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“No.”
He didn’t say anything else, just stared at me in that way that told me he wouldn’t budge until I’d spilled my guts. It was very disconcerting when he did that. Which was why I always ended up telling him what was going on. Asshole.
Sighing, I scratched my chin, the prickly whispers reminding me of the whisker burn I’d left on Finley’s thighs. Which just made the whole situation even more maddening.
“She’s in the owner’s box.”
Brady frowned. “She’s in the owner’s box,” he echoed.
I nodded.
“She’s sitting in her uncle’s box,” he repeated.
I scowled and nodded again.
“Okay, you’re gonna have to help me out here. Isn’t it pretty normal for Lennox’s family to sit in his box?”
“Not when that family is my girlfriend,” I snapped.
Understanding dawned on his face. “You’re pissed because she’s not sitting in the stands with our families.”
I grunted in reply before taking a swig from my water bottle.
“If you two are intent on keeping your relationship a secret, then that’s the way it has to be, man,” Brady muttered.
“I’m not,” I argued hotly. “I wanted to go public right away.”
“Finley convinced you not to so that it wouldn’t mess with the team dynamic during the playoffs,” he guessed.
“Yeah. I fucking hate that the world doesn’t know she’s mine.”
“I get it,” Brady said with a slap on my back. “But now isn’t the time for your head to be up your ass. Maybe she’s right. You need to have your focus on the game. We all do.”
I nodded and swallowed another mouthful of water just as we were called to go back out onto the field. After putting on my helmet, I shook out my body and tried not to glance up in the direction of the Madison box.
The game filled my mind, and I focused on playing to win. As we entered the fourth quarter, we were up by fifteen points. I moved into position for the play that Prentice called and looked around me, playing out different scenarios so I’d be prepared for anything.
Unfortunately, my eyes darted over to the jumbotron, and I froze.
What the actual fuck?
The camera was zoomed in on the owner’s box, showing Finley in the front row, looking amazing in a team jersey…although it didn’t have my fucking number on it, which already had me irritated. But the guy sitting next to her was leaning in too fucking close and saying something in her ear. Then she threw her head back and laughed, just as the whistle blew.
My head whipped back to the field, but those precious seconds of distraction cost me. The next thing I knew, I was knocked on my ass.
“Son of a bitch!” I cursed when I tried to stand, and my leg gave out on me. I recognized the feeling. It wasn't an injury, just a motherfucker of a charley horse where the other guy's foot had clipped my calf.
Kellan—another offensive lineman—and Gage each grabbed an arm to help me get onto my feet and limp off the field. After talking with the coach, he sent for one of our on-call physical therapists, and I hobbled over to the bench.
It was while the PT and I were working out the knot that I noticed an angry man stalking toward me and winced.
Yeah, Coach O’Hara was pissed as fuck. He wouldn’t have left the private skybox where he and the defensive coordinator spent our games unless he was angry enough that he wanted to ream me out in person.
“What the hell, Channing?” he shouted. “Since when do you take a hit like that? Since when the fuck do you take a hitat all?!”
I had a reputation for being wicked fast and was rarely taken down when tackled. It took monumental effort not to glance up at the jumbotron or the box where I knew Finley was sitting. “Sorry, Coach,” I mumbled.
“Sorry doesn’t get us to the championship game, Rhodes,” he snapped. “Get your head in the fucking game, or I’ll have you benched for the rest of the season. Do I make myself clear?”
