Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Chase
It’s the Friday after Thanksgiving and the stadium is packed. Even for an away game, there’s a lot of blue and gold lighting up the stands. It’s easy to know why.
This one matters more than the others.
Not just for pride, not that I’ve got any of that left, but because somehow, someway, we got ourselves into a tough spot—not from an overwhelming number of AU losses but because our division is the best out there and the competition was stiff.
Tonight determines it all. If we win, we clinch our spot in the playoffs, and I might just gain myself another chance.
We lose, and this is it. This game, right here, might very well be the last I play because scouted or not, there is never a guarantee when it comes to draft day.
I just wish my girl were here, if only so I could look up at her when I need to feel grounded, like right now, with the athletic trainer leaning over me, taping up my wrist and fingers into something that resembles a cast, my pinkie to middle finger all wrapped together and sticking straight out.
Thankfully we had a bye last week that meant I got to rest up, so this game will be my first on the field since I walked off it the night the scouts came to see me.
I’ve been a little off my game at practice these last few weeks, but not enough that anyone else has noticed.
Even if she can’t be here, I’m happy to know Paige is in my hometown with the rest of the girls, keeping my dad company and getting to know all our parents better.
When Mason first suggested to Payton that she and the others should go, take the baby home for the holiday to visit his grandparents, she flat out refused.
She said four days was too long to be away, and I had to agree.
But it made no sense for them to stay behind on campus when we wouldn’t be there anyway, and that was the exact point that won her over.
They left Wednesday after she got off work and they won’t be back until Sunday afternoon.
As for us, we spent most of Thursday, Thanksgiving Day, on a bus, and our game tonight is a late one. We’ll be playing primetime at 7:00 p.m., under the bright lights of our opponents’ stadium, and the family back home will get to watch the broadcast live.
I was able to talk to her earlier this afternoon, though, and there’s nothing quite like listening to her soft, sweet voice wishing me luck.
Yet somehow my day was made even better when my dad’s smiling face popped up over her shoulder.
It was a damn good thing to see, considering the way he looked when he left a couple weeks ago.
If I can’t be with her and I can’t be with him for the holiday, I’m glad they can be with each other.
The crazy thing is, I didn’t even suggest it.
She called me herself, wondering if it would be all right if she asked to stay with him instead of in Cam’s parents’ spare room, and to make it even better, she invited her grandfather to join them.
I can only hope it’s a sign of years to come and what our holidays might look like.
As a family for real.
A grin tugs at my mouth and something lands in my lap.
I look from the protein bar to the man who threw it.
“Tonight’s the one.” Brady grins. “The comeback kid.”
“Yes, sir,” I force myself to say, when what I’m really thinking is there should be no comeback. I shouldn’t have fallen off to have anything to come back from, but that’s just my inner bullshit talking.
Brady means no harm, the opposite, in fact.
I go to tear open the protein bar, but it slips from my hand and I frown, closing my good first around it as I clench my jaw, my fingers working slower than they should.
Just as they have been.
Ignoring yet another sign that something is wrong, I let it fall to my lap, pretending everything is fine.
The kickoff team jogs off the field and Brady tugs his helmet over his head, his grin so damn wide, it makes me chuckle.
“See you on the flip side, my boy!” he shouts and then he’s gone.
The athletic trainer flips my palm, double-checking his tape work and, with a single nod, moves to help someone else.
I stand, pulling my helmet on, and move to stand right beside my coach, silently letting him know I’m ready.
He cuts me one side glance, his eyes sharp and assessing. “We need this win.” Four words are all he speaks, but with them he is saying so much more.
That he wants me to go out there and perform. Guess he has noticed I’m not at my best.
If I do fuck up, I’m out because this win is necessary.
I give him a single curt nod and we both face forward.
He doesn’t put me in in the first quarter, the game plan revolving around a slow grind down the field. It’s near the end of the second quarter, the ball having just been turned over at the fifty, when he shoves me onto the field, but my legs are almost too numb to carry me.
I force my feet to move, jogging to meet my team in the middle, but my neck is growing stiff. It’s not pain I’m feeling, but there’s a tension there, a sharpness like I pinched a nerve.
Mason’s brows snap together under his helmet, and he comes for me, gripping my shoulder. “You good?”
I give a jerky nod.
Hesitantly, he nods back. “Lock in, man. You got this. Let’s go.”
I nod again, listening as he calls out the play.
I line up and wait.
It feels like a lifetime before the ball is snapped, and I break down the field. Snapping my hips left, I go deep, but there’s a guy at my back and front…and the hand that’s forward is covered in fucking tape, limiting my range.
Mason shifts, bulleting the ball right into another teammate’s hands.
Something knocks against my ribs, and I slow, going back to the line of scrimmage.
No big deal. It just wasn’t your ball.
It’s second down, and I take off, only Mason gets stopped in the backfield, the defense blowing through our line.
It’s fine. Not your fault.
We line up yet again, this time with a loss of four yards.
Mase calls the play—a deep route, built around my skills.
I get set, the ball is snapped, and I take off, running full speed, executing my route flawlessly, but their defense is quick. I’m double-teamed, and I can’t shake them. Mase drops back, and I lift my hands, but at the last second, he shifts, and he throws the ball away, sending it out of bounds.
Panting, I put my hands on my hips, the final second of the second quarter gone.
