The Winner Takes All (Complete Collection)

20. Everything Sucks

20

EVERYTHING SUCKS

Beck

Sunday sucks.

We lose our first game of the season, and everything is awful. Our supposedly mighty offense only puts up seven meager points, courtesy of my inability to move the ball.

My stomach churns with worry. The team is going to hate me. Coach will rip my head off. I trudge off the field, making my way to the locker room alone.

I beeline for my stall, trying to avoid everyone.

Like Carter, who’s chatting with Hayden about construction near the Bay Bridge.

What? They’re not talking about my shitty game?

I duck past Isaiah and Evan, who are debating the Cougars’ chances for the World Series.

Am I in an alternate universe? Maybe this is the calm before they lay into me.

A minute later, Coach Greenhaven pushes open the door to the locker room and paces down the row of pro ballers. “You don’t need me to tell you that wasn’t our best game. Because you know it. And you know what I want—better focus next time,” he says, and I half expect him to stop and stare daggers at me with shrewd gray eyes. But he doesn’t laser in on his quarterback. He’s talking to everyone. “Step it up this week, and let’s get back on track,” he says, then cracks a sliver of a smile. “See you at practice tomorrow.”

He leaves.

After I shuck off my jersey, Carter swings by, slugs my shoulder, and gives a sad smile. “Next week, bro.”

From across the room, Hayden nods my way. “It’s one game.”

Holy shit.

This team is such a... team . They come together even after a loss.

“Let’s grab some grub, ’kay?” Carter asks Hayden and me.

The kicker hums in consideration. “If I can pick this time.”

“Fair enough,” Carter says.

And that’s that.

A little later, we head to dinner together. The meal and the company make losing a little better.

But once I’m alone in my home, I feel like a failure all over again.

Despite the reassurance from Coach and my teammates, my mind screams you suck . My stomach roils, churning up the seared salmon I just ate.

I clutch my stomach, run to the kitchen, and grab a glass of water. I down some to try to settle my nerves.

What’s wrong with me?

I set down the glass, and the feeling starts to fade. But my heart still pounds painfully in my tight throat.

I pace my kitchen, trying to walk off the rising panic, drying my damp palms on my jeans.

I’ve never panicked after a game. Why would I? The score is finished. The game is done. And I haven’t felt this anxious since that first media event I did with Jason more than a year ago when he saved my ass.

So why now?

Why, fucking universe, why?

I close my eyes and clench my fists.

You know why .

Oh, shit. That’s it. My eyes fly open.

I’m not freaking out over the loss. I’m spiraling out because tomorrow I have to be on-air for Monday Morning Quarterback .

It’ll be my first major media event after a loss, and I’ll be talking to the public right next to my rival.

The guy I’m more than crushing on.

The man who’s constantly on my mind.

I sink to the floor as the scariest realization hits me square in the chest. Jason’s also the person I most want to talk to tonight.

Except he won his game, and he’s probably on the team plane, celebrating on the way home.

Good for him. He deserves to.

I deserve to suffer . . .

My mind is a monster. It wants to trick my body, to send my heart into a horrifying overdrive.

But I know this drill.

I have the tools now.

I stalk to my bedroom and grab my phone. Flopping down on my bed, I turn to one of my apps and tune into a thirty-minute meditation on stress.

I can’t let anxiety conquer me. I won’t let it defeat me. I close my eyes and listen to a soothing voice take me into a deep breathing exercise.

At first, I try to fight back against my brain, as some ancient part of me repeats you fucked up, you fucked up, you fucked up .

But eventually, twenty or one hundred breaths in, my thoughts slow, then float away.

Inhale, exhale.

Soon, I touch the edges of the precious sense of calm that’s eluded me since the game ended.

I’m okay. I’m going to be okay.

Slowly, I open my eyes, taking one more deep breath, feeling like I’ve emerged from a brutal underwater battle with a six-armed sea creature.

But at least I’ve emerged. I’m swimming above the surface again.

I sit up and turn off the app. My phone blinks with a message. When I see the name, it feels like a reward.

