The Winner Takes All (Complete Collection)

36. Getaway Driver

36

GETAWAY DRIVER

Jason

I pound on Beck’s door. I don’t care if his landlady sees me or hears me. We need a plan, stat.

Beck lets me in seconds later, and he’s a Jack-in-the-box. His jaw is tight. “Hey,” he bites out as he shuts the door, then jams a hand through his messy hair. That hand has been a frequent visitor there this morning.

My heart clutches and I want to make this better for him.

But I can’t fix this the way I want.

I follow him into his kitchen. We don’t touch. I stand by the stove and Beck leans against the counter, like magnets repelled.

I’m going to have to take the lead like I do with the team, even if it tears my heart in half.

There’s only one option, and I pray Beck gets that. “We need to tell them the truth,” I say.

Beck blinks, swallows, then blows out a breath. “Come clean,” he says like he’s absorbing the option.

“We can’t lie. We need to tell them we were involved. They obviously know, so we can’t deny it,” I continue.

He goes completely unreadable, his face suddenly a mask. That must be how he is on the field. That’s why he’s so good at the game. He transforms into a superhero. Finally, he speaks again. “Right. We can’t,” he says, and his voice is hollow.

This hurts so much. But coming clean isn’t all we have to do. The next part will be so much worse.

“And we have to—” I begin, but I can barely get the words out. They taste so awful.

He steps up, finishing for me. “We have to break up.”

My heart screams obscenities. It’s revolting against me. But at least I don’t have to convince Beck that this is the right thing to do. I take some small solace in being on the same page as we engineer our demise.

“I’m sorry, Beck,” I say, and every word hurts.

“I’m sorry too,” he repeats, moving like a cheetah. He closes the distance, cups my cheeks, and presses a poignant, goodbye kiss to my lips. When he steps away, he looks devastated.

Like I feel.

I ache to reassure him. To tell him we’ll connect in the off-season. We’ll find a way. But if the owners are about to ream us for messing around, we need to stop for good.

No matter how painful.

Words churn in my head. Words like I fell in love with you.

But that won’t help now. The only thing left to do is what I’ve always tried to do in life, in sports, in love—the right thing.

We leave together, but breaking apart.

Wilder’s corner suite is sleek and classy. A pristine white couch claims the center of a silvery plush carpet. Blue armchairs, the color of the Renegades, sit across from the couch.

Floor-to-ceiling windows offer million-dollar views of the San Francisco Bay, with its dark sparkling waters. The day is uncharacteristically sunny, an affront to my mood.

The charismatic man with the regal chin and green eyes gestures to the couch. “Have a seat,” he says. His tone gives nothing away.

With jitters I never feel on the field, I sit on one end. Beck takes the other. He crosses his arms. Then uncrosses them. Then sets his hands on his lap.

My heart lurches toward him.

Nadia strides in a minute later, smiling at me and waving. “Hey, Jason,” she says.

She’s hey Jason -ing me? She takes a seat and rubs her palms. “Thanks for coming on short notice. We know we’ve worked you a lot this season.” She’s apologetic. Fuck. She feels bad having to handle this kind of PR disaster.

“And we asked you to do a lot to promote this rivalry,” Wilder weighs in, his tone completely businesslike, as I expected. “And we know how one thing can lead to another.”

I sit up even straighter. It’s coming. I brace myself.

“And things sometimes go in unexpected directions,” he adds.

Nadia presses her hand to her chest. “We really didn’t expect this to happen,” she says, pointing from Beck to me.

Oh shit. It’s the kill-’em-with-kindness play. Don’t know why they’d employ it, but that has to be what’s happening.

There’s a pause, and the silence in the suite is overwhelming. The owners look like they’re waiting for one of us to say something.

“We didn’t expect it either,” I say quickly.

Nadia blinks. “Oh, I’m sure it was a total surprise. It was to all of us. We honestly thought that the rivalry would just be a fun thing. We didn’t know it would turn into this big deal.”

Well, guess what, folks? It turned into the biggest deal in my life. The best time ever. The deepest feelings. And one huge heartache that started, oh, say, an hour ago.

Wilder clears his throat. “Please know we understand how unconventional,” he stops as if searching for a word, “ arrangements can come together.”

“It’s over.” Beck blurts the words like he’s hurling them from inside his soul.

I turn to him, shocked he spoke up. But impressed too, even though he’s vibrating with nerves, tense beyond anything I’ve ever seen.

Nadia jerks her gaze to Beck, concern in her eyes. “But does it have to be over? We’d just love to have you two do this one fantastic sponsorship for us.”

Wait. What?

Beck draws a sharp breath, then seems to rewire all his circuits. “I meant, it’s over? Like the show is over? I was asking a question. I thought that’s where you were going. My bad,” he says, and wow. Beck pulled off an ad-lib.

Way to go.

“Oh, God, no,” Nadia says, relieved. “ Monday Morning Quarterback has insane ratings. The video of Beck gloating with Jason was off the charts. Attendance continues to rise. TV ratings for both franchises are through the roof. I hate to admit this, but your rivalry is the best thing the Hawks have seen, marketing-wise, in a long time.”

“And it’s everything I could want from a new quarterback who’s stepping in for a legend,” Wilder says to Beck.

They’re. Pleased. With. Us.

White is black, in is out, and I am shook.

“And since both teams have a deal with Ding and Dine, the food delivery app, we were hoping you could do a series of local spots together promoting the app. Service so good even archrivals can agree ,” Nadia explains. “We called you in last minute because it’s one of those fast-moving deals.”

Are you kidding me? They’re not busting us?

“We’d talk to your agents. Make sure the deal is fantastic for you both,” Wilder adds, turning to face Beck. “But we think it would be a huge boon to the postseason run we’re making.”

Not to be outdone, Nadia squares her shoulders. “And the one we’re making with the Hawks. So if you’re game, we could do the deal with your agents this weekend and start shooting spots next week.”

I turn to Beck. His eyes say holy shit, we didn’t lose our jobs .

I turn back to the owners, reining in a wicked grin. “Works for me.”

“Same here,” Beck seconds.

On the way out of the building, we don’t talk. I’m wrung out and reeling. I go to the parking lot in a fog, Beck quiet by my side.

Once we’re in my car, I breathe at last.

Beck does too, long and relieved. “Wow. That was...”

“That was a close call,” I finish in the understatement of my lifetime.

I don’t know what to say next. No clue what to do. I turn to Beck, and he’s shoving his hand through his hair. Again and again. Then he drops his head against the dashboard. “Jason,” he says, and it sounds like a plea. He turns his face to me, his cheek still resting on the dash. “I feel like we just got away with murder,” he says, ashamed and maybe embarrassed too.

“We kind of did,” I say. That’s the problem. We might get away with the crime the first time. But trying to pull off a perfect heist twice is too risky.

He sits upright now. “We got lucky. We have to stay lucky,” he says, pressing the point, begging for me to understand.

But I do understand. I reach for his hand and squeeze it. “I know,” I say in a broken voice. “And I’m going to drive you home now.”

We’re quiet on the way, cruising through the city as shoppers flood stores on Black Friday and Christmas lights hug trees and streetlamps.

That feels like a mockery of my heart too.

When I reach his home, a heaviness sinks into my gut. This is the last time I’ll drive here.

I could tell him I love him. I could tell him I’ll miss him. But that’ll only make our getaway harder.

“Goodbye, Beck,” I say as stoic as can be.

“Bye, Jason,” he says plainly. He’s stripped all the emotion from his voice.

He gets out of the car, walks to his front door, and goes inside without looking back.

I hit the gas and go.