“You sure you don’t want me to come out there with you?” Paige asked in a quiet voice, her hand on my back. The tunnel out to the field looked eighteen miles long.
I set my shoulders and took a deep breath. “No, it’s business as usual. I’ve survived the past five days, so I can survive one walkthrough on that field.”
Her face mirrored the apprehension currently warping my stomach into twist ties. You know, those bendy things that hold together bread bags? And if they’re wound too much, you couldn’t find the beginning of it, couldn’t figure out what direction it needed to go in order to smooth everything out correctly.
That was how my entire body felt.
I’d gotten three massages this week, all at the house, because leaving that place was highly overrated. Grocery delivery kept us alive, as did massive amounts of wine, ice cream, and Chinese.
Not in that order.
Though the wine had preceded every major decision Paige and I had made since The Incident, as we’d taken to calling it.
Wine helped us decide that I should pay an exorbitant amount of money to have my stylist come chop my hair above my shoulders from the comfort (and privacy) of my own bathroom. Something fresh and new.
Wine helped us decide that inheriting a football team from your father was stupid, even if I didn’t really think it was stupid at all.
Wine helped us decide that Luke was definitely probably most likely hopefully just afraid of how awesome it was between us, so he was choosing the safe route for him and his daughter by maintaining his distance. Not once had I caught a glimpse of him at home. Faith either.
Not a single glimpse.
It almost made it worse. As if he hadn’t existed at all.
By Friday, I’d had to tell wine we were breaking up for a few days because I needed to not be hungover for the game on Sunday. First game since The Incident, at home, against our biggest division rival, and the team was currently ahead of us by one game in the division standings.
Even without The Incident, it would be a tense game. Joy told me that they were known for a lot of things, in addition to winning games this year. Trash talk. Some questionable plays. Fans so violently passionate for their team that they showed up looking like warriors from a bygone era, all mildly terrifying if you didn’t know what to expect.
I’d stayed out of the office all week, and I’d woken up Sunday morning knowing that I needed to be at the game. Business as usual. I’d walk the field during warm-ups because that was what I’d normally do. I’d greet the team, some of whom had reached out via text or email to let me know they had my back, and I’d watch from the safety of my luxury suite.
Paige, who’d been by my side all week, doing whatever I needed her to do, did not want me to go out there. Joy thought it would be good for me. Good for the team.
She’d thrown that last gem in there, probably knowing it would smack the hell out of my cowardice and force me back into the land of the living.
Business as usual.
I could do this. Because it was a home game, I just had one security guard walk with me, a menacing looking man with eyes that never stopped scanning and a neck the size of my entire body. I think his name was Rico, but I also wasn’t positive he could speak, so I didn’t ask.
With one last concerned look at the field, where we could hear the thump of music, the laughter of the players, and fans shuffling around vying for autographs, Paige squeezed my hand. “Well, I won’t be far if you need me to rough anyone up.”
Rico cleared his throat, and I tried not to laugh. I gave my friend a brief hug. “It’s fine. I don’t feel unsafe, I just feel …” I searched for the right word. “Exposed. And I hate that.”
Her eyes were sad. “That’ll fade eventually. Just, just go out there, don’t look at anyone other than your players, do your thing, and we’ll go order a fantastic Bloody Mary in your suite, okay?”
I nodded. “Okay.”
As I walked down the tunnel, I smoothed a hand down the front of my white Wolves tank top. I’d covered it with a tailored black blazer and kept my hair pinned back from my face. Instead of heels, which were a giant pain in the ass on the field, I went with plain white Keds.
Business as usual.
No one would be dissecting my outfit. No one would care that I was out there. I repeated it over and over like a prayer.
Business as usual.
The retractable roof was open, allowing the sun to stream in along with a slow, cool October breeze. I kept my chin up and my eyes straight forward as I exited the tunnel, and like he was waiting for me, Dayvon slid in front of me, dancing through his warm-up.
I couldn’t help but smile when he extended his elbow to me and kept singing with whatever pop song was playing. I didn’t recognize it, but that wasn’t surprising.
“Thank you,” I told him under my breath, folding my hand around his massive arm.
“Girl, no thanks necessary.” He glanced at me out the corner of his eye. “You’re probably the reason he was in such a damn good mood those few weeks. Boy needed to relax a bit.”
It felt wrong to laugh but also so, so good. So sweetly relieving, along with the sun, the fresh air, knowing that the hardest part—walking out here at all—was over.
He walked with me as the guys stood from their stretches, one by one smiling at me, giving me high fives, a couple of hugs, every single one greeting me with respect, with purpose, and letting me know I had their support.
