Most Likely to Score
My eyes zero in on the ball. All I know is the hunt. Hunt that ball, haul it in, and take it to the end zone. Scan left and right, watch for predators. Dodge this way, dart that way, the target in my crosshairs.
As the ball soars through the air, I race for it. It’s ten feet away, five feet away. It’s in my hands.
A surge of energy lights up my chest, powering me like an electric grid. It barrels through my legs, and I race, blinders on, the end zone in sight, my guys blocking for me. At the five-yard line, a touchdown seems a foregone conclusion, but a safety catches up from out of nowhere, slamming into me.
Clutching the ball like the precious cargo it is, I take another huge step, and one more, until all the air spills from my lungs as he hits hard again.
My ears ring.
My bones rattle.
The collision echoes through my body as I crumple. My knee slams against the grass, then the rest of me smashes to the earth in a crush of limbs.
The safety’s legs tangle up with mine, and the heavy weight of his body shoves my knee harder against the ground.
Harder than I’ve felt before.
Then, everything turns into déjà vu.
This must be how Garrett felt when he fell.
33
Jillian
My heart jams my throat.
Fear attacks every cell in my body.
A player’s down. But not just any player. My player.
My guy. My man.
A brand-new sensation courses through me as I rush to the window of the press suite where I’ve been watching. I press my fingers to the glass, and my veins flood with a primal, wild fear.
Jones lies on the field, grappling with his right leg.
“Oh God.” A tear streams down my cheek, and I snap my gaze to the TV screen as the camera zooms in on him. The trainer’s already there—the coach, too. Harlan kneels next to him, offering a hand.
The shot of his face shows Jones wincing. The pain seems to ricochet through him, and I wish I could take it on for him. My feet are glued to the floor and my eyes to the screen. I can’t look away.
“We don’t know what happened to Jones Beckett, and whether he can walk it off or not. But that was one tough fall as Collings rammed into him right at the end zone,” the announcer says. “I’ve seen these kind of falls before, and sometimes you get right up, and sometimes you don’t.”
Shut up, I want to say. He’ll get up.
To the screen, I mouth, Get up. Please get up.
Jones rolls to his side, his big, beautiful hands clutching his right knee.
Harlan slides an arm under him, the trainer on the other side, and all the tears in the universe streak down my face as Jones hobbles off the field with them.
I run like hell from the suite, down the hall, and to the elevator that’ll take me to the locker room. He’s not even going to the sidelines medical tents. They’re taking him to the locker room, and that means it’s serious.
“C’mon,” I mutter as I wave my ID tag at the card reader, and I wait and I wait and I wait. Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I try to find some information, but that’s stupid. That’s pointless.
ESPN has no more data than I do.
This is happening in real time, and I need to get to him.
34
Jones
They say all good things must come to an end. They say anything can happen any given Sunday.
But I’m not thinking about football as Miles, the trainer, becomes my crutch, taking me to the lower floor of the stadium where the team doctor waits. Harlan stays behind to play.
This is my biggest fear—a career-ending injury—and as the very real prospect of never playing football again hangs in the balance, a new terror races through me—the horror that I’ve royally fucked up.
I’m on the cusp of losing it all, watching everything I’ve worked for splinter to pieces, but I’ve forgotten one important thing—to tell my woman I love her before the game started.
I’m a great and terrible idiot.
“You doing okay, big guy?” Miles’s arm is under me. Hell, his whole upper frame is under me, since he’s probably all of five foot, nine inches.
“I’m okay. I didn’t need a cart to go off the field,” I say, since I can walk still. But everything hurts with every step. My muscles are sore. My bones ache. I ran into a truck, and it knocked me to the ground. Collings is made of titanium, and it hurt just as much to collide with him. I tread gingerly, carefully moving one foot in front of the other.
“You can do it. You’re going to be fine. We can figure this out,” he says, offering encouraging words, since that’s his job.
I have no idea what we’ll figure out. I have no idea if this is how Garrett felt when he was hit so hard his career ended, but I know one thing—the biggest mistake I made today wasn’t running all-out to the end zone.
It was half-assing things with the woman I love.
I was a dick. Cletus was right, and I hope to hell Jillian can forgive me like the little guy did.
“Slow down,” Miles says gently as we near the locker room.
“Was I walking faster?”
“You were. You need to take it easy. Don’t exacerbate anything. Okay?”
“Okay.” Then I add, “I’m okay.” This time it feels a little truer as we turn into the locker room.
One of the PTs is waiting with the doctor, and he offers to lift me onto the exam table, but I wave him off, hopping up there on my own power.
The bespectacled doctor gets to work quickly, cutting my football pants along the knee.
“Does this hurt?” The doctor wiggles my kneecap.
Oddly enough, it doesn’t hurt as much. I let my mind wander as he does his job, and maybe this is what it means to have an out-of-body experience, since I’m not feeling much pain any longer.
My mind circles again to Garrett, the picture of his little girl, the mention of his wife, the smile on his face.
A razor-sharp awareness zings through me, piercing my heart.
I was wrong.
Garrett might miss football, but his life is far from over.
His happiness is not dependent on the game. His heart is with his family. Friday morning, I only saw what I feared. I saw what was lost, not what he’d found.
But I see clearly now—he’s a man who has what matters most.
The doctor asks a question. I blink and make eye contact. “What did you say?”
“Does this hurt at all? Does anything hurt? You didn’t answer me.”
I look at the doctor. “I love her.”
He quirks up an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
Louder, in case he didn’t hear, I announce, “I love Jillian Moore. I want you to know, Doctor Miller.”
He laughs, his gray eyes twinkling through his glasses. “Did you hit your head, too, Jones?”
I shake my head.
“Let’s focus on one thing at a time, then.” He moves my ankle. “Does this hurt?”
Before I can answer, Ford bursts into the room in a flurry of Armani and wingtips.
“Dude, you can dress down for a game,” I say, laughing.
He glares at me. “Never. Also—”
“—I love Jillian,” I cut him off.
He shoots me a look like I’m high, waving a hand dismissively as he strides to the exam table. “Is he on morphine already?”
The doctor shakes his head. “Of course not.”
“Then what the hell is going on?”
I grab Ford’s arm, getting his attention till he looks me square in the eyes. “I’m in love with Jillian. All I care about right now is that you know that. Do you get it? I love her.”