My chest shakes as I pull a breath, my eyes slamming closed.
Everything is fine. There’s still half a game left.
A sudden sharp ache jolts along my temple, and I wince, but ignore it, jogging with my teammates.
Everything is fucking fine.
Or it is until I’m stopped outside the locker room, my coach’s hand on my chest.
He looks to me, to my good hand and back, and I know I’m caught.
That he’s seen.
That he knows.
There will be no avoiding it now.
“Tell me the symptoms.”
“Coach—”
“Do not fuck with me right now, Harper,” he hisses, shuffling closer. “Tell me.”
I swallow, nodding. “Headache, sometimes my limbs feel a little numb, but not too bad.”
“And?” he snaps.
“My…my hands being weird sometimes and my neck…” I shake my hand, hurrying to add, “But I’m okay. It’s not all the time. It’s just random and—”
“I won’t send you straight from here to avoid a scene, but the second we get back to campus, you’re going to the ER. Do you understand me?”
I swallow, forcing myself to nod. “Yes, Coach.”
“I don’t have to tell you you’re done tonight, do I?”
Dread, cold and hard, seeps into my veins, because I think we both know that the word tonight isn’t needed. I can see it in his eyes, in the concern under the anger. The pity under the frustration.
“No, Coach.”
We lost.
We lost and I didn’t touch a single ball tonight.
Never have I ever felt more aggravated on the field in my life. They were ready for me: locked me out and tied me up all fucking night. Every play, I had two fuckers chasing me down.
I don’t know if I was too slow or they were too fast or I was in my head and they were mediocre at best, painting me as the same for everyone watching.
I shake my head, rubbing my towel along my neck and tugging my hoodie on before dropping onto the bench to tie my sneakers.
I hear them the second they enter, circling like vultures and out for blood—my blood apparently, as not one, not two, but three reporters come straight this way, ignoring the practiced smile Mason throws on, expecting the questions to be pointed at him right off the bat as the QB and captain.
But of course, that would make my night far too easy though and the universe never lets me off the damn hook.
If Coach hadn’t reamed my ass already tonight, I would slip out now, but I can’t, so I grit my teeth and bear it as they shove microphones in my face, firing off questions so fast I can’t keep up.
I barely remind myself not to spiral.
“Chase, tough one tonight. Think this might hurt your draft options even more?”
“Looked like you were off your rhythm. What happened out there?”
“What would you say to the people who are claiming we’ve seen all you have to offer?”
“Is it true you were hurt a lot more than the reports are showing and that’s why you hardly played tonight?”
I swallow, answering the questions as calmly and respectfully as possible because that is what’s expected of me, even if these three are hoping for the opposite.
They want me to crack and crumble, to show another negative, but I’ve already dug my hole and climbed in. I’m not so dumb I’d bury myself, too.
I smile and act charming, but on the inside, I’m fucking dying here.
The second Mason clamps one of them on the shoulder and pretends he’s their best friend, I push to my feet, meeting his knowing gaze as I take the exit he’s creating for me.
I go straight to the team bus, plug my headphones in, and close my eyes.
It takes a little over an hour for the full team to take their seats and then we’re on the road.
About a half hour into the drive, Fernando folds himself over the seat in front of me and tries to talk to me, but I point to my headphones and look out the window.
Mason pulls them out a minute later, eyebrows lifted. “Come on, man.”
“I just need a minute.”
“Chase, dude, you couldn’t have done anything different if you’d tried. The fact that they double-teamed you all night meant that you’re a threat. You have to know that—”
“Mase, please,” I don’t mean to whisper, swallowing as I look away. “I just need a minute.”
The weight of his stare burns into my cheek, and finally, he relents. “Yeah, okay, brother,” he mumbles, climbing from the seat beside me and moving over next to Brady across the way.
In my peripheral, I see him take out his phone, and the smile that breaks across his face as he waves at it.
He’s talking to the girls, to his son. I should crowd in beside them, say hello, but I can’t bring myself to move.
A bit later, a message comes through from Paige, and attached is a picture of a cookie tray.
My Angel: Thought you might want to know that only Uncle Chaser’s cookie passed the Deaton inspection on Thursday.
Well, and all of mine of course. No one had the heart to tell him that the cookies were inedible so we all pretended to eat one after dinner, and Brady’s mom somehow convinced him he wanted cake instead.
I chuckle lightly, warmth inching its way in.
Me: I always win, baby.
I send it, then wince, heat of a different kind flaring up my neck as humiliation breaks across my skin. I want to be a winner for her, but I feel like the biggest fucking loser right now.
I clench my eyes closed and my phone beeps in my hands again.
My Angel: I miss you.
Three simple words. Words that wouldn’t be uncommon and possibly expected when your other half is away, but that’s not what these are. This is her, proving again how in tune she is with me, even from hundreds of miles away. I want to tell her I love her, but I don’t want to risk her saying it back.
She keeps trying, but I need her to wait. I’ll be worthy of her love one day, I will die making sure of that simple fact, but today is not that day.
Me: I miss you too, Angel. More than you know. You’re the best thing in my life. Good night.
I hold my breath, watching as the three little dots pop up, disappearing a moment later only to do the same thing again. She wants to say more, to talk, maybe tell me about her day or ease into mine, but she keeps reading over those last two words, seeing them for what they are.
And when the little dots disappear yet again, I hate myself just a little more.