Page 77 of Her Game Plan

Clean, square.

I go down, and the air leaves my lungs in a sharp exhale.

The sound comes back all at once as the crowd erupts. I push to my knees, my gaze searching downfield. Pitt’s got it in the end zone.

Touchdown.

Teammates bang into me as I get to my feet, helmets knocking mine as we celebrate. Someone yells something I don’t catch, but I smile anyway.

We won.

The last game of the regular season is ours. And we’ve redeemed ourselves against the Las Vegas Reapers.

I jog to the sideline and pull off my helmet, dragging a hand through my hair. The exposed sweat cools fast in the frigid January air. I tug on my team-issued stocking cap, ignoring the ache already building in my shoulder.

“Holy shit. That was a-fucking-mazing.” Charlotte is standing in front of me, her petite frame hidden beneath a heavy down jacket. Her eyes are bright, her smile wide, like this is exactly where she wants to be. She bounces lightly on her toes, biting her lower lip as she glances from me to the stands surrounding us. Finally, as if she’s made some big decision, she pulls my face down to hers, pressing her lips firmly against mine. I lift her slightly, bringing her closer in every way.

I didn’t know it, but this, her, is exactly what my life has been missing. She makes everything better. My wins are brighter, my losses more bearable, and everything in between is simply more because Charlotte’s around.

I bite back my need to tell her this isn’t fake anymore. It’s real to me. But the middle of a stadium, teeming with people, is perhaps not the right place for that.

Finally, we break apart, and that damn lip is back between her teeth. “Good game, Ball Boy.”

“Thanks, Princess. You sticking around for post-game or headed straight to your parents’?” We drove separately today, since far fewer reporters want to talk to her these days. There’s no need for her to hang around, and the Langford family dinner is on for tonight.

“I’m headed out. Need to talk to my brother, anyway. But you’re coming when you can, right? I can have Chef keep a plate warm for you.”

I give her a quick kiss on the forehead, unable to stop myself. “Of course. I’ll head over as soon as I’m done with media.”

Chapter 30

Callan

I glance at my watch again, silently begging Coach Phillips to wrap things up. I know it’s the week before our wildcard game, but I cannot be late for this dinner with Preston Hale. Charlotte has confirmed it with me at least three times this week. And even if she hadn’t, I know how important it is to her. He’s her guy; the one she needs to secure the sponsorship deal she so desperately needs. And even I have to admit, I’m a huge reason he’s interested in the Stallions.

But Phillips is still going over film, nowhere near the end of this meeting.

Despite the fine I could get if I’m caught, I slide my phone out, quickly typing a message to Charlotte telling her to go without me. I’ll make it if I can.

Forty-five minutes later, Coach wraps up, and I know there’s no hope. The dinner started ten minutes ago, and I’m still at least thirty minutes away with traffic right now.

“You okay?” Pitt asks as he stands from the seat next to mine.

I nod.

“Everything all right with Nan?” he tries again. “You’re usually a stickler about cell phones during meetings.”

I stand. “I was supposed to be at a dinner with Charlotte tonight.”

Pitty bumps my arm. “Take her out tomorrow night. She’ll understand.”

“Unfortunately, it wasn’t a date. She would totally understand that. This was a work dinner for her, and I promised I’d be there.” And I let her down.

The part of me that was grabbing on to the possibility of Charlotte and I becoming real has gone radio silent. Not only did I miss her family dinner the night of the football game because everything ran so long, but now I’ve missed possibly the most important dinner of her entire year. She might literally lose a huge deal because of me.

“Shit.” Pitty stops walking and takes in my face before slapping me on my shoulder. “Come on, I’ll buy you dinner. You can tell me all about it.”

I follow him. “We can’t go to the burrito place. I feel sick enough without adding intestinal distress to the mix.”