Chapter 1 #2
“Mmhmm.” I chewed thoughtfully on a celery stick, because balance mattered even when I should’ve been celebrating. “Of course.”
“Have you two known each other long?” Dallas asked.
“Forever, really,” I grinned a little at the memory of ten-year-old Finn jumping off his bike mid-ride, simply because he could. “He and my brother have been best friends since before I can reliably remember.”
“That’s so awesome that you get to, like, rub elbows with him. I mean, and the whole Maya thing, too. It’s like your whole world is made up of kickass people.”
“Maya’s pretty awesome,” I agreed. She was one of my besties and used to be a backup singer, but now was a full-blown pop star married to one of Finn’s teammates.
“And Finn? He’s… he’s Finn.”
Dallas paused mid-bite. “Wait, like your fu-u-u-u-n-time-too friends?”
The question hung there.
The color rose on Dallas’s cheeks as the silence stretched just long enough for her to hear what she’d said to her employer.
“God, no,” I said finally. “Only the friends kind of friends.”
She exhaled. “I am so sorry. I am not allowed to ask my boss that.”
“It’s cool. I’m not your boss tonight. We work together, sure, but I thought it’d be good to see some people outside of the office. You know?”
She nodded but looked like she wanted to crawl under the table.
“Finn and I are just friends,” I said. “I mean, he’s always been there. When things get messy or I get spirally? He’s really good at perspective.”
She nodded like that made perfect sense. And maybe it did.
“And he’s not bad to look at, either,” she said with a snort.
“No. No, he’s not,” I agreed.
He’d always been my distraction.
My bright orange human life vest. A reminder that not everything needed to be structured or scrubbed clean. Some things could be lemon drop cocktails with Buffalo wings in a too-loud bar.
I let myself exhale, really exhale, sinking back as the game volume surged and the first whistle echoed through the room.
The TV volume spiked enough to slice through the bar chatter like a beer-soaked drumroll.
“And there he is,” one of the announcers declared, voice smooth over the roar of the virtual stadium. “Finn Taylor’s been unstoppable this season. Breakaway speed and a vertical that defies common sense.”
I smiled, because he wasn’t wrong. That was the kind of line written specifically to be replayed on highlight reels.
Finn was three steps past incredible when his game was on. A blur of motion wrapped in a Stallions jersey marked with the number eight and some serious up-for-anything swagger.
Was there pride in that smile? Yes, because he was a freakishly good athlete.
But also because that was Finn. Goofy, effortless Finn who sent me peach emojis when he knew I needed a laugh and dragged me out of my existential spirals with Doritos and bad dad jokes.
On-screen, he jogged across the field, helmet tucked under one arm, grinning like he’d been told there was a double rainbow and happy hour in the end zone.
The woman two stools down grabbed her friend’s wrist. “Okay, but hear me out: I’d fake a concussion for a chance to jump that man.”
I nearly choked on my lemon drop.
Dallas pressed her lips together hard as the woman continued, “Right? Straight-up give a wobble and a blank stare if it means he’s gonna show me how to get tackled.”
“Ma’am,” I muttered, sipping calmly, “please hydrate and take several deep breaths.”
Because yeah. That was Finn out there. All muscle and ridiculously distracting biceps, sprinting into living rooms and fantasy leagues across America. Women noticed Finn with full commitment.
There had always been a girlfriend rotating through his orbit. Someone short-term and fun and going nowhere in particular.
No one his exact match. No one who made him stay.
Not that I tracked it or anything.
And he was mine. Not like mine-mine. But mine the way you claim a comfortable seat at the bar.
He was mine the way a person becomes yours so slowly you can’t point to the exact moment it happened.
I turned back to the screen.
“Go, Finn,” I whispered beneath the noise of the bar. “Show them.”
Finn sprinted downfield. Smooth, impossible Finn whose footsteps always landed where they should. The quarterback, Drake, let it fly.
Forty yards of soaring, spiraling hope, and Finn leapt, catching the ball like the laws of physics were suggestions. His cleats barely grazed the turf as he twisted out of one tackle.
And then.
Then a helmet slammed into his groin at approximately Mach 6.
Finn bent like folding paper.
Oh God.
My heart forgot the beat entirely and only kept me alive out of obligation.
He went down. Really hurt. All grace erased with his body crumpling to the field like all the air had been yanked right out of it. He grabbed his midsection.
The stadium hushed. A full, stunned, pin-drop hush.
Even the bar seemed to stop cold.
