He keeps his attention forward, on the Founders logo on the wall across from him as he completes his pregame ritual—bending and extending each of his fingers ten times. “No, we don’t. We need to focus on this game.”
“Yeah, which is why I’m telling you we need to set aside all this personal stuff for?—”
“It is set aside.”
“Not if you can’t even look at me.”
He slowly turns,lookingat me. “We need to win this goddamn game, not have our heads clouded with distractions.”
Except the more we ignore this, the more it’s going to be a distraction. He should know this. He was the one who pushed so hard for me to talk to Pearce this season. He’s the one who practices mindful breathing and journals every morning. Where is all that happy horseshit now?
I’m not used to him being like this. Short-tempered and illogical. I can understand acting out of emotion and not the brain—I’ve been doing that for longer than I care to remember—but for once in my life, I’m attempting to be the problem-solver and peacekeeper.
He doesn’t care.
“Let’s just go out there and do our jobs,” Erik says, brushing by me before I can argue. He didn’t even finish his ritual.
But it’s too late now.
Time to play.
New England’s defense is a wall, but we fight for every yard. On our last possession before halftime, Reise kicks a field goal, putting us on the board, and we spend twelve minutes talking with coaches, aiming to reevaluate and readjust our game to try to take the win.
But the second half is as much of a slog as the first. New England scores seven in the third quarter, and we trail them until the end of the fourth.
Erik calls the play, a deep pass that’s risky, but I’m ready. The ball snaps, and I’m off, sprinting down the field. Erik’s perfect spiral for thirty-five yards that lands in Aaron Brown’s hands after I take out his defense. A second later, the whistle blows, and we’ve got six more on the board. With the extra point, we take the lead, 10-7, and with only two minutes left on the clock,our defense is able to hold New England back on their final drive.
We win.
By the skin of our teeth.
But it’s a win, nonetheless, and I approach Erik with a tentative smile, an olive branch. I hold out my fist toward him as we make our way to the tunnel, but he leaves me hanging, pointedly ignoring it and me as he walks ahead.
So much for setting it all aside.
I make it through the postgame press bullshit, feeding the reporters all my practiced lines about how there is absolutely no bad blood between the Founders’ QB and me. That it has nothing to do with his sister, and that it is definitely not because he caught me doing something illegal. As far as anyone knows, adrenaline got the best of me, and I lashed out. Because I’m the asshole. I’m the one who swung. I’m the arrogant bad boy with a record for breaking things, so why not add one more to the tally?
By the time I arrive home, it’s after midnight, and I assume Nadine will be in bed. But instead, I find her in the living room crying. She doesn’t notice me, obviously hasn’t heard me enter the penthouse, and the sound of her sobs shreds whatever is left of my beat-up heart.
I’ve been following the rules, not only this week, but this whole season. I’ve kept my head down. I’ve played my part, done exactly what the team and the PR company have wanted me to. I’ve practically been a choirboy, and yet it’s still not enough.
Not where she’s concerned.
Not when the love of my goddamn life can’t catch her breath, her shoulders shaking with every inhale, like it hurts.
Fighting Erik was stupid, but I won’t apologize for it. I did it because I promised Nadine to always keep her safe, so I don’t feel bad about it. Yet that one minute of my anger—whether it was called for or not—has only made her life harder. In trying todo what was right, I hurt her. I made her life infinitely more complicated.
I’ve broken the one promise I made to her.
The one thing I said I would do to make sure I deserved her.
If I can’t make it right with Erik, maybe I can still make it right for Nadine.
I knew all along she was too good for me. The whole world fucking thinks so. And it might be time to let her go. I could actually be the hero of this story, instead of the selfish prick of a villain.
“River,” I say quietly, and she turns, wiping her eyes.
“Hi. I didn’t hear you come in.”
