Chapter 7
SEVEN
JO
I wasn't going to watch the game.
That was the plan. A very good plan.
One that lasted approximately until kickoff.
"You know you're staring at the television like it insulted our mother."
I don't look away from the screen. "I'm not staring."
Patrick snorts from the other end of my couch. "You've blinked twice in the last five minutes."
"I'm supporting the opposing defense."
"Sure."
I throw a throw pillow at him without taking my eyes off the television.
He catches it.
"You're hopeless."
Maybe I am.
It's been two weeks.
Two weeks since I told Cal we needed space.
Two weeks since my phone stopped saying good morning.
Two weeks since I deleted his contact only to memorize his number anyway.
My suspension officially becomes unpaid tomorrow. The partners still haven't decided what they're going to do with me.
Apparently exchanging spicy texts with a quarterback is bad for business. Who knew?
The commentators drone on about playoff implications—even though we’re barely into the season—while I pretend I'm watching because Patrick insisted.
I'm lying.
Mostly to myself.
The camera cuts to Cal. His helmet tucked beneath his arm. He's listening to his coach, but... Something's off.
"He looks tired," I murmur.
Patrick glances up from his wings. "He does."
The first half is ugly. Missed throws. A sack.
An interception. Every time the camera finds him on the sideline, he looks... Lost.
The commentators notice it too.
"Calhoun just doesn't look like himself today."
No. He doesn't.
Because I know what he looks like when he's himself.
He laughs too hard at terrible jokes. He apologizes every third sentence. He folds his clothes like he’s awaiting military inspection.
He texts good morning when he’s on his way to the gym, long before I wake up.
The man on television... Isn't him.
And my heart breaks for him. Especially knowing that he’s playing here in my own town in a stadium twenty minutes from my apartment. It’s not lost on me that Patrick and I could have been watching this game at the stadium if I’d played my cards differently.
I wish I could run there any hug him. I wish I could tell him everything will be okay.
Maybe that’s why I pick up my phone. And type in the number I swore to forget.
You may be playing against my hometown team, but I’m on your side.
I’m always on your side.
Win or lose, you’ve got this.
I’m proud of you.
I wait with bated breath for a response. But it doesn’t come. Of course, it doesn’t. The team has fifteen minutes in the locker room. I doubt any of the players are looking at their phones.
Still, I feel better for having sent the message.
Kind of.
The third quarter begins. Something changes.
Cal looks more comfortable. He scrambles for a first down. Then another. A perfect pass down the sideline.
Touchdown.
Patrick jumps off the couch. I can’t tell if he’s mad for his team or happy for Cal’s.
"Let's go!"
On TV The stadium erupts. Confetti cannons fire. The receiver spikes the football.
Everyone celebrates.
Except Cal.
He jogs toward the back of the end zone. Toward one of the television cameras. I lean forward. What is he doing?
He stops. Looks directly into the lens. Places one hand over his heart. Then... He mouths one word.
My name.
Everything around me disappears.
The crowd. The commentators.
Patrick yelling beside me.
I stop breathing.
"...Did he..."
Patrick slowly lowers his arms. "...Was that your name?"
I nod.
I can't seem to do anything else. Tears blur my vision.
"He..." My voice cracks. "He did that for me."
Patrick doesn't say a word.
He just quietly reaches over and squeezes my shoulder.
The post-game interviews starts. I should turn it off.
I don't.
Cal stands in front of a wall covered with sponsor logos.
Microphones crowd toward him.
Normally, he would've answered every question with one-word responses.
Today, he’s smiling.
A reporter grins.
"Quite the comeback today."
"It was."
"What changed in the second half?"
Cal looks down for a second.
Then back up. "The right person reminded me who I was playing for."
A few reporters laugh.
"Oh?"
"Who's that?"
My heart pounds. He hesitates.
I know that look. He's scared. He's terrified.
There are cameras. Microphones. Countless people watching.
Every instinct he has is probably screaming at him to walk away.
Instead, he squares his shoulders. Looks directly into the camera.
"The woman I love."
Everything inside me stops.
"I spent a long time letting people decide who I was." His voice is steady now. "They were wrong."
He smiles. A real one.
"And if she's watching..." His eyes never leave the camera.
"I'm done hiding. I love you."
A tear slips down my cheek.
"And I'm coming to see you as soon as I can.”
The interview ends in complete chaos. Reporters shout questions.
Nobody gets answers. Cal simply thanks them and walks away.
I burst into tears.
An hour later, there's a knock at my apartment door.
I jump to my feet and try not to get too excited. It's probably Patrick. He forgot his jacket.
Still wiping at my face, I pull the door open.
Cal stands there. Duffel bag over one shoulder. His hair's damp from the shower.
He looks exhausted. And absolutely beautiful.
"I came straight from the stadium.”
I don't say anything. I can't. Because if I do, I’m going to sob.
His smile falters. "I'm sorry if that was too much today.” ’m sorry if—"
I shake my head. "No."
He blinks. "No?"
"No more apologizing."
A tiny smile appears. "I'm working on that."
Silence stretches between us. Finally...
"I meant every word,” he says.
“I know." My heart hitches. “And I meant what I said.”
“I know.”
We share another grin.
"I don't know what's going to happen with my job,” I say more seriously. “I don't know what’s next or what I should do with my life.”
"You don't have to." He sets his duffel bag on the floor. Then takes both my hands. "I only are that you were hurt. I care that I couldn't protect you."
He swallows. “But I'm done letting other people decide my life. I want you in it. No matter what."
I laugh through fresh tears. "You know... Your team is stupid for letting reporters into the locker room during practice.”
"They really are." He laughs. "They owe you approximately a thousand apologies."
"They do. But..." I squeeze his hands. "They're your family."
His smile softens.
"And if they're your family..." I step closer. "They're mine too."
He stares at me. "They're idiots."
I grin. "But families still stick together.”
He lets out a laugh that sounds suspiciously like relief.
"I don't want you to choose between football and me,” I say. "I want all of it."
"The teammates?”
I “nod. The crazy schedules."
"The interviews?”
“And the cameras." I cup his cheeks in my palms. “I choose all of you, Cal."
His eyes shine.
"You really mean that?"
"I really do."
He covers my hands with both of his. "So..."
"So?"
"May I kiss you?"
I smile through my tears. “You can probably stop asking.”
“Never.” He smiles too.
Then he kisses me. Slowly. Tenderly.
And I know. The cameras, the headlines, the leaked texts.
Everything that tries to pull us apart will never stand a chance. Not when we’re playing on the same team.