Callan
This is goddamn miserable.
I run off the field, passing the special team guys as they hustle on to punt. Fourth down and four, because I can’t seem to convert on a goddamn third down.
My eyes catch on Charlotte, bundled up in the back.
Her gaze meets mine for a painfully glorious second before darting away.
Even though this feels like it’s the millionth time we’ve made eye contact since we boarded the plane yesterday morning—and had to lie to Pitt that she wasn’t sitting by me to make sure I was focused—it doesn’t get any easier.
My heart feels like it’s being pulled in two, one half wanting to run to her—to beg her to let us be something more than fake—and the other half is building a wall of steel, promising never to let anyone hurt me again.
Unfortunately, I can’t stop looking for her.
I rub my hands together as the defense slides across the snow-covered field, slowing but not stopping Chicago’s drive down the field.
I’m not someone who easily admits defeat, but we’re running out of time to make the comeback that we need.
We’re down 14–24, and with under two minutes left, it’s not looking good.
Especially since the snow has picked up aggressively since halftime, making it almost impossible to do anything other than a slow, steady march down the field, led by the backs.
“Thanks, Jim,” I say as one of the equipment managers helps me put on a sideline cape, the fleece insulation equally as important as the water-resistant outer layer.
After pulling on the stocking cap he gives me, I sit down on the bench next to Pitty.
“If we get back out there, we’re going to have to figure out how to get a few long throws in.
They’ll know I’m going to you, but there’s no other option at this point.
Nabers hasn’t caught one fucking pass all game.
I was primarily targeting him before this storm took a turn for the worse. ”
“Fuck this snow. We should’ve been riskier in the first half. The only reason these fuckers are winning right now is that they happened to score before it turned into a goddamn blizzard.” Pitty pulls his coat tighter around his shoulders.
He’s right. And there isn’t much more to say. I watch the players on the field, our defense just as unable to gain any footing in the snow as their offense.
Their running back cuts inside, through a hole his line created for him. Our linebacker meets him half a step too late, both of them skidding on the turf that doesn’t do much to provide any traction. More players arrive, and somehow, the pile falls forward.
The chains move. Again.
A few of the guys on the sideline with us clap, trying to bring energy back to our defense, but it sounds as thin as it feels.
And all along, the clock keeps running.
I catch a glimpse of Charlotte’s brown hair sticking out from under her hat.
It’s wet, almost dark brown now, instead of her normal caramel-brown coloring.
I want to convince her to go inside. That she doesn’t need to be down here with us in this weather.
But I know she won’t go. And even if she did, I can’t talk to her.
I don’t know how to be around her anymore.
“We need a fucking stop,” Pitty murmurs next to me.
I lean forward, pulling the cape to cover my arms even as I place my elbows on my knees, begging someone to make something happen. A fumble. A touchdown. Three-and-out and a quick field goal—I glance at the snow coming down sideways—a long run into the end zone.
We can still win. We just need a stop.
Instead, Chicago plays smart ball. They hand it off. The line pushes forward for a few yards. They let the clock bleed.
Snow starts to accumulate on my hat and back. I don’t brush it off.
Charlotte shifts in my periphery, her hands tucked into her armpits, and I feel it deep in my gut.
A whistle blows, and they bring the chains out to measure. Another first down.
Pitty exhales hard next to me, his breath a cloud in front of us. “That’s it.”
He’s right. We used our last timeout during our offensive push. Now, we can’t stop the clock. With 1:48 left to play, Chicago is going to kneel it out.
Their quarterback takes the snap, drops to a knee, and the stadium—filled to the brim with Guardian fans—goes wild. Because they know the same thing the rest of us do: it’s over.
We lost.
I know I have to be a good sport. To go out there and shake hands, but I need one second to take in what might be my last moments as a Stallion. Hell, it might be my last moments as a professional football player if it turns out Nan really can’t move.
“Devine.” Pitty’s standing over me, clearly trying to block me from the media that I’m sure is there, capturing my grief. “Let’s go.”
I push off the bench, my whole body frozen and heavier than it should be. A couple of Chicago guys slap my shoulder pads, and I offer them the praise they deserve. I exchange handshakes with their coach, their quarterback. Number 50. He had a hell of a game. Even if it was at my expense.
The field clears more quickly than normal, everyone hurrying to get out of the blizzard. I turn toward the sideline, not realizing I’m scanning it in time to stop myself. She’s already gone.
Of course she is.
I start making my way to the tunnel when I hear a voice behind me. “Callan?”
I turn, taking a step in her direction before my mind can register it’s her. “Charlotte.”
Her eyes flick over me, from the gold helmet in my hand to my jersey streaked with mud and snow. She pops her knuckles, her sign that she’s nervous about something.
Unfortunately, I don’t know how to make this less awkward for either of us.
“You okay?” she finally asks.
I huff out an attempt at a laugh. “Yeah. Just lost a playoff game, am freezing my balls off, and got my ass handed to me by a brick fucking house. Living the dream, really.”
Her lips press together. “You played hard.”
“Not hard enough.”
There’s a long pause before I finally nod toward the tunnel. “You’d better get inside. It’s cold as fuck out here.”
Her eyes drop for a second, then come back up, steady on mine. “Good game, Callan.” She walks into the tunnel, off to do important owner things.
I don’t move right away. Because that pain, the one that’s shooting outward from my chest, engulfing me like a swarm of ants? I’m not sure that it’s from the loss.
It’s from her walking away. Again.
I make myself keep heading toward the tunnel, the noise of the stadium almost gone before I reach it, nothing but the sound of my own breathing and the crunch of snow under my cleats keeping me company.
We’re done.
And I don’t know whether I mean the Stallions or this thing between Charlotte and me.
***
“You coming out with us tonight?” Jerrod Jackson asks as he, Kenny, and Pitty stand outside my hotel room door.
I shake my head. “Not tonight.”
“But it’s the first night in forever we haven’t been in season. And we’re snowed in, in Chicago. It’s the perfect night to go out as a team. One last hurrah,” Kenny argues.
Because even the rookie knows this will be the last time some of us play for the Stallions. Even if I don’t get traded, others on the team will.
I look between the guys before slowly shaking my head.
I know how important this team is: I was in a bad spot a few years ago.
Constantly focused on making sure I was in peak physical condition, that I was ready for every game, but I was in a bad place mentally.
I realized I needed to connect with someone.
So I started with my team. And they showed up. They were there for me.
But I don’t think I can do it tonight.
“I won’t be good company.”
“Are you ever?” Pitt asks, a crooked smile on his face.
I usually am. Fuck, I’m usually a hell of a time. But I haven’t dealt with whatever happened between Charlotte and me. And I sure as hell haven’t come to terms with the fact that a loss today practically guarantees I’m going to be traded.
Though, if I stay in tonight, all I’m going to do is wallow in self-pity.
“He probably wants to stay in and spend time with Charlotte.” Jerrod waggles his eyebrows as he says it. “Where is she, by the way?”
All three men try to peek around me to see in my room, but I push them away.
“She’s out tonight. Business.” I let out a low, annoyed groan. “Fine. I’ll come. But I’m in bed by midnight. With or without you assholes.”
“Definitely with,” Pitt teases.
Jerrod lifts his hand. “I call big spoon.”
“Okay,” Kenny chimes in. “But I get to be little spoon… with Charlotte.”
The growl I release is pure instinct, but I put in the effort to make it sound like a joke.