King of the Couch: Tough loss tonight, man. You hanging in there?

My heart swells. I’m dying to talk to Jason.

Streaker: Yeah, it was rough. But you can trash-talk me tomorrow. I can handle it.

King of the Couch: What about tonight?

Does Jason want me to come over? My pulse soars at the possibility. It’s a terrible idea, but I crave it. I’m about to call him when his name flashes on my screen, the sound of the phone ringing thrilling me.

“Hey, Jason,” I say when I answer.

“Hey there.”

“Hi,” I say, then I roll my eyes. “Um, I said that. Sorry.”

“No worries. I had a feeling you’d be out of sorts.”

I sigh, but I’m relieved to let down my guard. “Is it that obvious I don’t have it together?”

“You do have it together, Nine. You’re just beating yourself up. Want to know how I know?”

“Yes, please,” I say, eager for the benefit of his experience.

“It’s your first loss with your new team. I felt awful after my first loss. And that was five years ago. I wanted to see if you’re okay. Are you?”

My throat tightens. This is so embarrassing. I don’t cry over losses, even pro losses. That’s not how you survive in the NFL.

“Yeah. I’m okay... now ,” I say, even though I don’t feel better yet. But I did want to talk to him. He’s the one person who understands exactly how I feel. “I feel like I let everyone down,” I confess. “How do I deal with it?”

He sighs softly. “First, you didn’t let anyone down. Second, it’s the job. Just know you’re not the only quarterback who feels this way.”

“You seem like you always have it together. You’re Mister Laid-back and Cool.”

He snorts. “I’m Mister Good at Appearances. That’s my skill. I don’t tell the media how I really feel. But I’m telling you. And sometimes it’s hard.”

“How do you manage?” I ask, desperate for insight.

“Talking to my dad always helped me. He reminds me I take a lot of the team burden on myself when I shouldn’t. And he reminds me, too, that every game is a fresh start.” He takes a beat, and I hear a small meow in the quiet. I picture him at home, petting Taco, and I smile. “That helps me stay grounded,” Jason adds.

“My dad played college ball,” I offer. I want to share with him. He’s sharing with me.

“So he’d know how you’re feeling,” Jason says.

“We’re not close, though. I mean, it’s not intentional. We’re not estranged. It’s just... life.”

“I hear ya. My mom left when I was eight. I don’t see her much. It’s just... life,” he echoes, letting me know he understands me.

This is what I craved tonight—connection.

I sit up, feeling exposed and raw. “Jason?” I sound so vulnerable. I hope it doesn’t scare him.

“What is it, Beck?” He sounds like he desperately wants to help me.

I swallow some courage. “Thank you. I think I had to say this to you tonight or I’d shut down on the air tomorrow. I had to get all these feelings off my chest.”

“I’m glad I called then,” he says, so warmly I want to curl up in his voice.

Why is it so easy to open up to my rival? I wish I could hate him, but I can’t because I like him too much. “There’s one thing I want, though.”

“Name it.”

I smile again. “Don’t go easy on me tomorrow.”

“I never fucking would.”

Jason is true to his word.

The next morning, he stares at me fiercely across the studio soundboard. It’s time for the two-minute warning. “You see, Cafferty,” he says, “you’ve got to do this thing where you move the football. That’s the basic goal of the game.”

I hate the dig, and I love it. It’s what I wanted from him. “I’m making a mental note,” I say.

I lost. I have to eat some humble pie.

The show ends, and I’m elated to realize I not only survived, but I thrived. So elated, I want to push Jason against the stairwell wall and kiss the breath out of him.

I don’t, of course.

But I do leave with him. Head into the elevator with him. Get out on the garage level with him.

He points his phone at his car, taps the screen, then gives me a curious look. “You need a ride again?”

I want one, but I don’t need one. I point to a black BMW a few cars past his. “That’s mine now.”

“Nice wheels,” he says. Then, before he gets in his car, he gives me a long look.

I read everything into it— I want you in my car again, I want you in my bed again, I want you again .

And I want to tell him, too, why I got this car. But I don’t. It’s silly, and it’d reveal my foolish hope for an invitation to his home.