Jack winked at me before he took off running to catch a ball thrown by, yep, Luke. When I glanced his direction, his head was down, listening to whatever his QB coach was telling him. Now that was one thing I hadn’t considered. Eyes would definitely be watching us for that.
As much as I didn’t want to, I allowed my eyes to scan the sidelines, where all the cameras lined up and all the reporters would stand during the game. Half of those cameras were already trained directly on me.
My heart thudded uncomfortably, which made me tighten my hand on Dayvon’s arm.
From behind me, Jack jogged up, tossing the ball to someone on the field staff before he nudged me with his shoulder.
“Miss Sutton,” he said with a wide grin. “How you doin’ today?”
I shrugged, feeling completely overwhelmed with the wide swing of my emotions. How was it possible to feel so much in such a short span of time?
“Oh,” I told him airily, “just peachy.”
We smiled at each other as someone whistled sharply to gain our attention from the other side of the field. Jack’s smile fell instantly, and Dayvon turned me so that I was behind him when I heard one of the opposing players yell out.
“Y’all got any openings for a guy like me?”
I looked around Dayvon’s shoulder and saw the guy stretching his thick arms over his head. He had his eyes pinned on me and a wicked smile on his face.
“Why don’t you worry about your own damn team,” Dayvon told him firmly.
Whoever he was, the number twenty-two in faded black on his T-shirt, ignored Dayvon and kept his eyes in my direction, sliding them down my body. “You sure, baby? You’re the boss, right? You could bring me over for some fun.”
Rico grabbed my arm and pulled me from Dayvon just as Jack started marching forward.
“What’d you say, Marks?”
He stuck his tongue out and waggled it. “You heard me just fine, rookie. So did she.”
“You wanna repeat that, asshole?” he yelled, his arms spread wide. “Come on, you get in my face and say that again.”
My skin felt tight and cold, my fingers clammy and useless as I was walked back to the tunnel.
Dayvon used both hands to hold Jack back, speaking to him low enough that I couldn’t hear him over the blood roaring in my ears. Luke strode over, pinning me with one brief, loaded look before he glanced at Rico with a nod.
Then he stepped next to Jack, telling him to calm down. The other player was pulled back by his own teammates, which was probably wise since half of the Wolves lineup was making their way over to Jack, who was still breathing like a bull.
My heart hurt. It was the only way I could describe it. I felt beat up. Tired. Exhausted to the marrow of my bones.
Paige rushed toward me. “Oh my gosh, Allie, what did that asshole say?”
“Nothing worth repeating.” I rubbed my hands up and down my arms, suddenly cold. “Can we just go up? I think I need that Bloody Mary.”
Luke
If someone didn’t muzzle Marks, someone would end up bleeding on the field. And it wouldn’t be anyone from the Wolves.
With two minutes left in the game, we’d heard just about everything come out of his giant, idiotic, never-silent mouth, and by some miracle, every member of our team had kept their hands off his throat.
The chippy atmosphere on the field made me feel jittery, unable to hold still.
I barked plays louder than usual, the words snarling out of my mouth like my jaws could barely hold on to them.
In front of me, Gomez was snapping the ball faster and harder, blade-straight into my waiting hands. My throws were instant, slicing the air so that their defensive line didn’t have a chance in hell of touching me. My O-line was blocking like they were made of cement, nothing was coming through them.
Tackles were rougher.
Catches snatched from the air with furious accuracy.
If there was anything, anything, good about all the trash talk coming from him, unchecked by his teammates or coaches, it was that he had us playing with an angry, almost violent precision. The only thing keeping us from throwing down, fifty guys against one, was the fact that we were winning. That we were kicking their ass.
But did that shut him up?
Not a chance in hell.
“I wanna break that dude’s arms,” Jack growled next to me in the huddle. This came right after he jogged backward after Jack ran a ten-yard route for first down, taunting him in a singsong voice after he took Jack to the turf.
Me fucking too. That was what I wanted to say. But no one needed to be incited right now.
“Come on,” I barked. “First down, second down, first down. We aren’t giving those assholes a chance to stop us on third, okay? We shut him up by winning.”
Everyone nodded, clenching and unclenching fists, punching their pads just to release some of the spitting, fiery testosterone that had us practically shaking.
And I’d never wanted to win a game so badly.
It was taking every ounce of my mental and physical discipline not to march up to him, rip his helmet off, and bash his teeth in with it, which was harder than I’d expected. My nerves were on their last white-knuckled grip on the edge of a wet cliff.
All week, I’d shut out the noise. The moment I walked from the conference room, the moment I saw her determination to make it less than it was, I’d slapped my blinders on with steady hands, met my teammates’ eyes, and told them that now was the time to prove we were a team. If they had something to say about it, they could do it now or keep their mouths shut.
I’d been met with silence.
