Page 120 of My Secret Bandit

Those slight smiles worked to bring life back into his features that was missing before. No longer did he have dark, tired eyes or dull skin. His head didn’t hang low to avoid detection.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized his shift mirrored mine. Every day I felt better, and every day he looked better. Like a direct line from my emotions supplied him with the energy to get through the day.

And I’d been working up the courage to tell him I was ready. Ready for the talk we needed to have, to work on rebuilding, ready to be with him.

In the weeks I stayed away from the team, they won two games. But with the success they saw early in the season, they had a decent record of ten wins to six losses.

This final game determined if they moved on to playoffs. Everything they worked for since last season ended required a win today.

A silent spell overtook the press box as we watched the tied game head into the last quarter. Tampa held Carolina’s offense from going further than the forty-yard line. After a missed field goal, the offense and defense traded positions.

The tension in the room grew as we watched our offense inch their way down the field, stretching out downs and running time off the clock until the final two-minute warning.

On the next play, Jordan took his time. He stepped into the pocket and sent the ball into a spiraling arch thirty yards down the field into the waiting arms of the receiver.

With bated breath, we watched him bring the ball against his chest. A stiff arm to the defender opened his path, and he raced into the end zone.

Deafening cheers erupted at the sight of the refs signaling a touchdown and the end of the game.

Post-game interviews flew by, everyone excited and in the mood to celebrate a season spent getting them where they wanted to be.

Playoffs.

Happiness consumed me for the first time in months, and I knew I made the right decision to come back. I would’ve hated missing this game or the excited looks on the players’ and coaches’ faces as they celebrated in the locker room, especially Mateo’s.

Even if he couldn’t play, he was as happy for his team as he would’ve been if he hadn’t gotten hurt.

I left that night excited for them, hoping playoffs ended in them getting everything they worked so hard for.

Istruggledtoopenmy eyes.

Little by little, the moonlight shining through the window became more visible. I rubbed my eyes, my head still muddled from deep sleep.

Squinting around, I found the room lit by my phone with a photo of Mateo. A swarm of butterflies settled in my chest and before I rolled over to reach it, the picture faded.

Pushing the button that brought the screen back to life, I squinted again as the bright numbers stared back at me: 2:17 a.m., four missed calls.

New Year’s Eve meant the team was getting together. Not only to celebrate the start of the new year but their playoff run as well. Xander asked me to go, but I didn’t want to intrude on Mateo’s space.

He could’ve been drunk or high off the celebration and excitement. But four calls, all barely a minute apart, was weird. Unease swept in and weighed me down. Before I had too much time to think about it, his smile took over the screen again.

“Mateo?” I said, my voice groggy from sleep.

“Jameson. I’m sorry. I just—“ His words faded out and soft sobs filled the silence.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, all tiredness disappearing.

Moving on instinct, I shot out of bed and threw on the closest pair of shoes. No longer worried about a difficult talk that needed to be had or a relationship in need of repairs. Whatever the cause, it mattered enough that Mateo called five times in the middle of the night, for the first time in months, and I couldn’t hold him at arm’s length anymore.

With my phone still pressed to my ear, I grabbed my keys and ran to my car.

“Mateo,” I urged when an answer never came.

“Mari. She’s g—“ His voice broke, and my fingers froze. Key halfway turned in the ignition and the familiar, helpless feeling of losing someone you love made its way into every ounce of my being.

“I’m coming,” I said, my body unable to draw up anything more than a whisper to defrost my bones enough to start the car.

Barreling through the French doors of the house I thought I’d never see again, Mateo’s head rose from his hands. He bounded toward me. Lifting me into his arms, he clutched me against him.

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