“Thanks,” I say quickly, then I get in my car and drive away.

The following Sunday, my game returns to awesome.

The second I hit the field, exhilaration rushes through me. There’s a sense that this—this grass, this moment, this fifty-yard-line—is where I’m meant to be.

I start the game off right with a play fake. The defense chases our running back, but oops! He doesn’t have the ball because I gunned it to the tight end, who tears down the field.

Like that, I set the rhythm. We play tight and smart, and we keep Miami on their toes and out of sorts.

Just the way I like it.

When the clock runs out, the Renegades win, making our record four and one. Jason’s Sunday must have sucked, though. The Hawks lose, and his team’s record is three and two.

He’s been down this road before, so I doubt he needs to talk it out like I did last week. Still, I text him that night, just in case. Also, I like seeing his name on my phone. I’m selfish like that.

Streaker: Hey, I won’t go easy on you tomorrow.

King of the Couch: You better fucking not.

Streaker: You hanging in there?

King of the Couch: Coach ripped us all new ones, but I’ll live.

Streaker: Ouch. That’s no fun.

King of the Couch: It is what it is. Tell me something non-football-y.

Hmm, what can I say to take his mind off the loss?

Streaker: Here you go: I realized I never told you what I thought of your cuddling.

King of the Couch: Oh, so I’m getting a belated cuddling review?

Streaker: If you want it.

King of the Couch: I do. Wait, do I?

Streaker: You do. Since I liked it.

King of the Couch: Liked? You liked it? That’s all?

Streaker: That’s not enough for you?

King of the Couch: I’m a greedy mofo.

Streaker: You are. Fine, I give you a nine.

King of the Couch: I deserve a ten.

Streaker: You can’t get a ten the first time.

King of the Couch: I’ll have to remember that.

A little over a week later, as the Renegades finish practice on a Wednesday morning, Wilder, the team’s owner, appears on the field. From the way he seems to be everywhere, I suspect he can teleport. Ian’s beside him, though I’m sure he had to walk. No teleporting for the PR guy.

The pair meets me as I’m headed toward the tunnel to the locker rooms. “The Monday Morning Quarterback ratings are terrific,” Wilder says.

He strides across the practice field like he owns it—which he does. “We’re very pleased, indeed. Now, I have another opportunity for you. Every year, the pro teams in San Francisco work together on an event called the Ultimate Player Auction. It’s a fundraiser in December for the Children’s Hospital, and it’s near and dear to my heart.”

I can read between the lines. I need to say yes to the auction.

“It’s a win a ‘date’ with a player thing,” Ian explains, and I suspect he’s here, so I don’t feel pressured. But I do feel pressure, and I’m fine with it.

“Feel free to say no, of course, but I’d like to personally invite you if you’d want to participate,” Wilder says, all smooth as silk. “Ian can give you details.”

He walks off the field. I guess the teleport machine is on the fritz.

I turn to Ian. “If I say yes, how does this work?”

“Moore Media is the PR agency handling the Ultimate Player Auction. We want to move quickly to put together some marketing materials and start talking up the auction, so the agency is hosting players tomorrow afternoon for a prep session for the event, to ask what the athletes like in a partner and all that,” he explains.

Hmm. How am I going to please the team owner and myself? I know—I’ll go on a platonic date. “Who else is doing the auction?”

“The teams started lining up guys on Monday,” Ian says. He rattles off players from the local baseball, hockey, and basketball teams. “The Renegades are sending Carter, Hayden, Isaiah, and Evan, so far. And on the Hawks, Xavier Walters, Devon, and Jason McKay already agreed.”

I stop short at the mouth of the tunnel.

What the hell? Jason said yes, and he didn’t mention it to me? Didn’t we have an understanding? Neither one of us is dating. Heck, we are not supposed to be dating.

But from the things we’d said, I kinda thought Jason and I were on the same page—we can’t see each other, but we don’t want to see anyone else either.

I burn.

“I’ll do it,” I bite out.

If Jason’s going to play dating games, so will I.