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For a moment, all the anxiety making my heart pound simmers down. I’ve been here before. She’s done that same movement in the stands before big games. I smile, thankful that she’s centered me. I mouth “thank you,” and her smile grows wider with the cocky look that promises she’ll be telling me “I told you so” after we win this game.
It’s odd to know someone so well, but there is no one else in my life I could talk to without using words and walk away feeling so heard.
“Hi, Elle!” Bradley comes up next to me, waving and interrupting us.
I glance at him on my right. He’s shorter than me by a few inches, but his huge thighs are why he can race down the field and catch the ball.
“I’m not so sure I like the fact that the girl I’m dating is wearing your number,” he says, his smile never fading toward her as he continues to wave.
“Well, I’m her best friend, so good luck getting that to change.”
My stomach drops at the thought of coming out here one day and not seeing Elle in my jersey. She’s worn my jersey since my junior year of college. Rarely does she miss any home games unless she gets called in, and even then, she makes it to part of the game a lot of times. She’s my biggest fan, my biggest cheerleader, and if this douchecanoe thinks she’s going to wear his jersey because he’s taken her to coffee a few times, he’s dead wrong.
“I think I’m going to buy her one,” he says and walks away.
“What did he say?” Miles stops in front of me.
I’m guessing he’s asking because my outward expression matches my inward feeling. I’m a minute away from fighting Bradley on the sidelines. I turn away from the women, not wanting Elle to see my reaction because she’ll ask me later and I have no excuse.
“Bastard says Elle should be wearing his number.”
She is dating Bradley, although it’s only been a few dates and nothing remarkable from the little I’ve heard her discuss with the girls. I never ask. I’m not a masochist.
“Hell, Bryce didn’t wear my number for a long-ass time.”
I lift my eyebrow at Miles, and we both laugh. Bryce wouldn’t openly do that unless she knew the relationship was going the distance.
“True,” he says. “But there’s no way Elle should wear Bradley’s.”
I want to thank Miles for having my back, but we probably sound like a bunch of high school kids trying to claim these women.
“What’s the chatting about? Stop flirting with the women in the stands.” Coach Stone walks by us, clipboard in hand, putting his headphones into place.
“She’s my wife,” Miles says, following him over to the defense side.
I say nothing as the third-string quarterback, Derek Garfield, comes over to help me warm up my arm with some throws.
By the half, we’re up by one touchdown thanks to Damon’s magic hands. My throw wasn’t great, but he got the tips of his fingers on the ball and secured it like it was Clover in the end zone.
“Why aren’t you throwing to me?” Bradley asks on our way through the tunnel.
“What are you talking about?”
“I was wide open.”
I shake my head. “Did you not see my ass on the ground how many fucking times?”
He stares at me as if he’s reading my mind. “You never missed me last year.” Storming off, he gives me one glance back before heading into the locker room.
Since we’re only up by one touchdown, the coaches scramble to decide which plays we’ll run in the second half and which ones we’re throwing away.
The best thing about football is how easy it is for me to push anything personal out of my mind. All that matters right now is that at the end of the game, the scoreboard says we won. That means I’ve done my job. So I focus on Coach Stone, then I get my team razzed to go out and fight for the win.
When the time ticks down in the fourth, we’ve won, but it’s a long season. Coach Stone is right—I can’t have any distractions this season.
Chapter 2
Ellery
