Yard lines sped by in a blur. My heart threatened to explode, filling my ears with the rush of blood, mingling with the roar of the crowd as the end zone loomed.
And then it was all gone.
A hard thump to my side threw me off-balance. I careened around, stumbling backward, my hands suddenly way too empty, just in time to see Whitt dive on the ball and smother it with his body.
A roar went up from the crowd as Whitt was helped up. He punched a victorious fist in the air that might as well have landed in my gut.
I’d fucking fumbled the ball mere yards from the end zone. No touchdown. No glory. Not a damn thing except humiliation and defeat that settled over me like a lead blanket.
“Shake it off.” Cross knocked me in the shoulder as I gasped for air. “C’mon.”
I trotted after him, still trying to get my bearings over what had gone down and how badly I’d just fucked up.
“We’ve still got time,” Ramsey said as we walked off the field.
But we never fully recovered.
We lost by six points they wouldn’t have gotten if I hadn’t fumbled.
The walk back to the locker room felt like one of the longest in my life. Conversation buzzed around me, but I barely made out the words until my name cut through the air, and I glanced up in the midst of yanking off my cleats.
“Hey, maybe next time you want to make a fumble like that, you could just hand it over to the other team. Save everyone some energy.”
I wanted to punch Nance in the face, but he was right. I’d seen the playback, and no doubt everyone else watching had. It would be all over highlight reels for the next week.
So I punched a fist into the bench instead.
The ball hadn’t been tucked close enough to my chest. That was Football 101. I’d practically given Whitt an engraved invitation to knock it out of my hand. And he’d done so easily.
It was a rookie move. A total fucking rookie move, and I’d made it. I still couldn’t believe it.
Coach let me have it in the post-game recap. I wasn’t expecting any less. And I wasn’t the only one—we’d fucked up other key moments and were staring down some brutal practice sessions in the next few weeks, no doubt—but I might as well have been the sole reason for our loss the way heat crawled up the back of my neck, spread over my cheeks, and decided to camp there the entire time he spoke.
I managed to hold my composure for the reporters who stuck their mics in my face once they were allowed into the locker room, even when the inevitable references to my brother came up. I rubbed at the tightness along my jaw in relief as they moved on to Dominguez, questioning him about sacking LA’s QB. It was one of the few good highlights from our game. And there was Ramsey, of course. They loved talking to Ramsey. I watched him as he spoke, the perfect white flash of his grin, how his expression sobered, became more serious, an occasional nod. The ultimate pro. No doubt he was being grilled about the rookie’s fumble. When his gaze moved in my direction, I looked quickly away, finished getting undressed, and headed for the showers.
He caught up with me as I dressed. “You okay?”
“Peachy keen.”
He gave me one of those appraising looks that felt like it left score marks on my bones. In the right setting I loved them. In this one I didn’t. After a beat, he shrugged. “All right. I’m not gonna blow sunshine up your ass right now. You hanging with the fam tonight, or you want to come over for a while?”
God, I dreaded going out to the players’ parking lot where my family was sure to be waiting. “Nah, I think I’m gonna crash after I talk to them. I’m beat.” And humiliated and hating the taste of the ground I’d crash-landed into after flying high for weeks.
Ramsey studied me a moment longer. “All right. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
I almost changed it in that second just because he fucking read me so well, pushed at the right times, left me alone when he sensed I needed it, and I appreciated it more than he’d ever know. But when he turned away, I let him go, finished stuffing my gear in my bag, and headed to the parking lot.
Houston was the first to wrap me in a big bear hug. “I know you’re being hard on yourself right now. Don’t.”
I grunted, fully embracing my sour attitude. “Did any reporters find you?”
“Sure did.”
“Ugh.” I groaned again. “Did they ask what it was like to watch your brother crash and burn?”