21. Chapter 21
Chapter 21
TEAGAN
Iknow I’m in trouble the moment I step on the bus and all eyes swing to me. Then again, I’ve been in trouble since the moment I met Lane Turner.
Fuck.
I ignore the blatant stares from my teammates, grateful not everyone is here yet, particularly Chance. He already has a problem with me talking to her, so I can’t imagine what he’d think of her flagging me down before a game.
I stroll toward my seat ignoring the obvious fact my teammates just witnessed me talking to the one girl Coach warned us all to stay away from. Tommy’s brows rise across from me, a look that says I hope you know what the hell you’re doing but I ignore it. Better to play dumb; it’s less culpable that way.
“You got some balls of steel, Nichols,” Greene says from behind as he claps me on the back.
I ignore him, instead focusing to my right as I watch Coach exit his vehicle with none other than Chance fucking Lockhart in the passenger seat.
I clench my jaw, hating how close he is to Lane’s father.
My gaze shifts to where Lane stands by her car, turned toward them as they approach, and a ball of nerves fist in my gut. I know she’s probably playing it off like she came to see her father—it’s less suspicious that way—but the jealous asshole in me doesn’t want Chance talking to her.
I can’t read her lips from this angle, but whatever she tells Coach must do the trick. Only a moment passes before he draws her into a hug, then peers inside at Sophie before he turns for the bus.
Behind him, Chance follows, his gaze flickering over Lane in a way that makes my skin crawl. But he says nothing to her. Instead, he makes a beeline for the bus, and I exhale.
Mandretti, one of our defensive linemen, swivels in the seat in front of me and grins. “Cute bracelet.” Not a second passes before Coach boards and his grin deepens. “You know you’re gonna be fucked, right?”
I ignore him, my face a mask of cool indifference as I stare straight ahead while Coach addresses the driver and Chance continues down the aisle.
Across from us Bryce chortles. “The pink hearts are a nice touch,” he says. “I suspected you might like ‘em young, but damn, bro, this takes it to a whole new level.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I snap. I know they’re just razzing me. Being a dick to your teammates and roasting their ass is par for the course, but I don’t like him saying anything about Sophie.
“Ooh, touchy.”
“You sure you want Coach to see you wearing that?” Greene from behind me.
“His daughter has a kid?” Tommy whispers.
Chance freezes, his gaze jerking to Tommy as he passes, then to mine where it homes in on the colorful bracelet on my wrist. Anger sparks in his eyes, a subtle change most might not notice, but it’s a look I recognize from that evening in Slice.
Completely oblivious to the exchange, Mandretti asks, “Hey, Lockhart, you see this shit? Nichols’s new girlfriend, here, made it a point to bring him a good luck charm.”
“Probably so Coach doesn’t beat his ass,” Bryce says under his breath.
“Shut it down. Now,” I grind out, and Mandretti raises his hands, palms out in surrender.
Chance brushes past me, glaring at me with malice in his eyes as he bumps into my shoulder, hard.
It’s a warning; I have no doubt he knows exactly who the bracelet is from, especially after passing Lane in the parking lot.
Too bad I don’t give a fuck.
#
The stadium buzzes with excitement, kicking the adrenaline in my veins into overdrive. The crowd roars as the line scrambles into formation. Only one and a half minutes is left on the timer until the end of the game, and we’re three points away from winning.
The pressure is on.
Underneath the glare of stadium lights, I take my position, heart pounding with anticipation. The play we’re about to run means the ball will go to me, and I’m ready. More than ready. Hell, I’ve been waiting for the opportunity all night.
My muscles coil as I bend down. My fingers sink into the sod as I ready for the snap of the ball.
“Set, hut!” Chance’s command echoes across the field, and the play unfolds like well-rehearsed choreography. Receivers dash downfield skirting defenseman, while the offensive line forms a protective wall. I break free from my defender, exactly how I’m supposed to, my eyes fixating on the end zone.
I turn, arms outstretched and ready for the pass, when the ball sails over my head and to the left.
Shit.
This is no mistake. Clearly, it’s not meant for me. Chance Lockhart is too good of a quarterback to miscalculate so poorly, and when the ball finds its mark in the waiting arms of our wide receiver, the crowd erupts in cheers.
He’s taken down only ten yards from the end zone, which means we still have a chance.
My heart sinks, though I shouldn’t be surprised by the turn of events. This isn’t the first time today I’ve been overlooked. Chance is cockblocking me; that’s all there is to it.
A million excuses have been given all night for why I haven’t seen any action: Chance read the field and the wide receiver was the safer bet. I wasn’t in position, even though I fucking was. He didn’t see me open. The play didn’t feel right. He went with his gut.
