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“You can all get out of here. I’m gonna stay here for a bit and do some posting,” I shout to my crew, who all seem ready to leave.
Frankie bumps my fist on his way to being first across the field and out to the employee parking lot. “Sounds good, boss.”
“Are you sure you don’t need help?” Lisa asks.
I smile at her willingness to lend a hand. “I’m positive. Get out of here.”
“Okay. Enjoy your night.” She turns, walking off after Frankie.
My head lowers as I focus on my phone screen. I create a few reels using footage from various parts of the day, and try to make sure I’m not painting Brett in an unfavorable light. But it’s difficult to find clips of him making completions. He really isn’t playing well, and if he doesn’t get his shit together, sooner or later everyone will notice. The local sportscasters are already talking about how his level of play has significantly dropped off while Rogan’s has leveled up.
By the time my head raises, there are only two players remaining on the field—Rogan and Cooper.
Opening the camera on my phone, I start recording as Cooper takes off down the field. Drawing his right arm back, Rogan launches the ball through the air in a beautiful spiral that culminates by dropping directly into the tight end’s arms. Cooper pumps his fist as he runs back to Rogan and hands the football back to him.
Rising to my feet, I tuck my phone in my pocket and step from the bleachers down to the edge of the field.
“Autumn,” Rogan calls.
When I look his way, I see the ball heading right for me. He probably expects me to jump away and scream with fear, but I don’t. Instead, I catch it in my arms.
Rogan shouts, “Yeah!,” while Cooper shoves his fingers between his lips, letting out a shrill whistle.
Rogan jogs over to me, grinning. “Damn, that was impressive.”
“Thanks.” I toss the ball to him.
“Where did you learn to catch like that?”
“You don’t want to know.” Not every part of my relationship with Brett was a waste. At least I can catch a football.
“Did he teach you to throw too?” he asks.
“He tried, but my hands are too small.”
“That’s bullshit. Position your fingers on the laces like this.” He gives me the ball, and I try to mimic what he did. “Your ring and pinky fingers should cross the laces but your fingertips will be resting on the ball itself.” He maneuvers each of my digits where they need to be. The contact makes my stomach flutter like some fangirl. It’s both annoying and disappointing that such a simple touch from him affects me so much. “Now, throw it to Cooper,” he instructs.
I snort, showing my doubt. “Sure.”
“Come on. You got this,” he says confidently.
What the hell. I draw my arm back, then propel the ball forward. Cooper takes a step forward, catching my short pass.
Rogan beams at me. “Great job.”
“Thanks, but it was only like ten feet.”
“We can work on getting you to throw farther if you want,” he offers.
“No, that’s okay. I’ll leave the throwing to the professionals.”
He gives me a conciliatory pat on the arm. “I mean, I get it. You’re intimidated.”
“No, I’m not,” I fire back, and he grins as if to say “gotcha.”
Dammit. Why did I let him bait me?
He raises his hand, and Cooper tosses the ball to him. “How about you give this one more try and we’ll see if you can get it to go a little farther?”
