Page 84 of Her Game Plan

We can still win. We just need a stop.

Instead, Chicago plays smart ball. They hand it off. The line pushes forward for a few yards. They let the clock bleed.

Snow starts to accumulate on my hat and back. I don’t brush it off.

Charlotte shifts in my periphery, her hands tucked into her armpits, and I feel it deep in my gut.

A whistle blows, and they bring the chains out to measure. Another first down.

Pitty exhales hard next to me, his breath a cloud in front of us. “That’s it.”

He’s right. We used our last timeout during our offensive push. Now, we can’t stop the clock. With 1:48 left to play, Chicago is going to kneel it out.

Their quarterback takes the snap, drops to a knee, and the stadium—filled to the brim with Guardian fans—goes wild. Because they know the same thing the rest of us do: it’s over.

We lost.

I know I have to be a good sport. To go out there and shake hands, but I need one second to take in what might be my last moments as a Stallion. Hell, it might be my last moments as a professional football player if it turns out Nan really can’t move.

“Devine.” Pitty’s standing over me, clearly trying to block me from the media that I’m sure is there, capturing my grief. “Let’s go.”

I push off the bench, my whole body frozen and heavier than it should be. A couple of Chicago guys slap my shoulder pads, and I offer them the praise they deserve. I exchange handshakes with their coach, their quarterback. Number 50. He had a hell of a game. Even if it was at my expense.

The field clears more quickly than normal, everyone hurrying to get out of the blizzard. I turn toward the sideline, not realizing I’m scanning it in time to stop myself. She’s already gone.

Of course she is.

I start making my way to the tunnel when I hear a voice behind me. “Callan?”

I turn, taking a step in her direction before my mind can register it’s her. “Charlotte.”

Her eyes flick over me, from the gold helmet in my hand to my jersey streaked with mud and snow. She pops her knuckles, her sign that she’s nervous about something.

Unfortunately, I don’t know how to make this less awkward for either of us.

“You okay?” she finally asks.

I huff out an attempt at a laugh. “Yeah. Just lost a playoff game, am freezing my balls off, and got my ass handed to me by a brick fucking house. Living the dream, really.”

Her lips press together. “You played hard.”

“Not hard enough.”

There’s a long pause before I finally nod toward the tunnel. “You’d better get inside. It’s cold as fuck out here.”

Her eyes drop for a second, then come back up, steady on mine. “Good game, Callan.” She walks into the tunnel, off to do important owner things.

I don’t move right away. Because that pain, the one that’s shooting outward from my chest, engulfing me like a swarm of ants? I’m not sure that it’s from the loss.

It’s from her walking away. Again.

I make myself keep heading toward the tunnel, the noise of the stadium almost gone before I reach it, nothing but the sound of my own breathing and the crunch of snow under my cleats keeping me company.

We’re done.

And I don’t know whether I mean the Stallions or this thing between Charlotte and me.

***