Chapter 23 #2
“That’s why our defense is gonna kick your ass, Manny,” a guy at the bar shouts.
I know it’s not personal; it’s part of the game. But it feels personal. I want to yell at the guy to either put on a uniform
and try it or shut the fuck up.
James reads me well. “Easy there, tiger.”
My fingers grip the edges of my chair. “I’m fine.”
On the screen, the next drive begins. I don’t know much about football. Next to nothing really, but watching Finn makes my
breath catch and pride swell through my chest. He is beautiful in the way rare and powerful things are.
Finn catches the ball hiked to him by Dex, and then he dances back, his guys protecting him. To me, it’s a scramble, the defense
scurrying around like mad ants trying to get him, the offense scurrying like mad ants running this way and that. All the while,
Finn remains the center of calm.
He cocks his arm back and throws, heedless of the big barn of a guy hurtling toward him. The ball soars through the air like
it’s on a string, but my eyes are on Finn. Unfortunately, the camera follows the ball as it shoots downfield toward Jake.
The guys at the bar shout. Jake arcs in the air like a ballerina, catches the ball, and lands in an inelegant heap as a bunch
of defenders tackle him. But he keeps the ball.
“Right through traffic!” James slams his fist on the table in victory as the rest of the bar groans.
I grin wide. The camera goes back to Finn, who jumps once and then pumps his fist.
As Jake runs back to the huddle, Finn smacks him on the butt in congratulations.
“Come on, defense,” bar dude shouts, doing that annoying rapid clap thing.
I ignore it and watch Finn. This time he passes the ball off to North, who doesn’t get very far, much to the bar’s delight.
Doesn’t matter. I can sense the difference in Finn’s game.
He has a rhythm going, a confidence about him.
He’s playing to win. I’m so proud of him that I bite my lips to keep from shouting my encouragement to the screen, because it’s not like he can hear me.
And yet, some small, shitty dark corner of my mind feels distress.
Because he is playing better now. Without me in his life.
It could be a fluke. But they haven’t lost a game since I’ve been gone.
The announcer babbles on about Finn being in the zone. He is. This is what he does best.
You love him. And if he knew that, he’d be . . .
My thoughts scatter because Finn has the ball again. This time he scrambles back, guys homing in on him.
At the bar, the crowd shouts at the defense to take him down, knock his ass flat.
But Finn isn’t an easy target. He evades like the pro that he is.
My stomach clenches, my heart kicking my ribs. A lineman hooks Finn around his waist. My fingernails dig into the wood. But
Finn swings around, somehow slipping out of his grip.
James shouts.
Finn zings a pass to North, who takes off toward the end zone.
James jumps to his feet. Somehow, I’m on my feet too, and we booth cheer as North races along.
“Touchdown,” James cries, throwing up his arms. I laugh and pump a fist in the air.
“Man, shut up,” someone says behind us. We ignore him and wiggle our hips.
Finally, they show Finn on the sidelines, helmet off, as he sits on a bench next to Jake and they laugh about something. Sweat
slicks his hair and his cheeks are ruddy. But his smile is big and infectious. He’s so damn gorgeous, my fingers ache to touch
him. It hurts my heart to look at him, but I don’t dare blink.
It nearly kills me when they cut away to the other team.
“Here comes Baylor,” annoying bar dude says, clapping. “Kick some ass, Battle.”
“Is he any good?” I ask James as New York’s quarterback takes the field.
“Yeah.” James looks disgruntled. “He was Manny’s rival in college. Finn was drafted the year before Drew Baylor. And you should
know this, missy.”
“We don’t exactly talk about football all the time.”
James grins. “Right. Too busy licking his fine—”
“James!” Jamie gives his arm a slap. She’s been quiet up until now, clearly not in her element. “Stop it.”
He cackles, but then gives her a swift kiss. “I’m just messing with Chess.”
“You’re being a pig.”
“Yeah, that, too.”
Unfortunately, James is right. Drew Baylor is good. He reminds me a lot of Finn in the way he moves and in the size and shape
of his body. The main difference seems to be that while Finn has a more playful demeanor, clearly joking with his offense
and even the defensive linemen who try to tackle him, Baylor is all gruff business.
