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"Fuck is right, " I say breathlessly, falling back against the pillows and pulling him against my chest.
We lay that way for I don't know how long, completely silent, as our breaths and heart rates come down.
Jack finally speaks, laying with his head on my shoulder. "The whole time I was out partying with my teammates and the stupid bitch that won't keep her hands off me—" I bristle at the thought of her hands on him. And then I remember the time he sent me a video of his hands on her. What a fucked-up journey this has been. "All I could think about is that I wanted to be here, with you. I wanted to just spread out on the bed and watch the recaps of the game on ESPN."
"That's all?" I ask, laughing huskily.
He grins but shakes his head. "That's how I know."
"That's how you know what?"
"That I'm fucked."
CHAPTER 35
JACK
Lights are flashing everywhere as our defensive line stops their offense at the forty-yard line. I stand on the sidelines, soaking it all in. The NFL scouts that I met with before are here. I saw them shaking Bryant's hand.
"Perry!" Bryant says, jogging over to me. "What are you doing? Get your tight ass out there!"
I blink back in shock, wondering if he realizes what he just said out loud or if anyone heard him. Up in the stands behind our bench, Aniyah sneers down at us. She must have noticed some kind of exchange. I roll my eyes at her and run out onto the field. She's still mad about New Years, that I’d left her to go back to the hotel. I think she can probably guess what I went back for, but I don't give a fuck. When I saw her the next day, she made sure that I knew she let half the defensive line run a train on her after I left. When I told her I didn't give even one fuck what she did with her worn out pussy, she got even angrier.
"I bet you've got more cum in your ass than I do," she spat, like that was some kind of insult.
"Maybe, but only because he's more of a man than all of those assholes put together," I responded. I never use his name in case she's recording me. She's always trying to get more leverage on me.
We've barely seen each other in the past week and a half while I was getting ready for the game and she planned our wedding. She called me a few times to ask me stuff about decorations and shit, and I keep telling her I don't fucking care about any of it. It's all about her, after all. The last time we spoke at all was a fight about not sending an invitation to my mom.
"I'm not inviting my mother to this fucking sham. Hell, I probably wouldn't invite her if it was real, so don't feel bad." The more I mentioned that it was all bullshit, that none of this means anything to me and never would, the angrier she got.
I'm almost surprised that she came at all, but she's surprisingly still putting on her little show for the public. After she showed up at the sports complex and slapped me across the face in front of everyone, I thought for sure we were done. But no one came for Bryant, and nothing’s been leaked on the internet. Yet.
She's wearing her ridiculous "FUTURE MRS. PERRY" jersey again, and she has "5 days" written below each of her eyes. I can't believe I'm going to be tied to this woman for the rest of my life. Because Bryant's right, she'll never have enough. My only hope is that I can introduce her to a whole lot of single NFL players with the hopes they will keep her satisfied, and maybe entice her to give up on me.
I'm still going through with it, because even if his rejection hurts me, I love him. He's leaving Groveton College after this year, he said. His resignation letter is already typed up and ready to hand to the dean when we get home. The dean is here, of course, sitting in his private box up next to Aniyah's parents. I've noticed him badgering Bryant a lot lately, and I wonder what it's about. I have a sneaking suspicion that it's about me. Coach Sanders had mentioned they'd like me to stay on for my senior year, and I gave it serious consideration. The only thing that's keeping me from doing so is that I have to get drafted to fulfill my part of the deal with Aniyah, and also Bryant isn't staying, anyway. He'd be my only reason to stay.
"Perry!" Lane calls, and smacks me on the side of the helmet, knocking me out of my thoughts and getting my head back in the game. "We're going to run a pull and trap. Run up the middle, go long."
We're able to score, Grant making a great save and holding onto the ball, getting hit into the end zone. But then the Bama offense breaks through our defensive line and makes a hell of a long pass into our red zone. They score again two plays later.
Play after play, we make our way up and down the field. Bama's defense is easily the hardest we've played this year, and they've been able to hold us back on our last opportunity to score.
Lane calls a huddle before our final play. It's fourth down. This is it. We're three points behind with less than a minute on the clock. If we don't get the first down conversion, Bama has won. Not only do we need to get that first down, but we need to be quick, because we have forty-two yards to cover before we reach the end zone. We need a Hail Mary.
"Should we call in the kicker?" someone asks.
"No," I say. "He's not reliable enough at this distance." I know Lane is the captain and QB, but we're all faltering. We're exhausted and injured. Half the players out here are second string and are apparently too awestruck to not fumble the ball. I look at Lane. "Just get me the damn ball," I say. He gives me a curt nod and we break.
"I'm relying on those magic hands, Jack."
I clap my hands together in response, and we line up. I take a deep breath and look over at Bryant. He doesn't even look worried. He's clapping like he knows the outcome of the play. He believes in me, believes I can do anything that I set my mind to.
Everything slows, the sounds of the crowd are muffled. I hear my deep breaths, my rhythmic heartbeat, and Bryant's words in my head, my favorite four words that make my lips quirk with anticipation. "Come for me Jack."
Lane calls the play. There's the snap, and he takes three steps back. Bama's defense backs up, anticipating a throw. I feign right before turning around, taking the ball that Lane hands off to me. The defensive line starts to rush in towards me on all sides, a linebacker right on my ass. I dodge an oncoming player and hear a thud of impact behind me, but I don't look around. My eyes are set on that white line as I push through two players, determined to get every yard of distance I can. I plow through them, dance around another, and then take off. Ignoring my sore body, and the muscles protesting their exhaustion, I straighten my posture and tuck the ball securely against my side, lengthening my stride. I push myself harder and faster, harder and faster.
I run clean through the end zone, pausing as the sound of the crowd catches up to me. Securely in the middle of the safe zone, I drop the ball and turn around. My team is racing towards me, still twenty yards away. There wasn't a player even close to catching up to me.
