The Game Plan (Game On 3)

He leans close enough that I see his eyes glaze over. “No. Cherry… I just figure we let this settle down for a while, not visit each other until—”

“We barely see each other as it is. What’s the point, if we have even less than this?” I have to blink to keep from tearing up. I won’t. I will not beg. “Please, Ethan. Don’t do this.”

“I have to,” he rasps. “It’s so fucking ugly here, Fi.”

My breath hitches. “So that’s it? You’re just going to push me aside?”

He blanches. “Please don’t think of it like that. I’m trying to protect you, Cherry. Even if that means from myself.”

“I don’t need you to protect me, Ethan. I need you to want me.”

“I do want you. You’re the most important person in my life.”

An ugly sound leaves me. “You’ve got a funny way of showing it, Dexter.”

“You are,” he says with feeling, his cheeks flushing dark. “You are everything to me.”

“Then don’t push me away!”

He sits back in his chair with an audible thud. When his gaze comes back to me, it’s filled with pain. “I know you don’t believe me, Fiona. But there is no one, no one, I care about more than you. I cannot let these fucking vultures go at you. Do you get that? I. Can’t. Do. It.”

A single tear breaks free from his eye. He doesn’t wipe it away but looks at me, pleading.

And suddenly, I’m so angry I can’t speak. My nails dig into my thighs as I breathe through my rage.

“Fi.” Dex’s voice comes from a distance. “Fi?”

My lips press together as I swallow down a scream. Finally I look at him, but all I see is the red haze of my own frustration. “I can’t talk to you right now.”

Dully he nods. “Okay. I understand. I’ll call you later.”

And my rage grows.

“Don’t…” I suck in a scream. “Don’t call me. Don’t text. Just…don’t.”

I slam the lid on my computer and shut off my phone. For a long time, I lie on my bed, stare blindly up at the ceiling, and think.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Dex

Another day. Another practice. I don’t give a shit about anything. And it shows. My offensive line coach hands me my ass after my shitty footwork and slow reaction time letting yet another defensive end get to my QB.

If it was a game, I’d be riding the bench. As it is, I’m relegated to the sidelines to run ladder drills. I’m thankful for it. Practicing complicated footwork keeps my mind occupied, my body moving. I keep at it until I’m the only one left on the field. Push myself until my body feels like warm Jell-O.

Because there’s a void threatening to open up and consume me if I stop to think.

Fi.

I fucked up. I shouldn’t have told her all that on Skype like some dumb asshole. I hurt her instead of convincing her it was the safest thing to do for now. I should’ve waited, told her in person when I could hold her, show her I was only thinking about her happiness.

Only that’s all bullshit. I smashed her happiness just as effectively as if I’d taken a fist to her face. I saw her smiling face crumple with pain. I did that. To her. To my girl.

And it guts me. I have to make it right. Only I’m afraid I’ve done permanent damage.

A groan leaves me as I lean against the shower stall after practice, the water pummeling my skull. I’ve always wanted a girlfriend. Someone who was mine and mine alone. But the truth is, I have no fucking clue what to do when it comes to relationships.

When I finally trudge out of the showers, the locker room is almost empty, just a few guys left getting dressed, and none of them paying attention to me. Devon, a safety, is bitching about losing his favorite Grinch socks and how it’s affecting his mojo. Ryder is explaining to Morgan how to make a proper bread pudding, which apparently involves a dozen eggs and a shitload of cream.

I step away when he starts waxing poetic about types of bread to use.

I don’t notice Finn until he gives me a slap on the shoulder. “What’s doin’, Big D? You played like shit today.”

“Master at stating the obvious, aren’t you?”

He just grins like a smarmy dick. “So it was obvious to you too? Good. For a second there, I wondered if you had your head totally up your ass.”

I rub a towel over my hair and toss it down. I’m tempted to tell him to fuck off, but he’s stating the truth, and something worse comes out instead. “Are all men clueless when it comes to handling women? Or am I just gifted at being a spectacular fuckup?”

Finn blinks as if I’ve told him I have VD. I think I might be wincing too; I do not need the entire locker room knowing my business.

“Well, hell,” he says finally. “I don’t know. Isn’t it our job to fuck up?”

From across the way, Ryder snorts. “First of all, you never ‘handle’ a woman. She handles you. Your job—” He points at the both of us. “—is to hold on tight, go along for the ride, and pray you don’t fuck it up.”

“What makes you an expert?” Finn asks. “Last time I checked, you haven’t been with the same girl for more than one night for like…ever.”

“Four sisters, asshole,” Ryder answers as he looks in the little mirror he has attached to his cubby. He runs his hand through his damp hair. “And raised by my mom. I know women.” He catches my eye in the mirror. “What did you do?”