Page 16 of Love at Second Down

I can’t let her touch football. Not when it’s the one thing I have left.

I move through warm-ups on the field thanks to muscle memory, but my head isn’t in it. I know it’s stupid to let her affect me like this. My head needs to be squarely in the game, now more than ever. I can’t afford distractions. Everything is riding on these next two and a half weeks as we fight for a championship win. Regardless, seeing her on the way here fucked with my head. I can’t stop thinking about why she’d be working in a coffee shop slinging drinks or what she meant when she said, “I might be an Astor by name these days, but not much else.” And the more I think about her, the harder it is to stop, which really pisses me off.

I call the boys into the huddle, trying to focus as Coach barks out the first play.

“Damon, you’re running the option on this one. Look for the open lane. Stay calm.”

I nod and signal for the huddle to break, my fingers tingling as I adjust my helmet, trying to clear my mind. I can hear the pounding of cleats against the turf as my teammates get into position, but my thoughts are muddy, unfocused, as I set my feet in the pocket, trying to drown out my errant thoughts.

On the outside, I’m cool and collected?sure on my feet?but on the inside, I’m a fucking mess. My thoughts are a thousand miles away. Thank God the play is drilled into my mind, or I’d be lost, because the second I call the snap, the memory of Avery when I found her staring down at me from my seat in the lecture hall, flickers in my head making it hard to think of much else.

Is this seat taken?

The ball torpedoes toward my waiting hands, and I catch it, fingers finding the laces as I rise to my feet. But the memory of her voice, those caramel eyes, melt through my thoughts.

I was wondering if we could talk. Maybe get a coffee and catch up?

I remember the shock I felt when I saw her behind the café counter today, those whiskey eyes staring back at me, her mindless chatter as she made my coffee.

When I saw your coffee cup the other day, I wondered if you still had your regular coffee habit.

The defense rushes at me like a brick wall, but I’m frozen, heart clenching mid-stride while I clutch the football to my chest.

“Move your ass!” Coach yells, snapping through my thoughts.

I jolt in place, and the icy fingers gripping my chest thaw enough to release their hold on me.

I fake left, then right, searching for an opening while the pocket collapses around me. Panic needles in my spine, but Ihave to trust my team to protect me. Hell, I have to trust myself, even if my head’s not one hundred percent here.

Then I see it—an opening down the sideline, a split-second of daylight. I toss the ball, the spiral perfect as it soars through the air. But I’m seconds too late, and the trajectory is off. Jace might be our best wide receiver, and arguably one of the best in the league, but even he can’t catch this ball.

His fingers reach, arms outstretched as he leaps into the air, but he can’t make it. The pigskin glances off one of his fingers and falls to the ground, taking my stomach with it.

Coach blows the whistle, glaring holes in the side of my face. I can hear what he’s thinking: If I hesitate like that in the game, it’s over.

“Make the damn catch, Taggart,” Coach bellows to Jace, and I wince, hating that he’s taking the heat for my fuckup. “And Huhn, get your head out of your ass. If you can’t throw the damn ball eleven fucking yards, what the hell can you do?”

“Sorry, Coach,” I mutter, avoiding his gaze as I call everyone in for the huddle.

Coach barks out orders to the receiving line before I call the next play and my teammates line up. Trey, our center, snaps it, but the leather bounces off my hands like a dropped promise, landing into the grass with a soft thud.

My teammates groan, some of them shaking their heads.

“Fucking hell, Damon!” Coach shouts from the sidelines, his voice thick with frustration. “Get your head in the game!”

I don’t respond. There’s nothing I can say to defend myself anyway. Instead, I bend down to grab the ball, shaking my head as if to clear the cobwebs of my thoughts.

I’ve done this a thousand times. I’m known to deliver under pressure. I make impossible throws look easy. Those are just two of the reasons I’m listed as one of the NFL’s number-one prospects. But as practice wears on, my feet feel as thoughthey’re cemented in quicksand. Every movement happens in slow motion. My arm feels like concrete; the usual power on my passes is nowhere to be found.

I snap the ball again, gripping the football like it’s my lifeline as I aim for Chris this time. But my throw falters, the ball hurtling through the air like a dying bird.

When it comes in short, nowhere near his waiting hands and bounces off the turf, everyone around me falls silent.

I can feel eyes on me from all angles as I scrub a hand over my face.

“You good, Damon?” Chris calls out, his voice laced with concern as he jogs toward me. Behind him, Coach screams obscenities into a cloudless sky.

Bending at the waist, I place my hands on my knees as West claps a hand over my shoulder. “You good, bro?”

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