Chapter Four
Brody
There’s a particular kind of toughness to playing football in New Jersey in December.
The turf at the stadium feels less like carpeted earth and more like painted concrete under my cleats.
The air is a freezing twenty-four degrees, and the wind is sharp enough to burn the back of your throat with every intake of breath.
The lights are so bright they cut through the snow in casting shadows across the field, which makes visibility shit.
By the fourth quarter, every bone in my body is aching.
My knuckles are swollen inside my gloves, my left shoulder feels like it took a direct hit from a sledgehammer, and the bridge of my nose is raw from some asshole sticking his hands through my helmet while we were in a goal-line pileup in the second quarter. Prick.
Still, I love every second of it.
“Vaughn! Get your ass back in the huddle!”
Liam Pitz, our starting quarterback, barks the order as he slaps the side of my helmet. His eye black is smeared across his cheekbones, and his jersey is stained green, and there’s blood on it too that doesn’t appear to be his, from what I can tell.
“I’m right here,” I grunt, jogging into the circle and bouncing on my toes to keep my legs from locking in the cold.
Around us, eighty thousand fans are screaming themselves hoarse.
We’re trailing the Patriots by four points.
Two minutes and twelve seconds are left on the clock in the fourth quarter.
It’s third down and six on their twenty-four-yard line.
We have one timeout left, and the season is practically hanging on this drive.
“Alright, listen up,” Liam says over the deafening noise of the crowd.
He lifts his helmet to wipe a streak of sweat from his forehead with his wristband, then pulls the helmet back on and secures it.
“They’re running a cover-two shell, trying to keep everything in front of them and bleed the clock.
Vaughn, you’re running a seam route. Fake the chip on the edge rusher, plant hard and blow past the linebackers.
If the safety rolls high to bracket the outside wideout, cut it across the post. Everyone else, run your tracks.
Gun Right, Trips Left, Y-Seam Option. On two. Ready?”
“Break!” we yell in unison, clapping our gloved hands together.
I line up tight on the right side of the offensive line, dropping into my three-point stance.
My fingers dig into the turf, and I lock eyes with their outside linebacker who is creeping toward the line of scrimmage, his breath fogging out from his facemask.
He’s shifting his weight on his toes, giving me a clue they plan to blitz.
Third and six. Game on the line.
“Set! Blue eighty! Blue eighty! Hut…HUT!”
The ball snaps, and the collision at the line of scrimmage sounds like a car crash of plastic and steel.
I surge forward, launching off my back foot and deliver a brutal, open-palm strike straight to the linebacker's chest. The impact sends a zing up my arm, but it does the job, just enough to stall his rush and make him think I’m staying in to protect Liam.
The second he leans into the block, I tear off his outside shoulder, plant my right cleat hard into the turf, and explode up the middle seam.
Ten yards. Fifteen. Twenty.
I clear the linebacker layer, my strides eating up turf. The Patriots’ strong safety recognizes the route and spins his hips, sinking back to cover the deep middle, but Liam’s already launched the ball. The football hangs high, a tight spiral cutting through the stadium lights.
I don’t slow down, even though visibility is fucking awful. I can’t.
I push off my feet, launching my six-foot-six frame into the air, extending both arms above the defensive back’s outstretched hands.
My fingers clamp around the leather.
Smack!
The safety slams his entire weight into my exposed ribs while I’m mid-air, a bone-rattling hit meant to separate me from the ball.
Pain flares across my torso, hot and sharp, but I clamp down on the leather like a vise, tucking it tight against my chest as we crash hard to the ground together, sliding three yards across the painted grass of the end zone.
The ref blows his whistle, his arms shooting straight into the air.
Touchdown!
The stadium explodes. A wave of noise so loud it feels like it rattles the stadium.
Before I can even push myself up, Liam rushes over and hauls me up by my shoulder pads. “That’s what I’m talking about, baby!!! That’s my guy!”
When we get to the sideline, Aston sprints over alongside Saint. Both of them start pummeling the crown of my helmet with their gloved fists in an absolute, unhinged way.
“That’s right!” Aston yells, his booming laugh echoing clearly over the crowd noise as he hooks an arm around my neck. “You caught that thing in the clouds!”
“Awesome catch, brother,” Saint says, slapping my chest pad hard enough to make me cough before steering me toward the bench.
