Page 36 of The Game Plan (Game On #3)
Dex
Monday Night Football. The audience is not as rowdy as in college. Fans are more likely to shout “You suck” than give their
undying love. Because it’s about the win. Sure, we had that need to win in college. But school spirit trumped the team’s record.
Here?
My job is on the line if I don’t perform.
The stadium isn’t as big. Doesn’t need to be. Cameras are everywhere, taking in every fucking move we make for an audience
that grows year by year—a big, voracious mass of unseen fans. Damn if I haven’t begun to think if it not as a sport but theater.
We’re giving them a show, and it had better be good.
Right now, I’m facing off against a big bastard of a nose tackle. Emmet Sampson. We played against each other in college,
and I know his ways well. He loves to talk shit. Excels at it. I’m pretty sure he makes a study of his opposition to find
the worst dirt he can on them.
Emmet can’t stand me because I’ve never once blinked in the face of his bullshit.
Not that he doesn’t keep trying.
“Lookie here,” he says as we take the field. “It’s old Paul Bunyan. Where’s your big blue ox, boy?”
At your mamma’s house having a smoke.
I don’t say it. Not speaking is much more effective.
I hunker down, my quads giving a nice stretch that brings me right back into the physical.
“So that shit true, Dexter?” he goes on. “You haven’t busted your cherry? Damn, man.” He shakes his head. “Some sorry-ass
shit right there.”
I breathe in deep. Pay attention to my team. His team. Watch. Wait. Listen.
“Naw, I don’t believe it. What’s the matter, Dexter? Afraid of the pussy?” Emmet is meowing like a cat.
The sound fades as I focus on the line. The pads of my gloved fingers rest on the ball, the shape grounding me. I draw in
a breath, let my gaze open up until I see the whole picture—my guys, the defense, how they line up.
I call out a play adjustment. My guys hustle, changing positions. And the defense scrambles to follow.
The instant Finn makes his signal, I snap the ball and explode into action. Emmet and I meet like a thunderclap, helmets clacking,
bones rattling. My thighs bunch as I push forward, the balls of my feet digging into soft earth as I drive him back. He’s
hammering his fists at my wrists, sending shards of pain up my arms, straight to my brain. But I hold tight and strong-arm
him to the side to clear a path for my guy.
Emmet goes down in a tumble. And, when the play ends, I lean over him. “If you ran your ass half as good as you run your mouth,
I just might be afraid, bitch.”
Trotting back to the huddle, I give Finn a slap on the helmet. “Let’s light ’em up, rook.”
He gives me a grin. “You know it.”
For the rest of the game, we do just that. We play smart, crafty, and light them up like fireworks on the Fourth of July.
My guys play like a well-oiled machine—Finn picking apart the defense with a football sense you can’t learn; it’s just innate,
and a beautiful fucking thing to witness.
But the taunts don’t stop, they grow. Doesn’t matter if I play my best. It’s no longer all about my performance. The world
is pulling down the walls I’ve built to protect myself, exposing me without my consent.
Fiona
I love parties. I love the noise and the chatter and the chance to talk to new people.
I love free booze and sampling cute little appetizers. I love dressing up and looking at other women’s dresses—I always find
myself envying at least one outfit. But this party? Kind of blows.
Oh, the food is stellar. Champagne flows, and the decor is as impeccable as the view. Janice Mark’s penthouse is incredible,
with views of the entire city spread out beneath us like a sequined dress, glittering and twinkling in the night.
By all accounts, I should be loving this. Dozens of top interior designers are here, giving me the chance to network. And
the energy in the room is high.
I just don’t feel it. Because Ethan isn’t here. The sad part is I’m equally sure he’d hate this party. I can imagine him now,
tugging at his collar and finding a nice corner to prop up. Now that he holds all my attention, memories of him before we
were together come flooding back. He was always in the corner, nursing one of his water bottles, talking to a few guys—or
listening, rather, and saying little.
But what he said always seemed to count for more. Ethan chooses his words carefully, never giving up useless spares. I remember that now and how it fascinated me then, because I usually have words enough for two people.
I remember that he used to watch me with those deep-set hazel eyes. It hadn’t made much of an impression then because I was
loud, and people usually glanced my way when I was in a room. Never really bothered me. I’d assumed Ethan was doing the same—giving
wild Fi Mackenzie a once-over before going back to his life.
Now I know it had been more. Strangely, this makes me warm all over. He saw when I wasn’t “on” or trying to impress him, but
as myself. And he’d wanted me anyway.
But now he’s in New Orleans, and I’m stuck fifty stories over Manhattan, surrounded by the type of people I grew up around.
And it all feels foreign and off. Nothing is right anymore.
“Fabulous party, isn’t it?” Jackson is resplendent in a shiny, sapphire blue Zegna suit that would look ridiculous on most
men but he pulls off with aplomb.
“Yes.” It is. Even if I’d rather be somewhere else, I can admit that much. “Makes me wonder why Felix isn’t here.” My boss
should be all over this.