Each day was survived with a single-minded intensity that I hadn’t felt in a long time. I practiced each day with an inflexible, iron-wrapped stubbornness, working my muscles until I was soaked with sweat and well past the point of exhaustion. I watched film late after I’d tucked in Faith, which served as a perfect distraction to what had happened, to how I felt like that biggest asshole on the planet.
And now this clown was poking at the bruise, and if he kept it up, I’d rip his finger off and shove it down his throat.
“Oooooh, I see her up there, Pierson. You got that shit all nice and warmed up for me?” Marks called out.
I clenched my jaw and refused to look at him. Even though in my head, I was imagining how many ways I could break a man’s arm.
“Loudmouth son of a bitch,” Gomez muttered under his breath, popping his knuckles.
I smacked the side of his helmet. “Let’s go.”
We lined up, the home crowd quieted, my receivers split left and right, but Marks didn’t follow Jack as he normally would as the corner. Over the top my O-line, his D-line, he weaved back and forth as I called my play, like a snake uncoiling out of a basket. They were lining up to blitz, to rush straight at me with everything they had. His eyes, blue and cold and fixed on me, never blinked. Not once.
My fingers flexed.
“Easy ninety-four,” I yelled, pointing at Marks so that Ryan, my left tackle, saw him and would protect my blind side. “Easy ninety-four. Hut!”
Snap.
Ball in hand.
Crowd roared.
I jogged back a few steps, pulled my arm back, and hefted it twenty yards where my tight end Rateliff would be running his fade route.
From the corner of my eye, as the ball sailed perfectly in a tight spiral through the air, I saw Marks lower his helmet, spin around Ryan, and launch at me. I tried to drop back, but the top of his helmet hit the front of mine, leveling me in an instant.
“Hell yeah,” he roared in my face, spit hitting my skin. Before he got up, he gripped the front of my facemask and yanked my head closer. I shoved at him, but he was holding too tightly. “She like to be on top too, Pierson? I bet she does.”
I was just about to punch him in the kidneys when he was yanked off by Gomez, who pushed Marks a bit harder than he should have. Gomez reached a hand out to help me up. Marks danced in front of me while I struggled to control the furious drumbeat of my heart screaming at me to hurt, hurt, hurt.
“You like being down there?” he taunted, unconcerned with the flag just thrown on his completely illegal hit or the official running over to calm him down. “I bet she liked being down there too. I’ll make that bitch choke on it when I get a hold of her.”
My entire body froze, and my vision sliced to one spot in the entire arena, nothing else. No one else. No coaches or teammates, no reporters, no cameras, no fans, nothing but me and him and the roar that came out of my mouth.
I launched at him, both hands on the base of his helmet, which I ripped off as I took him down to the field.
He punched my side as my teammates and his descended on us like a swarm of angry bees.
There were no whistles, no flags, no penalties in my head.
Just pure, hot rage. A beast unleashed, I wanted nothing more than to take every word he’d thrown into the air and shove them back where no one could see them, no one could hear them, just in case they made it up to where she sat, hiding from the eyes that had been on her all week.
My arm cocked back, my balled-up fist cracked against his nose once, twice, a sickening, gratifying snap of bone and rush of blood against my hand, and we rolled once, he caught the side of my helmet with his fist just before someone ripped us apart.
“Hey, get your shit together, Pierson,” Coach screamed in my face, both hands fisted in my jersey while referees tried to untangle the mess of shoving and yelling and swearing in the mass of uniforms around us. “You just broke his nose, you idiot.”
My chest was heaving, my fist throbbing, and as my blood red vision cleared, I heard the referee say that both Marks and I were ejected from the game. The crowd didn’t boo, though. Up on the giant screens, they showed a replay of his mouth moving, then me ripping his helmet off, followed by a live shot of him with a balled-up, blood-soaked towel against his nose.
The fans roared.
With a grim smile, I accepted the back slaps of my teammates as I walked down the tunnel and off the field so that my backup could kneel on the last series, finalizing the win.
I’d pay for it. Financially, for sure, when the league fined me. When I had to explain to Faith why Daddy got into a fight with another player. But as I showered, ignored reporters, listened to Coach give his post-game speech, I couldn’t bring myself to have the slightest pang of misgiving over what I’d done.
At that moment, after hours of hearing him talk about her, talk about us, turn it into something ugly, and her into some sort of empty vessel, I had to reckon with the truth that defending Allie’s honor was more important than whatever consequences were headed my way. Maybe she hadn’t seen it. Maybe she’d only catch a highlight and think that I was reacting to a shady late hit.
But as my car turned the corner to home, hours after I broke Marks’s nose, I saw the moving van in front of Allie’s house.
She’d seen. She’d definitely seen.
And now she was running away.