“Taylor took that hit right to the nads… can I say that on TV?” The announcer fumbled awkwardly through post-hit small talk.
“Let’s just say every guy who saw that hit crossed their legs a little tighter,” the other commentator said.
“That… uh, that definitely looked rough. We really hope Taylor’s okay.”
Rough.
That was one word for it.
The lemon in my drink was hitting more like vinegar in my stomach.
“Taylor is still down,” the first guy said.
“Trainers are out now,” the second guy continued.
I couldn’t stop watching the screen, lips pursed tight.
The camera switched to the sidelines to show the rest of the team watching in stunned silence. Then to a shot of the crowd with fans rising to their feet, some with hands over their mouths, others lifting their phones to snap pictures.
Finn pushed himself to his knees first.
There was no fanfare or “defying common sense” greatness here. Only a wince, a grit of teeth, and a half-limping wobble as two teammates flanked him, each gripping an arm like they were hauling a rusted garage door off its hinges.
His face was still tight with obvious pain. But he was upright. Sort of.
I made myself breathe. Something in that grimace wasn’t right.
The screens all replayed the hit in the kind of slow motion I wish didn’t exist, and I flinched as the helmet made contact again.
Finn hobbled a few steps, then paused. He gave a small thumbs-up to the cameras.
Well, it was sort of a thumbs-to-the-side because he made a face and didn’t seem to have the follow-through. But he did manage the world’s weakest smirk. He probably meant it to say, “I’m fine,” but it translated more like, “I might toss my spleen into the grass here in a half a sec.”
The whole stadium erupted like he’d scored.
But I caught what the camera didn’t quite convey. The stiffness in one knee. The way his hand kept curling a fraction toward his torso.
“He’s hurt,” I said.
Not ouchie-hurt. Real hurt.
Dallas murmured something of an agreement.
My cocktail glass was still sweating in my hand, gripped tight like it could anchor me in time.
And then… the screen blinked away.
They cut to a toilet paper commercial.
“Damn,” said a guy two stools over, wincing in morbid admiration. “That guy’s gonna need a testicle transplant.”
A few people chuckled.
But I didn’t.
Because I was already fumbling for my bag. “I should go check on him.”
“You’re not driving,” Dallas said, holding up her keys. “I got this.”
“I’m good, I can drive,” I assured. “I barely touched my lemon drop.”
She stepped into my path, settling her hand on my arm.
“No,” she said softly but firmly. “He’s your family. And he’s hurt. I can get you there.”
I tried to smile because she was right. Because that was Finn. My wing-sauce philosopher.
“I mean, he’s probably fine,” I said, standing up so fast my shoe caught on the chair leg and nearly sent me face-first into the ground. Dallas caught me by the elbow like she’d been ready for it.
“He’s always fine,” I added, straightening.
“We can go,” Dallas said calmly, like she was my mom and I was… well… me.
I nodded. “Right. Totally. We should go.”
I took a step toward the door.
And stopped. Turned on my heel. “Unless we don’t.”
Dallas had to sidestep to avoid a collision.
“I mean, he’s not like… my boyfriend or anything,” I continued.
“No,” she agreed. “That’s what you said.”
“I shouldn’t go,” I declared, heading back to the table like I’d forgotten something.
“Great,” Dallas said, turning back with me.
But also—
“What if he needs someone? I mean Elliott isn’t in town and the guys all have to finish the game, so…” My hand was already halfway to my purse, spinning again so my hair nearly whipped her in the face. “I should go.”
“Totally. Let’s go,” said Dallas, pivoting back toward the door.
I took three confident steps and stopped again.
“Or not.”
Dallas pressed her lips together and held very still, like a nature photographer trying not to spook the panicked-raccoon-in-heels I had become.
“Seriously?” came a voice.
We both looked over. The guy at the table next to us set down his beer and gestured lazily.
“Just go already,” he said.
“The back and forth is making me dizzy.” The lady two tables over added.
I blinked hard. So did Dallas.
“Right,” I said, suddenly decisive. “We’re going.”
“Perfect,” Dallas nodded like she hadn’t followed me through a choreographed emotional interpretive dance.
My keys jingled as if they had thoughts and opinions of their own.
Dallas gently plucked them from my grasp.
“He’s your family, Emily,” she said.
I sighed. “I just want to make sure he’s okay.”
“Of course.” Why did she sound like she didn’t really believe me?
I didn’t stop to think about that. Because we were out the door, and she was practically frog-marching me toward her SUV. Toward Finn.