Her pulse flutters visibly at her throat. “Th-that sounds good.”
Just before my lips brush hers, I murmur, “That sounds better than ‘good,’uvetta mia.”
For long moments after that, neither of us says a word. All I can think is I’m the luckiest fucker alive. Because he let her go and she’s inmyarms.
And I never plan on contemplating, let alone making the same mistake he did.
When our lips part, I pull back. My knuckle comes to rest beneath her chin. “If he continues to contact you, let me know. I don’t want you to have to carry that burden alone.”
“Okay. But I’m sure it’s nothing.” She flaps her hand. “He’ll give up, eventually.”
But will he? Despite how much I despise him, Bryce is a halfway intelligent guy. He knows what he has lost.
The question being, is Maya mine yet to claim?
23
SHOTGUN FORMATION: AN OFFENSIVE ALIGNMENT WHERE THE QUARTERBACK LINES UP SEVERAL YARDS BEHIND THE CENTER.
Crawling into bed, my mind refuses to settle. Tonight began with promise and ended in damage control, with me stuck playing defense of ignoring Bryce who, by no means, I can control.
I should be savoring my time with Troy. Instead, as exhaustion pulls me under, I’m left thinking back to the moments that brought us all colliding together.
As I drift into sleep, the line between dream and memory snaps—suddenly I’m not in my bed at all, but back under stadium lights, surrounded by noise, by history, and by a choice I never had to make the first time around.
Despite the unusually cold temperatures for late January, the Lightning stadium feels electrified. There’s a surge of energy beneath my feet. I feel it through my boots as I hop up and down in the stands right behind the team on the fifty-yard line. This is it; the AFC Championship game and every breath is riddled with tension.
Double overtime.
Twenty-one to twenty-one.
I rub my arms up and down my Lightning hoodie, the storm grey colors reflected by half the strangers surrounding me. As much as I know my heart is pounding, I know it’s nothing compared to the way the team must be feeling.
Especially as the crowd is becoming more and more agitated with every snap of the ball.
The scoreboard flashes the reality—second and goal.
Below me on the field, the ball is snapped. Bryce falls back to a shotgun formation—about 5-7 yards behind the center who is trying to do everything—short of getting a flag on the play—to protect him. He scans the field looking for somewhere, anywhere, to pass the ball. But despite being the quarterback and the Lightning’s captain, the boy I’ve built my world around is in an untenable situation.
The defense breaks through and Bryce, fortunately, is outside the tackle box. He throws the ball to what should be an eligible receiver but it’s a crap pass. On the other hand, he avoids being sacked and losing ground for the Lightning.
Third and goal.
Tension radiates off every Lightning player now. They know what’s at stake—a trip to the national championships. Achance at the Lombardi Trophy. They’re looking for Bryce to lead them. I can’t see beneath his helmet, but I’m close enough to hear, "Double Right 200. Jet Dragon."
I chew on my nails as the offense lines up in a two-by-two formation, with their tight end on the right side. While Bryce successfully executed this play several times today, I’m terrified the other team discussed during half-time how to block it.
The stadium hushes as the ball is snapped back and he drops back. But the defensive line has him boxed in. Perfect coverage.
“Oh no,” I mutter to myself even as Bryce rolls, he pump-fakes the ball. But there’s no window for him to get rid of it. Refusing to give in, to lose the yardage, he tucks the ball beneath his arm and runs.
My breath seizes, and it’s not due to the cold air. It’s because Bryce comes up short. No first down.
The referee’s whistle renders through the air accompanied by the groans of thirty-five thousand fans. The play is complete and our hopes for making it to the playoffs are dwindling rapidly.
Fourth down.
The coach signals from the side of the field. Bryce rips off his helmet, fury lining his face the second the polycarbonate clears his head. The sweat dripping from his hair is likely the only thing keeping it from being on fire as he argues with the offensive coach.
