Page 33 of Love at Second Down

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, grateful for the distraction, but freeze when I see the notification from my father.

DAD:

Avery, just come home, and we’ll talk about it. Please. There’s more to this than meets the eye.

I lift my head from my phone, shoving it back into my pocket, and swallowing over the lump forming in my throat.

On the TV, the postgame interview continues with a second interviewer asking Coach Greene about our comeback, when he says, “Sometimes life gives you a second chance. You just have to be brave enough to take it.”

Chapter 10

DAMON

Steam billows from the showers as quiet chatter filters through the sound of the running water. I already took an ice bath, so I should temper the water as I wash off, but I crank the dial anyway and groan as it scalds away the ache in my muscles. There’s not an inch of my body that doesn’t hurt, not one piece of me I didn’t push to the brink today. I left everything on the field. Gave everything I had.

At halftime, I thought Coach was going to have an aneurysm as he ripped me to shreds. He told me to get my head out of my ass and into the game, and somehow, I managed to do just that. Somehow, I managed the impossible and gotherout of my head. And thank fuck for that, because it paid off.

I can still hear the craggy sound of Coach’s voice as we entered the locker room postgame. “Hey, Huhn!” he barked. “You gonna make this a habit?”

I braced myself as I turned to his weather-beaten face, his eyes shining with pride. They looked so much like my father’s a lump formed in my throat as the guys gathered around me, waiting for our postgame debriefing, which apparently, started with me.

I froze, every muscle in my body tight. “Make what a habit, Coach?”

He strode toward me with the swagger of a man who’s seen it all but still loves being surprised. “Playing like crap, then pulling off a miracle,” he says with a grin.

The team erupted in laughter, and Coach clapped me on the shoulder. “Hell of a comeback, kid.”

Sighing, I turn off the water, ready to change and head back to the hotel since we have an early flight in the morning.

Grabbing my towel off the hook, I quickly dry off and wrap it around my waist before padding back into the locker room to change, surprised to find most of the team already back inside, and the locker room in a complete state of chaos. Everyone is talking and laughing, coming down off their post-win high as they dress. Talk of the National Championship buzzes around me, the excitement palpable as I head to my locker and pull out my clean clothes at the same time a booming voice cuts through the commotion.

I glance toward the sound, already recognizing Chris’s voice before I find him standing on the bench in the middle of the room, arms spread wide like an heir to the throne.

I shake my head, feeling the tug on the corner of my lips, but refusing to smile because I’m still pissed at him and the rest of my friends for the stunt they pulled on Friday night with Avery. Still, he looks like a complete idiot standing there in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs with little red kiss marks allover them, a gift I’m pretty sure he received from Charlotte for Christmas.

“Yo, everybody, quiet down!” Chris shouts.

The room hushes, eager for whatever dipshit thing he’s about to say.

“Lend me your ears, oh victors!” Chris bellows, with a poor imitation of a British accent, gesturing dramatically like he’s a jester on a stage. “I give you the ballad of Doughty Damon, our ferocious QB!”

Laughter erupts amid claps, cheers, and catcalls, the nickname echoing off the lockers.

“Damon was our hero, ready to fight,” Chris continues, his voice rhythmic and playful. “Got hit in the head and lost his sight. He threw three picks, we cried, and we spat,” he singsongs. “Then he finally woke the fuck up and saidI got that!”

The room explodes into laughter again, and I roll my eyes as Chris smirks from his spot on the bench, shaking his head at me as if in disbelief at our miraculous comeback.

Chris holds up a hand for attention once more and the chatter subsides, everyone leaning in for the next verse.

“Damon had us worried; he looked half past dead.” His expression turns solemn before brightening once more. “But he came back and painted the field red. One touch, then another! Three touchdowns in a row!” He jabs a fist in the air. “We won the game and stole the show!”

The jubilation is deafening. Men are clapping, towels are flung in the air like confetti, and someone starts up a pounding rhythm on a nearby locker when I’m pulled into a bear hug by Jace, who ruffles my hair.

Still, towering above us, Chris smiles as he watches from his perch on the bench, like a king overseeing his court. With a raised arm, he gestures for silence once more before nodding towhere I stand, wedged between Jace and Brandon. “Let this be a legend, written in ink. That Damon is our captain, leading us to the brink!”

“One more win, baby!” Jace calls out beside me, and all around, the team starts to chant, “One more! One more! One more . . .”

Chris nods and holds up a finger, meeting my eyes as he mouthsone moreamong the chorus, then finally hops down from his podium.

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