Once Upon A Half-Time: A Sports Romance - Sosie Frost Page 0,66

my hands to clap at the end of the huddle.

This wasn’t exhaustion.

This was a beating.

We lined up again. Second down. Similar play. A run up the middle, and I was supposed to pick up the blitz.

I saw it coming—I could read a defense. But nothing prepared me for catching a three-hundred-pound prick as he thrust through the line and raced into the backfield.

I collided with him, our bodies crashing hard enough to twist my helmet and block my vision. He cut left. A fake-out. I lost a step as he spun to the right. I couldn’t stop him, but Bryon had already darted past the center and earned us another three yards.

Was this what it was going to be like?

A couple seconds of agony interspersed with a bone-chilling fear that I’d missed my block and let a defender past?

My entire fucking future rested on a split second after a ball was snapped.

Jack grabbed my facemask in the huddle. I panted, trying to fill unresponsive lungs with as much air as I could get.

“Step it up, rookie.” He patted my helmet. “This pass has got your name on it.”

“Give it to me, baby.”

Jack grinned. “That’s what I like to hear.”

At least I could still fake the confidence.

We ran the same play we’d drilled for so goddamned long at training camp. I had fucking dreamt of the timing pattern, chasing away any and all sexy visions of Elle. I preferred dreaming of a naked, desperate woman, but all I had were nightmares anymore. Every night, I ran along endless hash marks, towards an end zone that never got any closer.

We lined up. I exhaled, expelling the shadowing doubts and lingering pain. I’d be damned if I let tomorrow’s bruises fuck with me today.

The ball snapped.

I sprinted down the field, counting the seconds in my head.

Three. Two. Hook back. One. Catch the ball.

I spun. Jack delivered the strike directly into my hands. I clutched the ball.

And the blindside hit nearly shattered every bone in my body.

I crashed to the grass as the cornerback wrapped me up the instant the ball hit my fingers. I grunted, saw white, and, for one frightening second, everything faded to black.

Until I blinked and realized I was face-down in the fucking grass.

No ball.

No catch.

No first down.

And no one helped me to my feet. That was fine. I walked to make sure my spine hadn’t snapped on my way to the ground.

Nothing broken except my spirit.

I stumbled to the sidelines, grasping for water.

Jack patted my shoulders. “Hell of a hit.”

I nodded. Couldn’t answer. Hadn’t breathed yet.

“You’re gonna get the shit kicked out of you when you run routes down the middle,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Name of the game. That’s why we’re sending you out there, rookie. Show me you can handle it.”

Show him?

I was still walking, wasn’t I? Barely. I chugged my water and searched for Elle.

She wasn’t hard to find. She was the only woman wandering the sidelines with a camera.

And she did it well. Read the plays. Sensed the action. She hauled her camera and bag over her shoulder and rushed down the field closer to the thirty. The other photographers hovered twenty yards back. Either she was way out of position, or she knew something they didn’t.

I shouldn’t have doubted her. She understood the Hurricane’s offense better than I did, recognizing the new personnel on the field. She had anticipated the long bomb down the sideline.

Elle snapped her picture as the receiver caught the pass. He took two steps before getting obliterated by Cole Hawthorne. The ball popped out, and Cole landed on it like a rabid dog seizing a piece of raw meat.

My cheer was short-lived.

I expected a few minutes of peace before returning to the field.

Cole led his defense to the sidelines, and I grabbed my helmet once more.

I tried not to hesitate. Tried not to realize it.

But, Christ, was I overwhelmed—and the coaches knew it.

The next call was the same play as before, forcing me down the middle again. Jack fed me to the damn lions. He pointed at me.

“You good? Hanging in there?”

“Never better, boss.”

“Catch that mother-fucker for me this time.”

“Gotta ask me nicely,” I said.

“Catch the goddamned ball or I’ll shove it up your ass.”

“That’s the kind of pillow talk I expect from Jack Carson!”

Maybe it was easier to fake knowing what I was doing.

At least for now. At least while it felt like I ran through mud with feet made of wood.

I caught the ball, but that was instinct by now. First