I don’t like watching him play, because it means Finn might lose. Part of me wants to leave now, go book a flight home and
just be there. But it feels like a betrayal not to watch Finn finish this game. He has no idea that I’m watching, so it shouldn’t
matter but it feels like it does. As if I’m supporting him, even though I’m nearly two thousand miles away.
I hate that distance.
New York doesn’t manage to score, and after a nice punt return, Finn is soon back on the field. They’re tied now, and tension
coils in my gut. Please win. He needs this. I need this for him.
For three plays, I sit on the edge of my seat, as Finn and his offense battle their way down field, gaining some yards, losing
others. Another drive, and I’m fairly twitching.
The ball snaps. Finn catches it, steps back, he pump-fakes one way and then, as if on cue, lets it fly. James screams as the
ball soars.
Guys at the bar scream too, lamenting.
It’s to Jake again. He jumps high, his body stretched to its limit. I bite my lip hard. Jake catches the ball and, in the
same instant, a safety slams into his lower half. Jake flips head over heels, still clutching the ball. He lands headfirst
onto the field, his helmet snapping toward his chest.
He crumples. And doesn’t get up.
My heart stops so hard and fast, the room spins. Refs blow whistles. Medics rush onto the field.
“Jake.”
I know this man. I’ve laughed with him. Eaten with him. He is Finn’s best friend.
When Jake doesn’t get up, Finn runs over to be with him. His helmet is off and he stands back just enough to let the medical
staff work. His eyes never leave Jake, who lies lifeless in the end zone, his arm still wrapped around the ball.
I stand in the middle of the bar, my fists balled at my side, thinking he’ll get up. It will be like Jerry Maguire, and Jake will soon be dancing around in the end zone. But he doesn’t. They call for a stretcher.
Finn grasps the back of his neck with both hands and begins to pace. The camera zooms in on him. A strangled sound leaves
me, because the look in Finn’s eyes has ripped open my heart. Although his expression is tightly controlled, I know him. Terror,
agony, helplessness, it’s all there, swimming in those blue depths. He’s crumbling inside.
I grab my coat, slinging it over my shoulders. “I have to go.”
James rises. “Chess.”
“No,” I shout, then take a breath. “No waiting. He can’t be alone like this. I won’t let him be alone anymore.”
James nods. I don’t wait to see if he and Jamie follow. I run straight out the door. The night is bitterly cold. My breath
leaves in white puffs that obscure my vision. A cab comes down the block on the opposite side of the street. Without pause,
I whistle high, lifting my arm.
It starts to slow, and I run to meet it.
Call it sixth sense, call it self-preservation, but the second I step out onto the street, my body tenses all at once. I feel
the danger before I see it. Or maybe I hear it.
Someone shouts my name, unhinged and desperate, but I don’t turn that way. I turn toward the rushing sound at my side. All
I see is a blur before impact. Something hits me so hard my brain registers it as sound: shattering light bulbs dropping from
a great height. Stars sparkle behind my lids.
I think of Fred slamming into me in a smoke-filled hall, and for a second I don’t know where I am.
Finn’s frowning face flashes in my mind, and then there is nothing.
Finn
What the fuck just happened? What the fuck just happened!
The thought cycles through my skull as I pace the halls in the bowels of the stadium. It had been a perfect pass, a sweet
forty-yard spiral straight into the end zone. Jake had caught it. Perfect catch. A thing of poetry.
That ball had landed in his hands, and I swear I felt the contact. We’d been connected in that play, one mind. Fucking poetry.
Then he went down.
Panic skitters up my throat. I can’t breathe. I’m going to be sick. I halt and bend over, resting my hands on my thighs as
I take deep breaths.
We deal with injuries all the time. Pain and football go hand in hand. But neck injuries, spinal damage—it’s the thing you
don’t even want to think about. Not just career ending, but life altering. He could die.
The ground beneath me sways. I grip my thighs tight.
Breathe. Breathe.
A door opens with a squeak. I don’t look up as footsteps approach. Charlie stops beside me. “Been looking for you.”
I’d done my part. Finished the game. Bucked the fuck up and buckled down to win it. Nothing less would satisfy any of my guys.
The fact that Jake had been joking at halftime about a “Win one for the Gipper” speech, almost made me lose it a couple of
times.
But I’d held it together. Kept my game face on through the postgame interviews where reporters clamored to know how Jake was
doing. I’d wanted to know, too. It fucking killed me, not knowing, waiting to hear what the doctors had to say.
