Page 63 of Off Limits

“Are you smiling?” I ask, because she’s got that tone in her voice that says she might be.

“Yes.”

“Good.” I haul her up for another kiss.

“You know,” she muses after she pulls back, “we won’t be able to do this there.”

I grunt, a noncommittal sound, unaccountably annoyed. “I know,” I mutter, and bite my tongue on the rest of what I want to say. That wecoulddo this there—okay, maybe we wouldn’t be able to have sex in her parents’ house, but we could at least kiss and act like a couple. We’d just have to tell Cal.

But telling Cal ahead of time is likely to get me uninvited.

Could we tell him while we’re there? If her parents are around, maybe they can help cushion the blow for him …

“I know,” Ellie says, like she can read my mind. “It’ll be difficult to be in such close proximity without being able to touch each other. But it might be kinda fun, if you think about it. It’ll be like a long, drawn-out tease. Extra foreplay. Think how explosive we’ll be by the time we can get together again after we get home.”

She’s clearly not thinking on the same track I am, and I don’t want to ruin tonight by bringing it up. So instead, I roll her under me, propping myself up on one elbow and trailing my other hand down her body. “Are our usual encounters not explosive enough for you?”

She shivers under my touch. “No. They are. It’s just—”

But I don’t let her finish her statement, cutting her off with a kiss. I know what she means. And if she keeps talking about it, I’ll end up suggesting we spill the beans, and I already know she won’t go for that. Not now.

So I kiss her like her lips are my breath, my heartbeat, my sanity, and let all thoughts of anything or anyone other than her drift away.

At some point, we won’t be able to wiggle our way around that conversation anymore. But we’re not there yet.

* * *

The game at NOU is cold and wet and muddy. It’s been raining for hours, and we’re all cold and miserable between plays, uniforms streaked with mud and grass. We huddle under umbrellas and plastic ponchos on the sidelines, the ice cold water and Gatorade both a blessing and a curse. It’s great right off the field, but quickly brings the chill into your veins.

At least tonight we’ll be going home to a real house, with a real shower. And Ellie will be there, even if I can’t touch her.

In fact, she’s actually here tonight for the game, a fact which makes me smile any time I think of it.

Our defense lets through a running play, and the other team makes a touchdown. Coach Reese is pacing right in front of me, and when their running back makes it to the end zone, Coach brings his hands to his head in the universal sign of shock and dismay. I half expect him to spike his clipboard on the ground and rip off his headset, but he doesn’t. With what appears to be a superhuman effort, he takes a deep breath, lowers his hands, crosses his arms, and stalks off down the sidelines, where he confers with one of the other coaches while the field gets set for the extra point. The kicker makes it without a problem, and I throw the Marycliff parka off my shoulders, the cold air raising goosebumps on my arms, the long sleeve Under Armour shirt I have on under my jersey providing little protection from the wind whipping through the stadium.

Soon I won’t even notice it, because I’ll be focused on protecting Kilpatrick.

Cal’s standing on the sidelines, helmet in hand, his body angled to the field like he’s going to run on, just waiting and hoping for Coach to signal him in instead of Kilpatrick. But there’s no chance of that happening. Not now. Not with us losing by five to a team that we should be able to beat easily with less than ten minutes left in the game. Coach isn’t going to risk pulling his starter unless Kilpatrick gets hurt.

And it’s my job to make sure that doesn’t happen.

We take the field and Kilpatrick calls the play. Their running game might be on point, but our passing game is even better. I hate to say it, but Kilpatrick’s got a better arm than Cal—better aim, even at long distances. There’s a reason he’s the starter, and it’s not just because Coach Reese brought him along and promised him the position. He’s the starter because he deserves to be. And while Cal’s my best friend, I’d have to be blind not to see that reality.

The center snaps the ball, and I’m up, shuffling my feet, matching up with the defensive lineman opposite me, keeping him from getting to Kilpatrick while he backs up to make his pass. The familiar slap of plastic reaches my ears as the defensive tackle shoves at my shoulders, but I don’t let him push me back, hands up, feet moving, the scrum of everyone else around me, all of us focused on a singular goal—keeping the NOU defense away from Kilpatrick.

The defensive end goes down, his feet slipping in a muddy patch, and I disentangle myself so I don’t go down with him.

First down.

Rinse and repeat. But this time the pass is incomplete, and the other team gets the ball again.

Coach is pissed, his nostrils flaring as he stomps up and down the sidelines, yelling at our defense to get it together and hold them.

This time, our defense not only manages to keep the NOU offense from slipping through, Jackson makes an impressive vertical leap to intercept a pass and runs it back for a touchdown, getting us back in the lead, but not by much. They only need a field goal to put us behind again.

After another grueling five minutes, we manage to hold onto our slim lead and win the game, but it’s close enough that we’re a dejected crew filing back into the locker room. And coach’s post game speech doesn’t do anything to lift our spirits.

“Good game, boys. We managed to not lose that one. Because make no mistake, if Jackson hadn’t managed that interception, we would’ve handed NOU the game. We would’ve just lost. Given up and rolled over and let them have it. I was under the impression that this team was going places.” He points his finger around the room at the upperclassmen. “You’ve spent the last two years scrabbling and fighting to get to Division I, and now that you’re finally here, you’re what? Giving up? You don’t have to care anymore? Or is it just this game against this team that doesn’t count toward our conference score? Is that why you didn’t really care tonight?”

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