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“What’s the deal?” Henley asks, drawing my attention her way.

“What do you mean?” I keep cool, but it’s obvious she sees right through it.

“What’s up with you? You don’t even like football, and you're staring at the field like your life depends on it.”

Heat coats my cheeks and I curse my mom for passing down that little trait of mine. I can’t hide anything; my skin is always the first to give me away. Maybe that’s why I’ve always been so honest. Why lie if I’m going to get caught anyway?

Henley’s lips thin as though she’s suppressing a smile before she playfully bumps her shoulder into mine. “Out with it.”

“I just never realized how talented Beckett was,” I lie with a casual wave of my hand, hoping to distract her from the slight rise in my pitch.

“I knew it,” she yells in excitement, attracting curious gazes from her mom and Ava.

My eyes bulge as I turn away while Henley leans in, whispering this time. “I knew it.”

“You know nothing,” I lie again, only this time, I say it with conviction.

“Ah, who would have thought after all these years, you’d be crushing on a football player. A professional one at that.”

I do not have a crush. Infatuation maybe. But I’m not crushing on a football player.

“There is no such crush, and you’re not one to talk. You're technically married to one.”

Whoops. Did I say that out loud? At a football game? My chest tightens as I check to see if anyone could have heard us, and when the coast is clear, I relax, owning it.

Henley, however, inhales sharply, shooting me daggers. If looks could kill.

I stifle a laugh, knowing that if roles were reversed, she’d find the little predicament she’s in absolutely hilarious. Like she finds my so-called crush.

But since it’s not my predicament, she points my way, speaking through clenched teeth. “That is not funny.”

The crowd roars, stealing Henley’s attention, and I pretend to know what’s going on as I stare down at the field, making sure to keep my focus on the purple and black, when I’d much rather be staring at the opposition's quarterback.

Dammit. Maybe I do have a crush. A tiny one. Minute. The size of an ant. And just as annoying.

The crowd falls silent and I refocus, just in time to see Atlas hit the ground in the end zone, putting the Phantoms further ahead with a minute and a half to go.

My chest cracks as disappointment floods me.

The Phantoms are going to win. The Storm's going to get their first loss. Beckett’s going to lose. And I feel nauseous.

I don’t think I’m a Phantoms fan anymore.

My loyalty seems to have shifted. Shit.

Despite telling Henley I’ve sworn off men, I definitely need to get laid.

Chapter Eight

BECKETT

The Phantoms supporters cheer around me, but I can’t hear them, the sound drowned out by the ringing in my ears.

We lost.

Of all the fucking games, it had to be this one.

My teammate Wyatt pats me on the back, his smile subdued as he speaks. I lip read something about “next time” as I force myself to smile back, fighting the emptiness inside me.