Page 83 of Her Game Plan

“Great,” I say before turning on the shower. I need to wash away this terrible fucking day.

She turns to leave, and despite my better judgment, I ask, “Was it all fake for you?”

Without turning around, she replies quietly, “Does it matter?”

I think about how I’d feel if she said yes. If she told me I was the only one feeling the way I did. And then about how I would feel if it had been real, and she still decided to trade me. I’m not sure which would hurt worse. Actually, I do know which would hurt worse: if she, like my parents, had actually felt something, but not enough to stay. To fight for me.

“I suppose not.”

The truth is, I don’t deserve the kind of love my friends have, certainly not now, when everything in my life has to be about me, but probably never. Everyone who has ever tried to love me has left, except Nan, of course, though that’s mostly due to the guilt she feels about raising my deadbeat dad.

“Okay, then.”

I climb into the shower, but as she leaves, I hear, “It was the most real thing I’ve ever felt.”

But when I open the shower door, she’s gone, and I’m pretty sure my mind is playing tricks on me.

Chapter 33

Callan

Fuck the snow. Fuck this game. And fuck number 50 and the three times he’s slammed me to the ground in the last three quarters.

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.