Page 17 of Fourth and Long

“Are you still in love with her?” she repeats, slower this time.

“No.” I shake my head vehemently. I love Amber, but I’m not in love with her.

The look on her face tells me she doesn’t believe me.

“Some people never let go of their first love. They pine for them the rest of their lives.” The expression on her face changes. She’s thinking about something else, and whatever it is, it isn’t good.

“I’m not one of those people,” I say firmly.

“Okay.” She nods, not looking the least bit convinced. “Amber Hope is my favorite singer. It’s hard for me to believe you know her. But the fact that you dated her…” She shakes her head.

I try not to be offended. Because of the Teddy Lance disaster, Amber’s fans are very invested in her love life. “It was a long time ago. Before she was famous.”

And before I was infamous.

There’s a beat of silence, and then she changes the subject. “Do you love football?”

I smile. I can talk about football all day. “Of course.”

“Hmm.” She nods thoughtfully. “When was the last time it made you happy?”

“About two seconds before Steven Jefferies intercepted the ball in my last game. We had a chance to win.”

“And then you hated it?”

“Of course not. I hate losing, but I’ll always love football.” Football is my life. It’s every dream I’ve ever had. No matter how bad it gets, it has always been my rock. I want to keep playing. I want to realize my potential, but I’m terrified it’s too late. I don’t say that out loud, though. Words, once spoken, can’t be taken back. “I want to win a Super Bowl.”

That, at least, is one hundred percent true.

“You almost got there once, right?” She asks like she doesn’t already know, but I can tell by the look on her face that she knows about my biggest failure.

“Yep. If I hadn’t thrown eight interceptions in the championship game, we would have gone to the Super Bowl.”

“What happened to all that stuff about it being a team game?” she asks.

I don’t know how to explain that even though I know it’s never just my fault, I still blame myself. “In that game, there was nothing the team could do.”

She seems to take me at my word. “And you want to get to the Super Bowl so you can prove everyone is wrong about you?”

Shit. That’s harsh, and a little true. “Winning doesn’t erase losing. My reputation will always be flawed.”

“Does that bother you?”

Sometimes it feels like an anchor, dragging me down, but other times it feels like a buoy, keeping me bobbing on the surface. Professionally, I’ve seen the bottom. And I’ve almost reached the top.

I like the top better.

SIX

ELLIE

While he’s contemplating an answer, a woman wanders into the room. She’s wearing a skirt so tight and so short that it hardly qualifies as a skirt. On top, she’s wearing a lacy bra that barely manages to conceal her nipples. Her dark hair is rioting in every direction. She’s tall and quite voluptuous. I stare at her as if I’ve never seen a half-naked woman before.

The possibility of confronting a hook up should have occurred to me—no wonder he wasn’t ready when I arrived.

She looks half asleep as her gaze darts from Slater, to me, and back again.

“Celeste,” Slater barks, startling me. “Put on some damn clothes.”