Page 88 of Let You Love Me

A million excuses have been given all night for why I haven’t seen any action: Chance read the field and the wide receiver was the safer bet. I wasn’t in position, even though I fuckingwas. He didn’t see me open. The play didn’t feel right. He went with his gut.

Amazing how many times his fucking gut told himnotto give me the ball.

Disappointment gnaws at me as I hustle toward the huddle, trying to shake off the feeling of insignificance as Chance calls another play.

I nod, determined to make my presence known, to do something fucking noteworthy since I haven’t had the opportunity all game.

Once more, the ball snaps, and I surge forward, running my route with precision and more speed than I can ever remember. I find an opening in the defense, a fleeting moment of opportunity.

But just as I turn to make the catch, someone shoves me from behind, throwing me off-balance.

Fuck.

I struggle to regain my footing, barely witnessing the moment Chance gets sacked, and the ball whizzes past, falling short of me. Greene fumbles for it, and when it lands, several defenders and offensive men dive for it.

Somehow, Greene comes out on top with the ball, managing to spring to his feet, and he takes a flying leap toward the end zone, falling to safety behind the goal line.

The cheers of the fans around me erupt to deafening levels.

We scored. Which means we won.

Ishouldbe ecstatic.

I pick myself up and force my feet to move, closing the distance between myself and Greene where several of my teammates are rushing the field. I reach a hand out and help him to his feet, clapping him on the back and congratulating him before we’re engulfed by the rest of the team.

Several hours later and with food in hand, we’re back on the bus, headed home.

It’s late, everything cast in shadows as we take the highway back toward Cumberland. The excitement from our win has finally fizzled out with most guys leaning back in their seats, their eyes closed, earbuds in, and catching a nap on the six-hour drive home.

Not me.

I stare out the window, losing focus on the scenery as we pass. My thoughts are lost on the game when a voice brings me up short.

“Tough break today.”

I turn to find Chance in the seat behind me, his expression smug as he meets my eyes between the seats.

“Amazing how that happened. Didn’t get near a pigskin all game.”

“Like I said,” Chance chews on a piece of gum, his lips curling, “tough break out there.”

My eyes narrow. On the field, I’d suspected all the diversions, change in plays, and unhappy coincidences were calculated, but now Iknowthey were.

“Can I ask what exactly your problem is with me?”

Chance’s eyes widen. If he’s surprised I’ve challenged him, then he’s dumber than I thought. Then again, he’s so used to everyone kissing his ass.

“Sounds like you’re the one with the problem.”

“Really?” I tip my chin. “So today’s game, all those times I was supposed to get the ball and didn’t, those were just . . . coincidences?”

Chance chokes on a laugh, though his eyes are filled with anything but humor. Instead, they glitter with indignation. “Some people call me a god on the field, but damn, you’re giving me more credit than them all.” He narrows his eyes. “You think I can control a whole fucking game?” he seethes.

He’s not entirely wrong to imply anyone who thinks a single person can control the game is an idiot. There is a whole hell of a lot out of his control on the field once the ball leaves his hands. But while he still has it, while it’s in his possession? That’s a whole other story.

Hecontrols the narrative. Quarterbacks dictate the pace of the game, and oftentimes, the scoreboard. And they’re sure as hell in control of calling plays and who they give the ball to. It’s why pro quarterbacks are the highest paid position in the NFL; the weight of responsibility lies on their shoulders the most out of any other position. Lockhart is playing dumb and it pisses me off, because he knows I’ll see his answer for what it is?complete and utter bullshit?but there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. Just like there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it today on the field.

“Cut the shit, Lockhart,” I say, keeping my tone even, careful not to rouse any of the guys around us. “You can claim it was out of your hands for a few of the plays. The sack at the end was one. But the last-minute play changes, blatantly ignoring me when I was wide open and grounding the ball instead, passing it to Bryce and Greene every single fucking time regardless of whether I was in the perfect position to score? That’s all you. Even when Coach told you he wanted me to have the ball, you found a way to deflect. You’re just lucky we won today.”

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