Page 7 of Falling Stars (Wild at Heart #2)

MAVERICK

EARLY DECEMBER

Sometimes I think about it.

What it would’ve been like if I’d kissed Baylee in high school. I guess I did kiss her, but I mean, what if I hadn’t stopped kissing her? What if we’d done all the things I’d thought long and hard about doing with her when we were seventeen?

Would we have made it through high school together? Would we have beaten the odds as a long-distance couple when I went off to college?

Would she have left Wild Heart and followed me to New York when I got drafted?

And the most dangerous question, the one that keeps me up at night—would that be my baby she’s having now instead of that douchebag’s?

My stomach knots at the thought of her having another man’s child.

I scrub my face. That’s too many hypotheticals. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that successful relationships in my family are rare, and I’m pretty sure I won’t be the anomaly .

Besides, I don’t even want kids. I don’t know why my mind goes there.

In high school, I made the decision to keep Baylee as my friend. If we’d dated and things went sideways, which would’ve been likely, I would’ve lost her. At least this way, she’s still in my life.

I glance down at my phone, hoping she’ll text me back, but I’m not surprised when she doesn’t. I know she was put off when Kira pulled that stupid stunt.

Baylee and I have a longstanding, unspoken agreement. We don’t talk about who we’re dating. It helps me keep things platonic so I’m not tempted to wonder about the what-ifs.

It’s been two months since we video-chatted. Since then, she’s kept her responses to me brief. Each one-word response makes me wonder if our friendship will ever be the same.

Today, I send her a meme of the Dos Equis guy, and it says, I don’t always say something stupid, but when I do, I keep talking to make it worse.

Although I’m having a great weekend with Rhett and the fam when they fly to New York, I can’t help but feel like it’s the quiet before the storm. After I drop them off at the Airbnb, I lie in bed and obsess over the plays we’re running tomorrow, hoping I can execute them well.

Unfortunately, the next day gets off to a rough start. I’m in the locker room, getting my knee taped, when Coach Heller barks, “Walker, earn your place on the starting lineup today, or we’re gonna have a problem.”

What a dick. I’m the first guy at practice every day and frequently the last to leave. “Sure thing, Coach,” I mumble to myself since he’s already stalked off to harass another player.

As I stand on the line of scrimmage, waiting for the first snap, I realize that for the first time in all the years I’ve been playing football, I’m not excited for the game .

Get your head in this, or Boston’s gonna hand you your ass.

It’s so cold, steam billows from everyone’s mouths. Never thought I’d miss the scorching hot Texas sun, but here I am.

We hold our own through the first half, and I’m relieved when we head into the third quarter down by only one field goal. But then our QB is sacked, and Boston recovers the ball, taking it down for a touchdown two plays later.

By the fourth quarter, Coach is screaming so much from the sidelines that spit flies from his mouth, but no amount of hollering is going to turn this tide.

I can already see it on my teammates’ faces.

I glance up at the scoreboard. We’re down by sixteen points with five minutes remaining.

Of course this is the matchup I invited my family to attend.

I try not to think about how this game is being televised.

If I’m lucky, maybe Baylee won’t watch today.

The biggest difference between college and pro isn’t just that these guys make a shitload of money. It’s that no one wants to get injured in a loss, so they start to play half-heartedly when we’re down. In college, Coach Santos had us playing balls to the wall regardless of the outcome.

Even though it’s twenty degrees, sweat stings my eyes, and I ignore the burn as I rejoin the huddle. Tyce Morrison, our QB, barks out the next play. Then he turns to a lineman and snarks, “Do your fucking job and block before I get sacked again.”

I think about Coach’s warning before the game. I need to finish strong and show him what I’m made of.

After the snap, I execute the play perfectly. Down fifteen yards with a fake to the left and a hard cut in. The ball is high, and I leap into the air. The tips of my fingers graze it, but the ball spins away. Fuck.

One minute, I’m coming down, trying to land on my feet. The next, the defender who catches the ball gets tackled by someone, and both fly into me .

I get slammed to the ground, my muscles tensing as I try to suck in a breath.

And just before everything goes dark, someone else barrels into us, and my bones crack.