The corner of my mouth slid up. “I think I prefer it that way.”
He met my smile, but then his phone buzzed, and he picked it up quickly, frowning when he saw it was Holden before he sat it back down again.
“Something happened with Maliyah yesterday, didn’t it?” I asked.
He cleared his throat, nodding.
“What was it?”
“Ran into her after the game,” he said, sniffing. “We talked a bit.”
“And?”
He smirked at me. “Nosy.”
“Come on! I tell you everything about Shawn.”
“Fair,” he conceded, sitting back on his barstool. “She asked how I was, pretended like she cared. Tried not-so-sneakily to pry about what was going on with us,” he said, waving between me and himself. “I told her I was moving on. It pissed her off and made her jealous.”
My stomach flipped and soured at once. “Well… that’s good, right?”
“It’s something,” he agreed, cutting another bite off his omelet. “I definitely think it shocked her that I didn’t give in.”
“Why didn’t you?” I paused. “I mean, that was the plan, right?”
“Yes, but not this soon. I know her well enough to know she’s just pulling on the string, seeing if I do what she wants.”
I bit down the urge to say how fucked up that was, taking another bite of my breakfast, instead.
“But it shook her up, for sure. Maliyah is like family to me,” he said, and the words stung me for some reason I didn’t understand. “And her family is like my own. That’s been the weirdest part of this, not just losing her, but her parents and sister, too.”
I nodded like I understood, even though I didn’t.
“If I know anything for sure about her, though, it’s that she’s a daddy’s girl. She wants to be just like him. And he’s a lawyer.”
I lifted a brow.
“Exactly. She knows me better than almost anyone, and she’s not afraid to use what she knows to get what she wants. She’s used to me bending over backward for her. Same with my dad, which is why he was frustrated I didn’t call him after the game like I promised I would.” He frowned. “I guess with Mom, too. Maybe with everyone.”
“You like to help others,” I said easily. “I watched it all last season with Riley and Zeke, and I see it every day in the locker room and on the field and in weight training. You’re always pushing everyone around you, guiding them, giving them pointers and tips.”
He licked his lip. “Yeah.”
“It’s not a bad thing.”
“It’s not always a good thing, either.”
I nodded. “Well, how about this,” I said, turning to face him in my chair. “From now on, before you do something for someone else, make sure it’s something for you, too. Deal?”
“That’s a lot easier said than done.”
“Try.”
He smirked. “Okay. Deal.”
“Speaking of deals,” I said, turning back to the bar. “You’re not just helping me with… you know… things because you feel obligated to, right?”
“No,” he answered easily. “I’m doing it because I like you.”
My cheeks warmed.
“And because I can’t watch you swoon over Music Boy anymore without getting ill.”
“Hey!” I smacked his arm. “I do not swoon.”
Clay stood, batting his lashes as he clasped his hands by his chin. “Oh, Shawn! I love that song! Oh, Shawn, what big hands you have! All the better to play that big, bad guitar with. Oh, Shawn!”
I picked up a piece of bacon that had fallen out of my omelet and flicked it at him before he could continue, loving the roar of a laugh that came from him when I did.
“I’ve got to run,” he said, looking at the time on his phone before he tucked it away. “I’m meeting Holden for some drills.”
“It’s Sunday. Your day off,” I reminded him. “You just played a game yesterday.”
He shrugged. “When you want to be the best, there are no days off.” Then, he paused. “Are you… okay this morning?”
I flushed, looking down at my plate. “A little sore, but… yes.”
“Good.”
He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else, but never did. Instead, he swiped his hoodie off the back of the barstool where he’d left it the night before.
Then, he leaned in and swiftly kissed my cheek.
“Thanks for breakfast, Kitten,” he said.
He was gone in the next moment.
And suddenly, my apartment felt a lot more empty.
Clay
“Watch, watch!” I yelled to Dane at our next game, pointing to where a wide receiver had just jogged from in front of me, down the line, to land in front of him, instead. He nodded affirmatively, and I bent low, fingers wiggling at my sides as I glared at the player across from me through the metal of my helmet.
There were only twenty seconds left on the clock, and we were beating the Philadelphia Lions by three points. But if they got close enough to kick a field goal, we’d be going into overtime.
I was not going into overtime.
Especially not on my birthday.
“Shut it down, boys!” someone screamed from the sidelines. It sounded a lot like Zeke, and I sank even lower in my crouch, determination prickling my skin.
The ball was snapped, and the quarterback fell into the pocket with his eyes scanning. They needed at least fifteen more yards to be in a good field goal position, and it was third down — so I knew he would launch it.
His eyes flicked to the receiver who had gone down by Dane, but Dane was on him like white on rice. So the QB kept searching, and when our defensive line started to break through, he panicked, launching the ball down the middle of the field.
I kicked against the turf as hard as I could, juking the receiver I was covering to run toward the tight end who was wide open. Dane caught on a second after I did, but he was too late. Even after he started running, I knew he wouldn’t get there in time.
So I dug in deeper, harder, my thighs and calves screaming in protest as I gave it everything I had.
Then, out of nowhere, one of our defensive linemen hopped up from where he’d been pushed back into our zone, and he tipped the ball.
It wobbled, spinning off target, and without hesitation, I leapt into the air and snagged it before the offense could even realize what was happening.
The roar of the crowd assaulted me as I landed, spinning just in time to avoid a tackle, and sprinting the opposite way down the field. My lungs were on fire, ribs aching, but I kept on, glancing behind me to find the opposite team on my tail.
“Go! Go! Go!”
Riley’s distinct voice pierced through the noise, and I pushed harder, glancing up to see the clock was about to run out.
And it did.
Right as I crossed over into the end zone.
“TOUCHDOWN REBELS!” the announcer bellowed, and our home team went absolutely insane as I puffed my chest and threw the ball into the stands. I was bombarded by my teammates in the next breath, my helmet being smacked hard enough to concuss me as they hyped me up. Then, before we could get in trouble from the coach or the officials for too much celebrating, we all jogged toward the sideline, only to be encompassed by reporters.