“As I said before, Janice, our lovely hostess, is mortal enemies with his current client, Cecelia. The very notion of letting
a potential spy into her nest would enrage Janice. Which reminds me...” He drops his voice. “Let’s not tell anyone you’re
working for Felix, eh?”
My lips quirk. “Don’t want to be kicked out on your couture?”
“Don’t even jest.” He fiddles with the cuffs of his shirt, a silk peacock print that somehow works with the outfit.
“Fine.” I set down the glass of champagne I’ve been holding for the past half hour.
It’s warm and flat now. “I’ll keep quiet.”
“What’s wrong?” Jackson looks me over with a frown. “Missing your big football player?”
I give him the side eye. “How did you know that?”
“Because Benedict Cumberbatch just walked by, and you didn’t even blink.”
“What?” I whip my head around, searching the room. “Where?”
“I’m kidding.” He laughs when I glare at him. “You should’ve seen your face.”
“You dickweed.” I give his side an elbow. “That was beyond low.” Jackson knows I have a thing for Cumberbatch—with that deep
voice and quiet way of his that you just know hides a total perv in the bedroom.
Jackson fends off my attempt to pull the perfectly folded aqua handkerchief from his coat pocket so I can bat him with it.
“Hey now, pixie, easy with the outfit. I give. I give. I was a dick.”
“Damn right you were,” I say with a sniff. “I’d like to see how you’d handle it if I said I saw Fassy.”
He makes a look of mock horror. “You wouldn’t. My love of Fassy far exceeds your high-school-girl crush on Sherlock.”
“Actually, I liked him better as Khan.”
“Oh, me too. I think if I ever met him I’d have to shout it a la Captain Kirk.” Jackson makes a face as if he’s silently screaming
out, “Khaaahhnn!” and I laugh.
Smiling, I lean my head on his shoulder, and he wraps an arm around me, giving me a squeeze. “You’re missing your man?”
“Seriously, Jack, how did you know?”
“I’m fairly certain I had that look on my face when I first met Hal and he decided he had to live in Milan for a summer to learn about textiles. The bastard.”
Jackson takes a sip of his white wine as he strolls me over to the wall of windows facing downtown. “It was misery. But at least I had the comfort of knowing he was miserable too.”
“Cold comfort. I don’t want Dex to be unhappy.”
Jackson gives the top of my head a kiss. “Sweet girl.”
“It hurts, Jack. I actually hurt.” I press my fist against my chest where the pain is centered. “I don’t like it.”
He stares down at me with solemn eyes. “What are you going to do about it?”
With a ragged sigh I stare out the window. The old me would have run, ditched the troublesome baggage and moved on. It hits
me that there is an old me, because I’ve changed. I don’t think Dex has changed me, but being with him, caring about him, has. And the new
me does not run.
Unfortunately, the new me did not come with a set of instructions on how to handle a long-distance relationship. Which would
have been awesome. What am I going to do?
“Something drastic,” I find myself saying. I take a breath and meet Jackson’s eyes. “Something risky.”
Just stating it has my heartbeat speeding up with anticipation. Yes, something risky and daring and right. For the first time
in days, I feel like I can breathe.
My old friend starts to grin as if he’s been waiting for me to say as much.
“By the way.” Jackson reaches into his inner suit pocket and pulls out a slip of paper. “Sold your table the other day.”
“You did?” I practically squeal but manage to hold on to my dignity by a thread.
“Yes, ma’am.” He hands me the paper. “Your check.”
My jaw falls as soon as I read it. “Get the fudge sticks out!” I gape at Jackson, then at the check. “Is this for real?”
“I’m going to assume that’s rhetorical.”
Well, it is, and it isn’t. Because I cannot believe what I’m looking at. “I made thirty thousand dollars on a dining set?”
Jackson gives me a bored look. “Honey, this is Manhattan. You create furniture like that and sell it to the right people, you’d better be making thirty large. At the very least.”
My lips feel numb. “I had no idea. I mean, I know how much we pay for our clients’ furniture, but I didn’t expect I’d make
this much. I’m hardly a known name.”
“Not yet. But I am, and I know how to sell. As for you, this is only the beginning, Fi-da-lee.” Jackson’s expression goes serious. “Honey,
I’m never going to have kids, so you’ll have to humor me as my surrogate.”
Smiling, I kiss his cheek. “Papa Jackson. Can I fill out my Christmas list now?”
He gives my shoulder a nudge. “I wasn’t finished, cheeky. Come work with us, Fiona. Make your furniture, and we’ll sell it.
When you’re established, you can go it on your own.”
For a second, I can only stare at him. “You’re serious.”
“As a personal trainer on New Year’s Day.” His smile is soft. “Be your own boss and forge your own path.”
Just beyond Jackson’s shoulder, the lights of New York glitter. It’s as familiar a sight as my own face, and yet it never
fails to fascinate me. But I want more.
“Do I have to be here in New York?”
“Setting up camp elsewhere makes it trickier, but honey, we’ll make it work.” Jackson’s smile grows sly. “And there’s a certain
southern city that’s ripe for the picking, especially when one has contacts in the area.”