Page 87 of The Game We Played

“Go.” Alaia pushes me away. “You don’t want to get into trouble.”

“But trouble is fun.” I kiss her quickly before jogging away.

As I place my helmet on my head, I watch them settle in their seats. I want them to watch all of my games. I want to know they’re in the crowd cheering me on. Supporting me in my chosen field of profession. I want them as my family. Not the biological family I was born into.

I jog back onto the field and shake out my arms, forcing my focus where it belongs. Football first. Always. But it’s harder than usual today. Because they’re here. Becauseshe’shere.

“Line up!” Coach Knox barks.

I drop into position across from the corner. He smirks at me. He thinks he’s got me figured out. Cute.

“Don’t embarrass yourself,” I mutter.

“Don’t get distracted,” he shoots back.

Too late. I glance toward the bleachers. Alaia’s leaning forward, elbows on her knees, her gaze fixed on me as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Her family is talking around her, but she’s locked in on the field. On me.

Something tightens in my chest.

“Set!” Nolan yells.

I force myself to focus. The ball snaps and I explode off the line. Five yards. Ten. I fake inside, cut hard right. The corner bites. I’m open.

“Ball!” I shout.

It’s already in the air. I track it, adjust my stride, leap—

A safety comes out of nowhere and drives straight through me midair. Helmet to shoulder. Shoulder to ribs. Everything slams together at once. The ball hits my hands but I can’t hold on. It pops loose.

I hit the ground hard. Air punches out of my lungs. For a second, there’s nothing. No sound. No breath. No movement. Just heat and pressure and the dull throb of pain spreading through my chest.

“Long’s down!” someone shouts.

Voices rush back all at once. Footsteps. Whistles.

“Don’t move!”

“I’m fine,” I try to say. It comes out as a wheeze. I suck in a breath and pain slices through my ribs. Okay. I’m not fine. I roll onto my back and blink up at the blinding sun.

“Stay down,” the trainer says, dropping to his knees beside me.

“I said I’m—” I cut myself off with a sharp inhale. I’m definitely not fine.

“Easy,” Nolan mutters, crouching near my shoulder. “You took a hell of a hit.”

“I’ve had worse,” I manage.

But even as I say it, I know the hit isn’t what’s rattling me. It’s the silence from the stands. I turn my head and find her. Alaia is already halfway down the bleachers. Not walking. Running. Her ponytail coming loose, her flip-flops slapping against the steps, her face pale. Terrified.

My chest tightens and it has nothing to do with the hit.

“Alaia—”

“Long, you need to stay back—” the trainer begins.

“Move,” Alaia snaps. I’ve never heard that tone from her before. It’s not teasing. Not playful. It’s sharp, panicked, furious.

She drops to her knees beside me, hands hovering like she doesn’t know where to touch without hurting me.