The Winner Takes All (Complete Collection)

37. The Long Goodbye

37

THE LONG GOODBYE

Nate

Nothing beats a hometown crowd, but this is damn close. Triumph Stadium is electric on Sunday evening.

Kickoff is deafeningly loud, and it’s impossible to tell who the crowd is rooting for—Hawks or Leopards.

The answer is probably both. The fans are here for a show. After the Hawks win the coin toss, we take possession and Jason comes out of the pocket on fire, slinging the football right to me in a long pass.

I haul it from the sky into my arms, hellbent on an opening touchdown reception.

But the Leopards cornerbacks have something to say about that, so I scramble out of bounds before I’m tackled.

Still, I pump a fist as we get back in the huddle.

A couple plays later, Devon catches the ball on the five-yard line and runs it into the end zone.

Touchdown!

“That’s how you start a game,” I say to Jason, pumped up already, as we jog to the sidelines.

“You know it,” Jason says.

After the extra point is good, the Leopards offense takes the field. Coach Tierney calls Jason over, so my gaze strays to the stands. It roams the sea of fans waving foam fingers, decked out in Hawks and Leopards jerseys, then continues higher still to the suites.

I’m hunting for the control room. What does Hunter do when the game’s on? Is he in that broadcast suite across the field or a different one?

I wish I knew. Wish I could see him one more time before the team’s flight tonight.

But what’s the point? No one wants a prolonged goodbye.

Devon jogs past me, smacking my arm. Where did he come from?

“Hey. Time-out’s over. We’re up.”

I blink, realizing I zoned out through the Leopards entire possession and a commercial break.

I shake off the pointless daydream and return to football.

Third and long, two minutes to go. We are losing, but only by seven. We can tie this baby up and go into overtime.

“C’mon, Hawks,” I say after Jason gives us the play in the huddle. “Let’s do this.”

I line up at the edge of the field, then go into motion. The second Jason drops back in the pocket, hunting for me, for Devon, for any open receiver, I’m lasered in on the quarterback and the ball.

The noise is rock concert level. I race downfield, but the Leopards secondary is swarming me big time, and I can’t get open. Jason runs the ball instead, but only manages three measly yards.

Fourth down, fighting for our lives, we return to the huddle. Jason calls for the Hail Mary play. When he drops back, I run like hell.

I stretch my arms, jump into the goddamn air, and reach for that ball.

But a safety comes out of nowhere, knocking me down. The ball tumbles, thunking onto the grass beside me.

An incomplete reception.

Shaking my head in frustration, I drag my ass off the ground and trudge to the sidelines.

It’d take a miracle for us to win this game.

And the gods of football don’t grant it. When the clock runs out, we leave the field with a loss, smacking palms with the Leopards. When I pass Luke, he tips his chin in my direction.

“Better luck next time,” he says with a smirk.

“You don’t mean that,” I say.

“You’re right.” He grins. “But that was a good game, bro.” We both know that the chips could fall the other way next time.

I’m not thinking of the score as I head off the field, looking up at the stands one more time, searching for a familiar head of blond hair, for bright eyes, for a mischievous smile.

Then I want to kick myself. Like I can find him from this far away.

And if I did, what would I do about it?

I go inside and hit the showers.

Time to go. Dressed in my suit, like the rest of the guys when we travel as a team, I grab my phone from my stall. Our flight’s in two hours. Our gear is already packed and loaded, and the team bus to the airport pulls out in fifteen minutes.

I can do a lot in fifteen minutes. I trot out of the locker room and call Hunter. “Where are you?” I ask as soon as he picks up.

“In the media suite, wrapping up,” he says, his breath catching.

“I have to go. Can you meet me?—”

“Anywhere.”

Five minutes later, I spot him race-walking toward me down the corridor to the equipment room where we made out three days ago.

I break into a jog, grab his hand, and tug him into the room again.

Then I kiss the fuck out of him. I kiss him like I’ll never see him again. Because I won’t.

I kiss him so he knows I don’t regret a thing. Because I don’t.

And I kiss him for the road, hard and deep and passionately, so I can feel it for as long as I possibly can.

When I break the kiss, his eyes are wild, and his hair’s a mess. “Thanks. Now you’ve made it even harder,” he says drily, but he’s not truly mad.

“It’s already hard enough.” We’re not playing with innuendo.

“I know, I know,” he says softly.

I press my forehead to his, breathing him in. Then I step back to savor the sight of this irresistible man one more time. This man who makes my heart new again.

“You have to know what this week meant to me,” I say, my voice thick with emotions I didn’t want to experience again.

Too bad. I feel them all.

“Same here, Nate,” he says.

I want to tell him so many things. To toss out ideas. Options. Possibilities.

But then I remember how it feels to love and to hurt, so I say, “You’re the best fake husband ever.”

He smiles, that winning grin that charmed me way back when.

“And that was the best fake honeymoon, Nate,” he says, and captures my mouth one last time.

It’s a tender goodbye kiss that I’ll replay for weeks.

He tips his forehead to the door. “I have to get back to work,” he says, resigned.

“I need to catch a plane,” I say.

And we go our separate ways.

Two hours later, I’m flying away from London, the city shrinking, the night sky inky and dark. San Francisco is calling me home, and as the miles stretch on, I stare at my wedding ring for too long.