He claps my shoulder and jogs off before I can respond.
I stay rooted for a beat longer, staring up at that goddamn section. Honey looks radiant. She’s glowing under the stadium lights, and she’s waving down at me as though my world isn’t tilting on its axis.
I lift a hand. Wave back and smile. Then I turn and bury it.
“Head in the game,” I say, pushing the anxiety and fury down.
I’m going to let Honey have a good time during the game, but when the final whistle blows, I’m getting answers. If that girl is circling her to get to me, I’ll end this shit before it even starts.
I join the team huddle and place my hand on top of the stack.
“One, two, three—”
“ST. MICHAEL'S!”
The roar of the crowd hits me hard tonight. The wall of noise should steady me, but it doesn’t even scratch the surface of the anger buzzing under my skin. I willalwaysfight for what’s mine.
We win the coin toss, and the kickoff comes fast. I strap my helmet on and force myself into the game, even as my eyes keep trying to pull me into the crowd.
In my first drive, I manage a clean pass to Reese, who somehow manages to get the ball to Dax for the first touchdown.The crowd explodes, and my teammates mob me, slapping my helmet and screaming my name.
For a moment, the world makes sense again.
This is mine.
My field. My house. My girl.
But then my gaze flicks exactly where it shouldn’t. Honey’s laughing, dancing with that snake like she’s at a fucking Bailey Hill concert.
In the next drive, I overthrow Sebi by ten yards, and Covey U manages to intercept. He was wide open, and I fucking missed. Inevermiss.
“Fuck me, Evans,” Dax mutters as we jog to the sidelines. “What the hell was that?”
When I rip my helmet off, I can feel the anger radiating off me. “Won’t happen again,” I grit out.
How could I letthat girlruin my focus?
One mistake.
That’s all she’s getting from me.
Our defense manages to intercept in the third down, and I jog back onto the field, snapping my helmet back into place.
Snap count. Coverage. Protection.
That’s it. That’s all I’m thinking about.
Covey’s defense lines up fast, but one guy takes his time. Jackson James.
“Damn, Evans,” he drawls. “You throw a bad pass, and nobody notices. Living the dream.”
I don’t look at him. “Line up,” I say to my team flatly.
Jackson laughs.
“Relax,” he says. “I’m jealous. I mess up once and it’s a whole film session with the team.”
My jaw tightens.