The Jock by J.L. Beck Page 0,29

zings with energy.

The game has already started, and players on both teams are on the field.

“Which one is he?” Mia yells into my ear.

“I don’t know,” I reply with the same exuberance.

Mia pulls her phone out, but my eyes are drawn to the field, and away from whatever she is doing.

“Forty-five.”

“Huh?” I say, still staring out onto the field. I look over each guy, becoming completely immersed in the game. Players hit players, and a ball is thrown.

“Number forty-five is Cage,” Mia yells as the crowd around us erupts. I’m not sure what happened, but I scan the guys on the field and stop on number forty-five.

It isn’t until he turns around, giving his back to us that I realize Wilder is in letters on the back of his jersey, though they’re hard to see. Trudging off the field, he throws himself down on the bench and rips his helmet off. It bounces across the turf, and another player picks it up. Coach Willard turns and walks over to where Cage is sitting. Another teammate takes a seat beside him, and Cage seems to bury his face in his hands.

He doesn’t just seem defeated but exhausted too.

“You’re staring at him.” Mia leans into me.

“He doesn’t look happy. Shouldn’t he be happy,” I ask, turning to her.

“They’re losing, Blair. That wouldn’t make anyone happy.”

I don’t say it, but I know it’s more than that. It isn’t just the fact that they’re losing, it’s something else entirely. If he loved football as much as he claims, he would be cheering his team on, he would be trying to boost morale. Instead, he continues staring down at his hands even as Coach Willard speaks into his ear. He doesn’t acknowledge him, not as he talks or even as he walks away. The crowd chants boo, and the players switch, running off the field. Cage stands, grabs his helmet, and slowly jogs out to the center of the field. There is no pep in his step, no joy, no drive whatsoever.

They make a tight circle and then break away, moving into their positions. Words are yelled, and the ball flies into the quarterback’s hands. Cage pushes forward, a wall of muscle. I’m not sure how someone as massive as him maintains such perfect balance. It’s obvious he’s good at what he does, and yet, at the last moment, the guy he’s holding back slips past him moving with agility, tackling the quarterback to the ground.

Cage turns and shakes his head, dropping his hands down at his sides. I can’t see his face, but I know I’d see a drained and completely broken man if I could.

“He claims to love football,” I say.

An elbow comes out of nowhere, cutting through the air and jabbing into my side. I grit my teeth, wanting to elbow the patron back but instead keep my eyes trained on the field, not wanting to miss a single moment.

“Maybe he does, but today is just a bad day.”

I consider what she’s saying, and we watch the game for a little while longer. North Woods scores a touchdown, but Blackthorn is already ahead by three scores, and there isn’t enough time on the clock for them to make up the loss.

As the time on the clock ticks down, Zeke, who is standing beside Mia, leans into her side and whispers into her ear.

“Zeke wants to get going,” she says, turning to me.

I nod in agreement, knowing traffic out of this place is going to be a total and epic nightmare. Interlocking hands so we don’t lose each other, we move through the stands, descending the steps. Zeke leads us to a door that says personnel only.

Where the hell are we going?

We walk into a stairwell and down another flight of stairs. Zeke opens another door and ushers us out into a huge tunnel.

“We’re in the tunnel that leads to the locker rooms,” Mia exclaims. “Maybe we’ll see some goodies.”

The pounding of feet ahead echoes through the space, each step as heavy as the thump of my heart in my chest. Mia gives my hand a squeeze, and we’re walking again. Zeke is practically dragging us behind him.

Out of nowhere, I hear someone calling my name. I freeze mid-step, which causes Mia to stop as well. It takes a moment for Zeke to realize we’ve stopped, and I stumble over my feet another step.

“Blair?” Cage’s deep voice wraps around me like a vine cutting off oxygen to my lungs.

Slowly, I turn around and