She grins, unfazed. “You know you can talk to me about him, right? Even if it’s just an unrequited crush and he’s completely clueless about it.” She softens, just for a moment. “You know he would never intentionally hurt you, right?”
“It’s nothing, Jen. Can we drop it, please?”
She tuts, crossing her arms, clearly not satisfied.
I look out at the field, watching Ryan command the huddle. He’s a natural leader—his teammates hanging on every word. The play clock winds down and he’s pointing, shifting the formation, cool as hell. Then the snap, and he’s all action: dropping back, scanning, launching a perfect spiral to his receiver.
Yeah, I’ve learned a bunch of words and phrases like formation, huddle, and perfect spiral. Let’s not make a federal case over it.
“It’s weird to watch this close in person,” I say, leaning over so Jen can hear me.
Jen nods. “It really is. He looks almost elegant, the way he moves, don’t you think?”
My brain helpfully supplies images of how elegant he looks riding my cock, so I keep my mouth shut.
I just hum loudly and nod.
We watch a few more plays. Each time, Ryan’s in control, moving like he was born for this. The offense marches downfield, and my chest fills with confusing pride.
On Arizona’s last possession of the first quarter, Ryan drops back for a pass. They’re butted up against the end zone we’re gathered at under the tent. Seattle’s defensive end, a monster of a human, breaks through the line. Time slows. Ryan doesn’t see him coming. The defender barrels down, and all I can do is watch, helpless, as the hit comes—full force, square into Ryan’s side. Ryan’s body twists, legs tangling awkwardly, and then…
CRACK.
Ryan goes down, and his leg snaps back in a way no leg should move. The sound of Ryan’s scream is sickening, even from here. My ears ring. The crowd’s noise fades and it’s like the world’s gone silent except for the white-hot panic tearing through my chest. I can’t breathe. My gut drops out, heart slamming so hard it hurts.
And then I’m running. I don’t even remember standing. I just know I have to get to him. I shove through the tent opening, past startled fans, toward the sideline. I barely make it ten yards before a coach and a ref catch me, holding me back.
On the field, Ryan is screaming—high, raw, animal. The kind of sound that turns your blood to ice.
“Let me through!” I yell, fighting against the hands holding me. “That’s my—” I choke, words lost in the chaos.
“Spence.” A voice somewhere behind me, arms wrap around my midsection, but I ignore it all. I have to get to Ryan.
“Spence!” The grip tightens, arms hauling me back.
“SPENCE!”
I’m spun around, vision blurry. It’s Chance. He lets go just as Anthony steps in front of me, hands on my shoulders.
“Let them do their job,” Anthony says, voice calm but firm. I just stare at him, mind blank except for the image of Ryan, broken and screaming.
Anthony’s hand squeezes my shoulder. “Come on. We’ll take you to the hospital so you can be there when—”
“Hospital?” The word barely makes it out, rough and raw.
“Yeah,” Anthony says gently. “He’s probably going to need surgery.”
“Surgery?” My voice cracks.
Anthony glances at Chance. “Help me get him to the car.”
Chance rubs my back and, somehow, my feet move. I barely feel my legs as they lead me off the field, the stadium’s noise a distant, meaningless roar behind me. All I can see is Ryan, and the way his leg bent, and the sound of his scream echoing in my head.
Everything else disappears.
Twenty-Five
Best Friend
