The Game Plan (Game On 3)

“Ethan,” I run my fingers through his silky hair. “It’s not that long of a plane ride.”

“It’s too long,” he grumps. And I know he isn’t talking about time but distance. My breath hitches with a twinge of pain.

It breaks the spell between us. He takes a step back, his hands falling away as if holding me any longer hurts him.

He stares down at me with eyes suspiciously bright and glassy. “Safe flight, Fi.”

“See you soon, Ethan.”

His nod is a ghost of a movement.

It takes effort to move, to take the handle of my roll-on bag. I’m turning to go when he mutters an oath and grabs me. I’m engulfed by a wall of muscle and arms of steel. He hugs me tight, hunching over me, his nose buried in the crook of my neck.

My arms wrap around his waist, fingers digging into the loose fabric of his shirt.

He breathes in deep, then lets it go with a shaky gust. “I hate this. I hate it so much.” His grip makes my ribs protest, and his voice goes rough. “I feel like some essential organ is being ripped from me.”

My eyes burn, my throat locking up tight. I have to swallow hard to speak. “Ethan…”

But he shakes his head and sets me away from him. His expression is almost angry, jaw set beneath the blanket of his beard. “Time to go, Cherry. Just…don’t look back, okay? Or I won’t be able to let you go.”

Fuck. My vision blurs. Sniffling, I nod. “All right.”

But I can’t move.

With a sad smile, he takes me by the shoulders and turns me toward the dreaded TSA line. “Go on now.” His big hand slaps my butt. “Get.”

I jump a little, glaring over my shoulder. “You sounded awfully Southern just now, mister.”

That smile quirks. “Went to a Southern university. Guess I picked up a few things, ma’am.” The smile falls. “Go on, Cherry. Don’t look back.”

“I won’t.” I can’t. Or I’ll never leave.

My rolling bag weighs a thousand pounds as I drag it behind me, every step taking me farther away from Ethan. I don’t turn around, but I feel him watching. I know he won’t go until I’m out of sight.

Tears threaten to fall, but I breathe through them. I can’t let him see me cry.

When I’m through the line, my cell dings. Glancing down, I almost lose it again.

FearTheBeard:

Chapter Thirty

Dex

Monday Night Football. The audience is not as rowdy as in college. Fans are more likely to shout “you suck” than give their undying love. Because it’s about the win. Sure, we had that need to win in college. But school spirit trumped the team’s record. Here? My job is on the line if I don’t perform.

The stadium isn’t as big. Doesn’t need to be. Cameras are everywhere, taking in every fucking move we make for an audience that grows year by year—a big, voracious mass of unseen fans. Damn if I haven’t begun to think if it not as a sport but theater. We’re giving them a show, and it had better be good.

Right now, I’m facing off against a big bastard of a nose tackle. Emmet Sampson. We played against each other in college, and I know his ways well. He loves to talk shit. Excels, at it, actually. I’m pretty sure he makes a study of his opposition to find the worst dirt he can on them.

Emmet can’t stand me because I’ve never once blinked in the face of his bullshit. Not that he doesn’t keep trying.

“Lookie here,” he says as we take the field. “It’s old Paul Bunyan. Where’s your big blue ox, boy?”

At your mamma’s house having a smoke.

But I don’t say it. Not speaking is much more effective.

I hunker down, my quads giving a nice stretch that brings me right back into the physical.

“So that shit true, Dexter?” he goes on. “You haven’t busted your cherry? Damn, man.” He shakes head. “Some sorry-ass shit right there.”

I breathe in deep. Pay attention to my team. His team. Watch. Wait. Listen.

“Naw, I don’t believe it. What’s the matter, Dexter? Afraid of the pussy?”

Emmet is meowing like a cat. The sound fades as I focus on the line. The pads of my gloved fingers rest on the ball, the shape grounding me. I draw in a breath, let my gaze open up until I see the whole picture—my guys, the defense, how they line up.

I call out a play adjustment. My guys hustle, changing positions. And the defense scrambles to follow.

The instant Finn makes his signal, I snap the ball and explode into action. Emmet and I meet like a thunderclap, helmets clacking, bones rattling. My thighs bunch as I push forward, the balls of my feet digging into soft earth as I drive him back. He’s hammering his fists at my wrists, sending shards of pain up my arms, straight to my brain. But I hold tight and strong-arm him to the side to clear a path for my guy.

Emmet goes down in a tumble. And, when the play ends, I lean over him. “If you ran your ass half as good as you run your mouth, I just might be afraid, bitch.”

Trotting back to the huddle, I give Finn a slap on the helmet. “Let’s light ’em up, rook.”

He gives me a grin. “You know it.”

For the rest of the game, we do just that. We play smart, crafty, and light them up like fireworks on the Fourth of July. My guys play like a well-oiled machine—Finn picking apart the defense with a football sense you can’t learn; it’s just innate, and a beautiful fucking thing to witness.

But the taunts don’t stop, they grow. Doesn’t matter if I play my best. It’s no longer all about my performance. The world is pulling down the walls I’ve built to protect myself, exposing me without my consent.