Page 33 of First Down Promise

“Hey, focus, man,” Pete calls out, running past me. His voice makes me touch grass. He’s not the only obstacle to Abby, but I’ve simply run out of fucks to give.

When the clock runs down on the fourth quarter and we’re deemed the winners, we do the usual post-game sportsmanship handshakes with the home team. They’re rightfully unhappy to lose in their home stadium, and believe me, I just want to peel this sweat-soaked and stained jersey off my body and hit the showers. Maybe hit the cold tub, too. My wavy hair is stuck to my head, and in these moments, it’s a relief that only Pete is needed for post-game interviews.

“That rookie owes me a new rotator cuff,” Dane says as he ducks under the showerhead next to mine.

“Yeah, that looked rough. I’m hitting the cold tub next.” I turn the knob off and step back to get my towel.

Dane nods. “Where I’m headed after this.”

A trainer tells me to get in for ten minutes in the cold tub, but honestly, I would try to stay in longer if I could. I’ve been playing football on an organized team since middle school, and after eighteen years, my body reminds me of every one of them after each game. But I don’t want to hear a single whisper about Josh Mackenzie retiring. Not this season. Not next season either. Hopefully, Dane feels the same, but either of us could fold early after the right hit.

“Hate this part. Why don’t we get snacks while we plunge?” Coop complains, walking up to the tub next to me, but Dane’s right behind him and slaps his shoulder.

“Quit your bitching, Carter,” Dane playfully remarks.

Hours after the game, my eyelids threaten to fall on the bus back to the hotel. I prop my chin on my wrist and close my eyes. After a win, everyone else is hyped, but I can only think about two things: a more thorough hot shower in the privacy of my hotel room and Abby.

The silly-faced selfie, the messy square sugar cookies that were still delicious, her belly ring glinting against her toned stomach…the image of her publicly wearing my number. Pete’s been the line I wouldn’t cross for years, but even he crossed one when he hooked up with Abby’s best friend. Maybe loyalty doesn’t mean I have to keep pretending I don’t want her.

“Iron!” Pete calls out.

“Stallions!” the guys reply.

“Iron!”

“Stallions!”

Over and over. Like Pete needs to continuously remind the world who the hell he is. You know who doesn’t need to tell anyone who they are? Abby. And the tension between her and the squad captain was too much last week. I shouldn’t have looked at her like I did coming out at last weekend’s home game, but I hadn’t seen her for a few days since that morning. And she looked too good not at the game not to be noticed.

“Iron!”

“Stallions!”

I crack my neck and try to keep my eyes closed.

Eventually, the bus pulls under the hotel awning. My legs are heavy by the time I push through my corner suite’s door. After taking a prescription-strength dose of ibuprofen, I drop my clothes as I nearly limp to the bathroom and start the shower. The built-in bench catches my eye, and that will be a convenient perk.

Soaking in steam, I sit on the shower bench for a long time after thoroughly washing my hair and body. Long enough that my ass becomes numb against the tile, but it gives the pain meds time to kick in, allowing me to function normally again. It also leaves me alone to revel in seeing Abby in the crowd. My jaw tightens again at the memory of her wearing a different guy’s number. Even if it belongs to her brother, it’s not fucking right.

My fingers are wrinkled from the water, so I finally get out and start drying myself off. I glance through the arch toward the bed, and if Abby were mine, she’d share a hotel room with me at every away game.

Something in my chest settles into place.

Sorry, Pete, but the game is over.

So, I send a text.

Chapter Thirteen

Abby

Josh: Room 749.

The phone nearly slips out of my hand as I reread the text just as the typing icon pops up.

Josh: That was an invite, by the way.

I giggle at my phone. The subtext of the room number text was obviously an invitation. He’s so dumb, but the apples of my cheeks ache from grinning so hard. But what does he need from me? I’ve been to several away games, and the only one who has ever bothered me after a game was Pete.