I need to catch my fucking breath.
Ten minutes later, after our defense destroys their Hail Mary attempt, the final whistle blows.
Titans 24, Patriots 21.
An hour later, the intense adrenaline from the win has completely worn off, leaving behind the literal pain of a sixty-minute professional football game.
By the time I finish post-game press, spend fifteen minutes submerged in an ice bath because apparently I’m not frozen enough, and have the training staff check my shoulder, the main locker room has largely emptied out.
Most of the guys have already packed up to head to the city or home to their families.
I stand by my locker and pull on my jeans and boots, then throw on a heavy charcoal wool coat over a cream cable-knit sweater.
My hair is still damp from my shower, and my body just feels heavy.
I gingerly swing my duffel bag over my uninjured shoulder and pull out my phone from my locker shelf to check the time.
10:42 pm.
As I start to pocket my phone and walk toward the exit, it buzzes in my hand with an incoming text.
Ellis: Awesome catch in the fourth. That route was pure art. You still stuck inside the locker room or did you manage to escape the parking lot gridlock?
I stop walking, right in the middle of the room, and stare down at the glowing screen. A different kind of surge of adrenaline hits me, cutting through the soreness in my body.
Brody: Wait. Are you here?
The reply comes almost instantly.
Ellis: Yep. I was in the Grants’ suite with my dad.
I stare at her words, my thumb hovering over the screen.
Brody: Are you still at the stadium?
Ellis: Standing near the VIP elevator bank on the ground floor. I’m waiting for my driver to clear through the police escort.
I don’t bother typing back. I shove my phone into my coat pocket and move quickly down the corridor. I pass stadium security, press packing up their gear, and cleanup crews, taking the back hallway straight toward the private entrance used by celebrities and CEOs.
My heart feels like it’s doing jumping jacks against my ribs, nearly faster than it should, considering I just ran twenty miles on a football field.
When I round the corner near the private bank, I see her.
Ellis is leaning against a marble pillar, looking so ridiculously sexy that it nearly stops me for a second.
In a stadium filled with thousands of drunk fans in jerseys, looking rumpled after hours of football in the winter, she looks like she belongs on the cover of a magazine.
She’s wearing a camel-colored trench coat, a black turtleneck peeking out, dark jeans, and polished brown boots.
Her dark curly hair falls over her shoulder in waves.
She turns her head as my boots clack against the floor. Her hazel eyes find mine, and a slow, genuine grin spreads across her face, softening the tired lines around her eyes.
“You’re alive,” she murmurs as I close the distance between us. “I thought for sure that strong safety broke two of your ribs on that last touchdown catch.”
“Takes a lot more than a hit from a guy who weighs two-ten to break me, Princess,” I say, stopping a few feet in front of her. I let my duffel fall to the floor with a thud.
Up close, I can smell the warm scent of her perfume.
“I didn’t know you’d be here. You should have told me you were coming to the game,” I add, leaning down slightly so I’m closer to her eye level.
“And distract you right before a divisional rivalry matchup?” she counters, tilting her head up to look at me, a playful spark in her eyes.
“I have professional standards. I can’t risk you getting hurt.
I need you to sell my product. Besides, I was stuck talking about five-year distribution rights with six corporate executives in seventy-thousand-dollar suits.
Trust me, you had more fun on the field than I did in that box. ”
“Hmm, not so sure about that,” I chuckle, resting a hand on my chest. “I was getting tackled into the frozen ground while you were probably sitting in velvet chairs and drinking champagne.”
“It was sliders and sparkling water, actually,” she corrects, laughing, and placing her hand on her belly as a reminder she can’t be drinking. “Though, I did yell loud enough to shock the president of the network, Eva’s dad, when you caught that last pass in the end zone.”
“Did you now?” I ask, my voice dropping into a flirty tone. “You actually cheered for a football game, Renwick? I thought you were a strict hockey fan who minimized the level of our athleticism.”
“I never said I didn’t like it. Besides, I made an exception,” she says, stepping closer, although I don’t think she realizes it. “Just for my favorite tight end.”
Her tight end.
Those words hang in the hallway between us, sweet and definitely deliberate. An electric pulse shoots down my spine, and my dick twitches in my jeans. Far more potent than any hit I took tonight.