Page 30 of Love at Second Down

“She has a point,” a fourth girl I don’t recognize says. She has soft brown hair with a purple streak down the front and bright blue eyes, and when she catches me staring, she raises a hand in a little wave. “I’m Liz, by the way.”

“Hi, Liz.” I chuckle as Charlotte unveils the pastries and sets them on the kitchen counter with the rest of the food, but not before sampling half of one first.

“Are you dating a football player, too?” I ask Liz, cocking my head as I admire the purple in her hair. I’ve always wanted to do something a little more unconventional with mine. I had a hairdresser once who told me rose gold would suit my complexion, but I knew my mother would throw a fit, so I’ve always left it as is.

Liz scoffs. “Ha! I wish. Apparently, I’m perpetually single.”

Brynn saunters toward her and nudges her in the ribs as she sinks down beside her. “Not true at all. She just hasn’t met the right guy yet.”

Liz grimaces. “It is true that I have a bad habit of going after all the wrong guys.”

I offer her a warm smile, then turn my attention to Samantha. “What about you? Are you dating anyone?”

“Yes, but no jocks for me.” She pulls a face, then quickly adds, “No offense, ladies.”

“Eh, I get it.” Charlotte flaps a hand at her as she returns to the living room. “I couldn’t stand Chris before we got together.”

“But then his charm wore her down,” Brynn chimes in.

“It totally did.” Charlotte sighs. “He was like the golden retriever to my black cat, and I totally caved.”

“Now she’s gone all soft.” Samantha laughs.

Charlotte chucks a throw pillow at her, but then sighs and says, “She’s not wrong.”

I stare at the four of them, a little in awe and a lot jealous. I never had close girlfriends like this?ones I shared secrets and inside jokes with. I was always forced to socialize with the children of my parents’ friends, and those friendships were never genuine and always superficial. None of them were interested in me, the person. They were only interested in the connections my family name brought to the table. Damon wasn’t wrong when he suggested that he was the only real thing I have had in my life.

But these girls?this kind of friendship?are a part of a sisterhood. I can tell in just the few minutes I stand here watching them banter. They’re the type of friends that share a pint of ice cream after a breakup or a bad day. The ones that finish each other’s sentences. That share clothes and do each other’s hair and makeup before a big night out. The kind that knows all your flaws, your deepest, darkest secrets, yet love you anyway.

God, I want friends like these. Desperately.

It’s not lost on me that the only real best friend I’ve ever had in my life was Damon. He was everything to me. Until he wasn’t. And I only have myself to blame.

“You can come sit, you know.” Brynn nods toward the empty chair beside the sofa, and I flush when I realize I’ve been standing in the same spot for the last five minutes, staring.

“Um, yeah, thanks. Sorry.” I try to hide my blush as I take the empty chair she motioned to, smiling when the girls start arguing over which of the Griffins has the best ass in their uniform, when Charlotte suddenly jumps up from her spot on the sofa and shushes everyone.

All eyes turn to the screen where she’s pointing. “It’s time for the coin toss! It’s starting!” she yells.

Silence envelops the room, and my heart skips a beat as the dark-haired, green-eyed quarterback steps up next to the referee. His eyes, sharp and intense like polished gems, focus as he shakes hands with the opposing team’s captain while the referee talks. I quickly scan his appearance, trying to gauge his thoughts or emotions, and remember that there was a time when I could read him perfectly, even if I can’t now.

A dark blue arm sleeve covers his right arm—his throwing arm?while his left remains bare, his biceps straining and swelling beyond the fabric of the sleeves. His weight shifts from side to side, energy vibrating from him as he drags a hand over the dark scruff of his jaw. The ref flips the coin, and Damon calls out “tails,” his voice rumbling through my chest like a solfeggio frequency, alerting my body to his presence and connecting to the deepest parts of me in ways that can’t be explained.

God, he’s beautiful.

A rush of heat skitters through my veins. Even hundreds of miles away and through a television screen, his effect on me is profound.

When the coin lands on the turf by the referee’s feet, he raises his arms, calls out “heads,” and I deflate.

“Shit,” someone hisses from beside me.

The other team decides whether to receive or kick. Normally, this wouldn’t be a concern, but given Damon’s recent struggles, I can’t help but worry that this might be some sort of bad omen for the rest of the game.

I sink lower into the chair, a knot tightening in my stomach.

Please don’t let this rattle him.

Because no matter how much I’ve screwed up and no matter how much he hates me, my heart is still tethered to that field—and to him.

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