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And sure enough, she’s sitting there next to her mom. She’s holding a beer in her hand as she laughs at something her mom says, and when she pushes to a stand, I see the jersey she’s wearing this week.
It isn’t Nash 85.
Instead, it’s Morgan 89.
I choke on something in the back of my throat. Is she fucking serious?
Rage colors my vision with a color redder than her goddamn hair.
I realize I have no ownership over her whatsoever. She can wear whoever’s jersey she wants to. But she has to be doing this on purpose. To wear the number of a man who isn’t even a starter but plays the same position I do…it’s bullshit. It’s acknowledging my rejection and making a move against me.
Well…check-fucking-mate.
I can sit back and pretend like it doesn’t bother me, or I can…
I can…
What?
What the mother fuck am I going to do?
Walk up to the snack bar and buy her a beer before the game? I can’t. I still don’t even have her goddamn number to communicate to her that she shouldn’t be wearing someone else’s number when she’s supposed to be wearing mine.
But I’m the one who closed that door. I’m the one who walked away.
And maybe I’m the one who can fix it.
“Nice stretch, Nash,” Coach Dixon says as he walks by me. “Listen, I’ve made a few tweaks to our game plan, and we’re going to start a two-tight-end formation, okay? Morgan will do the blocking, you’ll do the receiving. Get your ass out there and catch some balls.”
Fuck.
I nod my agreement, but it’s a cold, hard reminder that I can’t fuck this man’s daughter. Not when he’s giving me chances to show what I’m made of. Not when he’s giving me chances to catch that goddamn ball when he knows that’s my favorite part of this position. Not when he’s opening the door formeto be the hero today.
Even though she’s wearingMorgan’sfucking jersey.
She’ll live to regret that when I’m the one carrying the ball into the end zone.
She’s on my mind the entire game, though I don’t make eye contact with her. I do covertly sneak looks for her red hair, and she’s watching the game intently every time—as she drinks her beer. What’s so goddamn sexy about a woman with a beer in her hand?
I’m not sure, but when it’s Desiree Dixon, I can’t get enough.
I score in the first half, and I score again in the second.
Both times, after I celebrate with my team, I glance over at her. She’s clapping and screaming and going wild as she hugs her mom.
I glance over at her when we score on the defensive side of the ball, too, and while there’s similar clapping and jumping, the excitement was definitely more pronounced when it wasmewho scored.
Or maybe I’m seeing what I want to see.
After the game, I rush to get through my press conference. I don’t want to miss seeing her again even if there’s nothing I can do about it.
I head out into the family waiting room, and she’s talking to Victoria Woods, Travis’s wife. I walk by her on my way to see my mom, who’s currently holding my niece, Josephine, and I accidentally-on-purpose bump into her shoulder.
She turns toward me with a glare as she grabs her shoulder.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I murmur. I’m not sorry.
The small bump of shoulder to shoulder caused an electrical current as strong as ever. I move to steady her, and as if she were waiting for me, she slips a piece of paper into my palm.
