Page 72 of Game On
I roll my eyes, but inside I’m grinning like a fool. “You’ve got to be the most competitive person in the world. You know that, right?”
He chuckles. “When it comes to you, I always play to win.”
“That’s rubbish,” I say, and he just laughs louder, grins wider, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Aren’t you supposed to let me win?”
“You don’t need anyone to let you win, Davies,” he says. “You’d hate that.”
“Like you’d even know,” I grumble under my breath, and he chooses to ignore it. Instead, he pulls me towards him, pops a kiss on my temple. He tucks himself back into his boxers and jeans, repositions his hat, and offers me a hand up.
“Come on,” he says, his voice thick with satisfaction.“Let’s get out there before those friends of yours send a search party.”
I groan at the thought of facing the crowd in my current state. I can still taste him on my tongue, still feel the echoes of his body against mine. But I’m the one who pushed us to be quick, and I could surely use a drink or three to cool myself down.
“Give me a second,” I say, slipping into his en suite. As I clean the mascara streaks from under my eyes, my reflection catches me off guard. My eyes are shimmering, my cheeks tinged with color—I definitely look like I’ve been up to something very, very naughty.
After a few quick adjustments to my hair and a fresh swipe of lipstick, I spritz a little perfume on my wrists. Now looking less like I’ve just come from a quickie, I rejoin Hudson.
He does a careful sweep of the house, checking for whatever it is he always checks for, and then we head out towards the back garden together. As we walk, he keeps his arm loosely draped around my waist, fingers just touching the hem of my tiny crop top. We pass through the open French doors leading to the garden, where the twinkle of fairy lights and soft sounds of chatter mingle with the music.
The party is in full swing and I take in the scene with a smile, my heart strangely full at the sight. A few of my teammates are standing over by the drink table. When they catch sight of us, Ash—who’s wearing an open denim vest and matching light-wash jeans—raises a red Solo cup in our direction.
Hudson’s fingers tighten at my waist as if to anchorhimself. But as we approach the heart of the gathering, he lets his hand fall away. It’s a subtle withdrawal, yet it feels as though he’s put miles between us.
I’m instantly reminded that we’re not here as a couple. This isn’t a date, and there’s no need for him to feel obligated to stick by my side just because we’re hooking up.
I turn to him. “Right, well, guess I’ll see you around, Woody.”
His eyes hold mine for a beat longer than necessary. Then, with a quick blink that softens his gaze, he raises his hand to the brim of his hat, tipping it. “I’ll be seeing ya, Jessie.”
I wipe my palms down the sides of my shorts, an attempt to brush off my awkwardness. Then, with a bounce in my step that I force into existence, I skip over to my friends. No lingering glances back, no words left hanging in the air. Just two people coming together and then drifting apart.
So why is it that, despite all this, I can’t shake the feeling that I’d much rather be by his side?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Hudson
“Come On Eileen” by Dexys Midnight Runners blares into my headphones as I duck my head, tapping the carved letters that make up my old last name. The Whitland locker room has emptied, and I’m the last man standing. The last player to make his way to the field for our game against Southern Tech.
Once I’m done, I blow out a breath, interlock my fingers behind my head, and let the music lift my spirits. This game, this day, it feels momentous—like all the threads of the season are converging into one definitive point.
I shake off any last traces of doubt and make my way outside. The Trojans are formidable, no doubt about that, but we’ve been on a hot streak, and there’s no way I’m letting it end here on our home turf.
My cleats dig into the soft grass as I join the rest of the team, slapping hands and bumping shoulders. We do a few practice drills, huddle up, and then we’re shouting “Bear Down!” as we break and jog onto the field.
Coach Wallace is at the sidelines, his face all grimdetermination as he bellows last-minute advice. “Stay sharp, Fox! And watch twenty-four—he’s quick on the intercept!”
And then we’re on. The game kicks off, and we dominate from the first whistle. Our defense is a brick wall, impenetrable. Our offense, a well-oiled machine, churning out plays that leave the Trojans scrambling to keep up.
By halftime, we’re leading by a clear twenty points, and the crowd’s going wild. It’s not an interesting game, but it’s fun to dominate every once in a while. Our cheer squad is making the most of the lead, their routines full of extra stunts, difficult tumbling routines that rile up the stands even more.
My helmet comes off and I wipe the sweat off my brow with a towel. I’m on the sidelines guzzling some water when the entire stadium gasps. It’s a sound so sharp it slices through the commotion and drills straight into my gut. Frantically, I whip my head around, scanning the field.
Time seems to distort, stretching out seconds as I try to pinpoint where the emergency is. It’s somewhere among the lineup of cheerleaders, and it takes me too damn long to spot that familiar flash of dark hair.
My heart pounds against my ribcage, thoughts of an injured Ella flooding in—dropped from a height that could cause irreversible damage. Panic has a tight grip, and it’s cold and merciless. But when I finally spot her, safe and secure on the outskirts of the group, I can breathe again.
It’s not Ella who’s hurt, but when I spot the personsprawled out on the floor, I wince. It’s Ash. He’s clutching his arm, his face contorted in pain as he’s supported by two of their coaches, who help him off the field. His blond hair is all I can focus on, the way it sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat.