Amazing how many times his fucking gut told him not to give me the ball.
Disappointment gnaws at me as I hustle toward the huddle, trying to shake off the feeling of insignificance as Chance calls another play.
I nod, determined to make my presence known, to do something fucking noteworthy since I haven’t had the opportunity all game.
Once more, the ball snaps, and I surge forward, running my route with precision and more speed than I can ever remember. I find an opening in the defense, a fleeting moment of opportunity.
But just as I turn to make the catch, someone shoves me from behind, throwing me off-balance.
Fuck.
I struggle to regain my footing, barely witnessing the moment Chance gets sacked, and the ball whizzes past, falling short of me. Greene fumbles for it, and when it lands, several defenders and offensive men dive for it.
Somehow, Greene comes out on top with the ball, managing to spring to his feet, and he takes a flying leap toward the end zone, falling to safety behind the goal line.
The cheers of the fans around me erupt to deafening levels.
We scored. Which means we won.
I should be ecstatic.
I pick myself up and force my feet to move, closing the distance between myself and Greene where several of my teammates are rushing the field. I reach a hand out and help him to his feet, clapping him on the back and congratulating him before we’re engulfed by the rest of the team.
Several hours later and with food in hand, we’re back on the bus, headed home.
It’s late, everything cast in shadows as we take the highway back toward Cumberland. The excitement from our win has finally fizzled out with most guys leaning back in their seats, their eyes closed, earbuds in, and catching a nap on the six-hour drive home.
Not me.
I stare out the window, losing focus on the scenery as we pass. My thoughts are lost on the game when a voice brings me up short.
“Tough break today.”
I turn to find Chance in the seat behind me, his expression smug as he meets my eyes between the seats.
“Amazing how that happened. Didn’t get near a pigskin all game.”
“Like I said,” Chance chews on a piece of gum, his lips curling, “tough break out there.”
My eyes narrow. On the field, I’d suspected all the diversions, change in plays, and unhappy coincidences were calculated, but now I know they were.
“Can I ask what exactly your problem is with me?”
Chance’s eyes widen. If he’s surprised I’ve challenged him, then he’s dumber than I thought. Then again, he’s so used to everyone kissing his ass.
“Sounds like you’re the one with the problem.”
“Really?” I tip my chin. “So today’s game, all those times I was supposed to get the ball and didn’t, those were just . . . coincidences?”
Chance chokes on a laugh, though his eyes are filled with anything but humor. Instead, they glitter with indignation. “Some people call me a god on the field, but damn, you’re giving me more credit than them all.” He narrows his eyes. “You think I can control a whole fucking game?” he seethes.
He’s not entirely wrong to imply anyone who thinks a single person can control the game is an idiot. There is a whole hell of a lot out of his control on the field once the ball leaves his hands. But while he still has it, while it’s in his possession? That’s a whole other story.
He controls the narrative. Quarterbacks dictate the pace of the game, and oftentimes, the scoreboard. And they’re sure as hell in control of calling plays and who they give the ball to. It’s why pro quarterbacks are the highest paid position in the NFL; the weight of responsibility lies on their shoulders the most out of any other position. Lockhart is playing dumb and it pisses me off, because he knows I’ll see his answer for what it is?complete and utter bullshit?but there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. Just like there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it today on the field.
“Cut the shit, Lockhart,” I say, keeping my tone even, careful not to rouse any of the guys around us. “You can claim it was out of your hands for a few of the plays. The sack at the end was one. But the last-minute play changes, blatantly ignoring me when I was wide open and grounding the ball instead, passing it to Bryce and Greene every single fucking time regardless of whether I was in the perfect position to score? That’s all you. Even when Coach told you he wanted me to have the ball, you found a way to deflect. You’re just lucky we won today.”
Chance grins. “Oh, come on now, Nichols. You and I both know luck has nothing to do with it.” He winks. “I’m just that good. But don’t be sour. There will be other games. It’s not like this is your last. As a rookie, you should be grateful you’re even getting so much play time.”
I grit my teeth. Though he’s not entirely wrong, we both know I’m a damn good football player. Otherwise, Coach wouldn’t have me on the starting lineup.
“Speaking of luck, though . . .” His gaze travels down my arm to where Sophie’s bracelet encircles my wrist, staring pointedly for a beat longer than I’d like.
My chest tightens, and I twitch to cover it up. I want to hide the brightly beaded bracelet from his probing gaze so I can somehow protect Lane and Sophie. But it’s too late, and any such movement will only draw further attention. Besides, if the way he’s staring at it is any indication, he already knows who gave it to me.
His eyes lift, his gaze icing over as a chill shimmies up my spine. “Looks like luck wasn’t on your side today, after all,” he says.