agreed.





I was fucking flying.

It was a bit ridiculous that one playoff game could make me feel like I was on top of the world, but as Garrett got the first down halfway through the third, the Rush up by fourteen points, a damn fireworks display went off in my chest. Playing with him was almost like foreplay, edging me and making me want more from him.

“Motherfucker,” Benson, one of LA’s defensive men, gritted out, before heading back to the line.

Coach mumbled a play in my earpiece, which I relayed to the guys in the huddle. We broke into position. I winked at G, who smiled around his mouthpiece at me. I could see the light in his eyes, damn near feel it radiating off him. This game was ours, and it was great to share it with him.

“White 80! White 80! White 80. Set hut!” I called out just before Tuck snapped the ball to me. I caught it, eyes darting around the field for Cross, who Coach had called this play for. He was covered, and so were Nance and Garrett. Just before I settled on a short play to at least gain a couple of yards, Garrett broke free of Whitt. I swear a fucking trail of fire shot out from his heels, he was running so fast, zipping around players so perfectly that part of me just wanted to sit back and watch him shine. He was so fucking beautiful when he played that I knew beyond doubt this was where Garrett belonged—on the field.

I cocked my arm back and threw a pass for him. It was as if the ball was as magnetized by him as I was, like it couldn’t stay away and fell right into his arms. Garrett caught the pigskin and kept going, sidestepping two guys, shooting around another, and heading right for the end zone. The crowd went quiet, knowing what I did—that Garrett was about to make his first touchdown in his first playoff game in the NFL, putting us up by twenty points and likely adding a nail in LA’s playoff hopes.

It felt like someone had hit the slow-motion button, decelerating everyone’s movements as Garrett jumped through the air and crossed the line, securing the points. Right after his feet hit the ground, two LA players rammed into him, one helmet to helmet. Like a ragdoll, he flew a few feet, colliding with another player and then dropping to the turf.

Garrett was on his back, arms splayed out. He didn’t move. Why the fuck wasn’t he moving?

My heart stopped beating. I was pretty sure I left it behind when I ran for Garrett on weak legs.

Fuck, please make him okay. He had to be okay.

He was still laid out when I slid to a stop beside him and the people already crowded there. My chest was tight. I couldn’t breathe. Holy fuck, I couldn’t breathe. I’d never hyperventilated before, but I was heading that direction now.

“He was out for a second,” Cross said, “but he’s coming to now.”

All sorts of penalties were called. It was clear it had been an accident, but I didn’t care about that or the outcome of the game, just about G.

“Is he okay?” I asked, my voice broken with fear. The medics were trying to talk to him, asking if he knew his name and where he was, and fuck…why wouldn’t he know that? He had to, right? Logically I knew they were concerned about a head injury, a concussion, but everything was all tangled with worry in my brain.

They ignored me, paying attention to Garrett. “G?” fumbled from my lips, but Garrett didn’t respond. A hand moved to my arm, and I knew it was Tucker, offering me his silent support.

They slid the board under Garrett, making sure not to jostle him because fuck, they were worried about a spine injury too, weren’t they?

“G?” I asked again, though how I expected him to respond, I didn’t know. They had his head and neck stabilized, his body strapped down, and began to lift him with the board. I followed, which I had no fucking business doing. Tucker tried to hold on to me, but I pulled out of his grip as anger at the hit and worry battled inside me.

I saw acknowledgment when Garrett looked at me, like he was trying to say something. My heart jump-started again. “Win for me, Rams. Come find me afterward, but win this motherfucking game for me.” His voice was low and choppy, like he was struggling to get the words out, but I got what he was saying. My place was on this field. I wanted to be with him, but damned if I wasn’t going to get this W, if for no other reason than because Garrett asked me to do it. I wasn’t sure there was anything I wouldn’t do for him. I…Jesus, I needed him, didn’t I? My whole life I’d tried not to need anyone, but I did when it came to Garrett McRae.

“I will,” I replied, then, “And I expect a reward when I see you next.”

Surprise flared in his eyes before they took him off the field. At that moment, I didn’t give a shit who heard me or what conclusions they’d draw. Garrett was hurt, and he was mine. I took care of what was mine.