Was he paralyzed? Would he play again?
“You hear anything?” I ask Charlie as I stare at the floor.
“I don’t know much, but they think he’ll be okay.”
My knees sag. “Okay?”
Charlie knows what I’m asking. “No spinal damage.”
I let out a gust of air. “Okay. Okay.” Standing straight, I face Charlie. And then I’m hugging him. He pounds my back, and
I pound his, both of us breathing too hard. I let him go with a final squeeze then step back and rub my eyes.
“Coach wants to see you,” Charlie says when we head back toward the locker room.
“Now? Jesus.”
I find Coach Calhoun waiting for me.
“You hear about Ryder?” he asks without preamble.
“Charlie told me.”
He nods, the relief in his eyes clear. “We need to talk about a few things. Got a minute?”
It’s not really a question, just Calhoun’s way of being polite, which is rare in and of itself.
“I was planning to go see Jake.”
“He’s under sedation.”
“That’s good. He needs the rest. Still plan to go.”
“Nobody but family is getting in to see him tonight.”
“I’ll get in.”
His eyes narrow. “We’ve hired guards to keep everyone out. You’re not getting in.”
Our stare stretches. It’s a delicate thing, saying no to your coach. If you don’t have a good reason for it, you’re accused
of not being a team player. Management does not find that amusing. Press gets wind that you’re being uncooperative—somehow,
they always find out—and suddenly there’s talk of “problems” between the player and the coaching staff.
Politics suck. But there’s also respect. I respect the hell out of my coach. Enough that I can wait a few minutes more to
go see Jake.
I let out a silent sigh. “Your office?”
Appeased, he relaxes, too. “Won’t take too long.”
I haven’t taken a step when my phone rings. I reach to turn it off, but it’s Chess’s ringtone. Until now, I haven’t let myself
think of her; it’s hard enough worrying about Jake. But the wall is crumbling. I need to hear her voice, to see her. Hell,
I need her.
Calhoun shoots me a glance, as Cyndi Lauper’s Goonies song plays on. Gritting my teeth, I ignore the call. It feels fundamentally wrong to do it. But twenty minutes isn’t going
to kill either one of us. Twenty minutes, I promise myself.
We’re almost at Coach’s office when Chess calls again. Hell.
“You ever heard of turning that thing off, Mannus?”
He’s one to talk. Gossip has it Calhoun brings his into the shower with him.
“Give me a second.” I pull the phone from my pocket. “I’ll tell them I’m in a meeting.”
The second I answer, I know something is wrong. It isn’t Chess’s voice coming at me in a rush. It’s James’s. “Thank fuck you
finally answered.”
“What’s wrong? Why are you using Chess’s phone?”
“Chess is hurt. She’s in the hospital . . .”
Had I felt panic with Jake? That was nothing to this. Everything stops. Black spots dance before my eyes. I can’t breathe.
I can’t fucking breathe.
This isn’t fear. This is terror.
“Mannus? You there?”
“What hospital?” I manage.
James gives me the name and then takes an audible breath. “She’s okay. Just . . . I think she’d want you here when she wakes
up.”
Wakes up?
A weird sound comes out of me. I clench the phone. “I’m on my way.”
My fingers feel numb as I hang up. In fact, my whole fucking face feels numb. “I have to go,” I tell my coach, who stares
at me as if I’ve lost it.
“Now? Who was that? One of Ryder’s sisters?”
“No. My girl. She’s . . .” Don’t lose it. “She’s in New York. I’ve got to go.”
“You’re going to New York?” His voice rises. “We have meetings tomorrow.”
Already, I’m texting Charlie, telling him to book me the next flight out and fuck the expense. Any flight. Now.
“Mannus,” Calhoun snaps. “You listening?”
I meet his gaze head-on. “Yes, Coach. Meetings. I’ll attend every single one of them. As soon as I get back from New York.”
He stares at me, his mouth open.
I should feel bad. Worry, maybe. I don’t. I was the number one draft pick of my year. And for the first time, I’m playing
that card. “My girl is in the hospital. She is my family. And I’m going to be with her.”
It’s as if Coach is moving in slow motion, but he finally nods. “Give Ms. Copper my best.”
I don’t answer; I’m already running down the hall, my whole fucking life waiting for me in New York.