Page 45 of Blitz
Rebecca: We can video call and watch it together
My relief was instant.
Trick: I’d love that
Rebecca: Get snacks, I’ll meet you at the warmups
Rebecca: Then we can both admire football player butts
Rebecca: Mmmm, those tight pants
We endedup on video call, I was propped on the couch, she was tucked under a blanket with a massive bowl of popcorn. The commentary was already wild—Tom had pulled off a sack within the ten-yard line, leaving the other team—and quarterback—flat-footed.
Rebecca whooped. “Did you see that?! Who does that?”
“Tom,” I said, my voice low, warm. “Looking sexy as hell doing it.”
She laughed. “I can’t believe you’re the romantic one in this sibling duo.”
“Shut up and watch the game.”
The Pumas were up 24–21, but it was tight, the fourth quarter winding down. Every time the camera cut to Tom—eyes locked in, mouthguard clenched—I couldn’t help it. My heart thumped harder.
Rebecca glanced at me through the screen. “You’re a goner.”
Two minutes on the clock. The other team had just scored again—24–28 now—and the Pumas had one last drive to turn itaround. The commentators were breathless, the tension rising with every snap of the ball.
Tom took to the field as though he owned it—calm and collected, that same mouthguard clenched between his teeth. Pittsburgh first down. Complete. Second down. A rush for four. Third down. And then—magic. The opposing QB dropped back, dodged a tackle, rolled left, pump-faked, and nothing. A big-bodied defender—my defender—was now inches from him. The crowd groaned in unison when Tom slapped the ball from the quarterback’s hand. Tom leapt on the fumble, scooping it up like a loaf of bread, and then broke free. Stiff-armed, he held off an offensive lineman as he ran as fast as he could, diving into the end zone.
Touchdown.
The place exploded.
Rebecca shrieked so loudly that I flinched. “What even was that?”
I was laughing, breathless. “That was my guy.”
The Pumas closed it out 31–28, and when the camera zoomed in on Tom, helmet off, hair damp, grinning like a man who’d saved the world—I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
“You’re so gone on him,” she said when we said goodnight.
Yeah. I really fucking was.
My sports lawyer,Cynthia Cho, was an all-around decent human being. Her dark hair pushed up in a messy bun somehow made her look more capable, and she sat behind a practical desk, not a fancy one with gold trim. There were no bible verses on her wall, just evidence of her law degree, and a roll call of her clients, five of whom played for the Railers. There was no laptop, only alegal pad, and she had a quiet kind of competence that made me finally exhale. I’d hired her after I joined the Railers. She didn’t flinch at my reputation; she negotiated with steel and made things happen, even if I came in with baggage.
But this wasn’t about hockey. And it definitely wasn’t going to be easy.
“You may not be able to help me,” I said, still standing. “This isn’t about my contract with the Railers. This is personal.”
“I might not be best placed. I’m not family law, but if you want to explain, I have a colleague I can call. Sit down.”
I slumped into the chair she pointed at. Fear gripped me. “And everything is confidential.”
“Always.”
“Andyou know who my father is.”
She wrinkled her nose as if she’d bitten into something sour, but the expression vanished quickly. “Cole Harrington II. Televangelist Pastor.”
