Page 46 of The Game Plan (Game On #3)

Dex

Walking down the dark tunnel from the locker room toward the bright light of the field beyond is an activity I’ve always paid

attention to. I think a lot of guys do. And it sounds crazy, but the imagery is unavoidable—the dawn of a new game, a new

opportunity to change your fate, to win.

It’s different at halftime. You can be on top of the world, kicking ass, or lower than sludge, down by horrific numbers, or

somewhere in between. In those minutes, those steps between cool darkness and harsh brightness, you make a decision within

yourself: quit or keep fighting.

All the inspirational speeches, tongue lashings, or hand clapping can’t do it for you.

It’s something every man has to find in himself. Sure, we’re a team. But no matter how you cut it, a team is made up of individuals,

and is only as strong as its weakest link.

I’m almost at the end of the tunnel when it comes to Fi. I can see the light and the possibilities of us. But right now, it’s fucking dark. I’m afraid for her. She’s been battered by this shit, and I don’t know how to fix it.

God, I want to fix it. I want to keep her safe, shelter her from all this ugliness. Just keep her. Forever. She’s mine. Mine

to protect.

But I give her the space she asks for. Fucking hate that word now. Space just means I’m alone in my courtyard, and Fi is holed up in our room, napping. That’s all she does now: nap.

And I can’t snap her out of it. She doesn’t want to go out—not that I can blame her. Far too many people recognize her now

for all the wrong reasons. It probably isn’t a good idea, anyway, considering I’m likely to beat the shit out of someone if

they make the wrong remark.

I try to entice her to at least come out of the room, watch a movie, work out with me, anything. Sex is out of the question.

She changes in the bathroom and crawls under the covers before I can get near her. She always cuddles close in at night, but

if I try to touch her in any way that’s sexual, she freezes.

When I ask what’s wrong, she shakes her head and says the same thing. “I just keep thinking of all those people looking at

me naked. It turns my skin, Ethan.”

What can I say to that?

Sitting on my tractor tire, I stare up at the window to our room. I ache for Fi.

It’s cool outside, the air laden with humidity. I feel it in all my joints and along my shins. My phone buzzes in my back

pocket. It’s Drew calling.

“Hey, man,” I say as I answer.

“Hey. How’s Fi?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Not great. She’s listless, not interested in anything. It’s like she’s just... slipping

away, you know?”

“Sounds like she’s depressed.”

“I know that, Battle,” I snap, then sigh. “I just don’t know what to do about it.”

I gave a press statement, saying Fi was my serious girlfriend and someone I admired and cared for. The implication being that

all the Fi-haters needed to fuck off. It did precisely dick.

Drew’s voice is low. “You need to get her out of the house.”

“She won’t go.”

“Tough love, Dex. Be the guy who kicked my ass every time I moped. You’re the anchor, our Big Daddy and so on.”

I laugh without much humor. “I really don’t want to play Big Daddy for Fi.”

He laughs too. “Yeah, okay, not that. But the other shit.”

I glance up at the window again. “She’s fragile right now. I don’t want to hurt her any more.”

“You won’t. But that’s kind of the point of tough love, isn’t it? You do what has to be done no matter what.”

No matter what. I push off from my seat on the tire. “I gotta take care of some things,” I tell Drew. “Call you later.”

“Good luck, man.”

I’ll probably need it. I hang up and head into the house.

Fiona

For the most part, I avoid the phone. I answer Violet’s call because I know she won’t give up until we talk, and it’s rude

to leave her worried.

“I am going to fucking rip this fucking company wide-open,” she promises, her voice shooting through the phone like street

justice.

“No, you aren’t,” I tell her sternly. “I won’t have you risking jail time for me. Revenge doesn’t get my pride back.”

“It’s a start.”

“No, Violet. No,” I repeat again because I need her to hear me. “Promise me you won’t touch them. I’ll just worry and be upset if I think you’re breaking the law.”

She huffs, loud and sharp. “Okay. Fine. But I have to do something.” I can hear her nails clack on her desk. “I know! I’m

sending you a kickass bag.”

“A bag?”

“A new handbag always makes me feel better. Oh, Prada has the cutest little turquoise clutch. I’m sending you that. My cousin

works at Vogue. She can get anything.”

We chat for a while, but it exhausts me. I beg off by saying Ethan is home. A lie.

But it sounds better than telling her I just don’t have it in me to talk anymore.

A text follows a short time later, one that I can’t ignore. It’s from my old coworker Alice.

AliceW: Thought this might cheer you up. Elena’s out. Felix gave her the boot this morning.

Me: Get the Papa Smurf out! Why?

AliceW: Apparently her designs for Cecelia Robertson’s apartment ended up being an exact copy of Janice Mark’s new penthouse. Cecelia

was humiliated. Which means Felix was too. He’s in the shit now.

I blink at the phone, my mouth hanging open. Holy fuck. Elena used the designs anyway. I’d told her they were bad. Then again,

I hadn’t exactly explained why they were bad. Maybe she took my words to mean bad quality.

I wait for the guilt to hit, but it doesn’t come. I can only shake my head. Part of me hopes she’s learned her lesson. The other half of me doesn’t give a good ripe grape what happens to her. Once a thief always a thief, I guess.

I answer Alice.

Me: I am agog.

AliceW: Take care of yourself, kid. We (and by that I mean all of us lowly workers) are giving Bloom the finger on your behalf.

Me: Thx. Give everyone (and by that I mean all of you lowly workers) a big hug.

After that revelation, I drift off for a while. All I want to do is sleep, hide under the soft protection of the covers, and

I know it isn’t healthy. I know this, and yet I can’t stop doing it. I’ve pushed Ethan away, ignoring the pain in his eyes.

Ignoring everything, even the thoughts in my head.

My eyes are gritty from too much crying, and my skin feels swollen, as if I’ll soon split down the middle. I know I’m being

maudlin and dramatic. I can’t keep on like this. So I call my mother.

Even as the line rings, I sweat and wonder why I had to turn to Mom. She answers before I can gather the courage to hang up.

“Fiona, darling girl,” she says by way of greeting.

“Hey, Mom.” My voice wobbles, and my eyes smart.

“I was going to call to tell you I’ve booked a flight to see you.”

I clutch my phone. “No. Don’t do that. Please.” I suck in a breath. “It’s harder when I have to face you guys.”

Silence ticks for a beat. “Sean told me you gave him his walking orders. He was quite put out.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt his feelings, Mom. I just couldn’t deal with... anything.”

“You don’t want to be coddled,” she says. “I understand. More than you know.”

An ugly memory stirs, of Mom taking to her room after Dad’s numerous affairs became public. Which was kind of a joke because

his cheating surprised absolutely no one, including her. But the public humiliation was too much.

“I don’t know how to get past this,” I tell her, my eyes welling up.

“You just do.” Her voice is soft, soothing. “Time goes on, and things get easier.”

“I tried to go out, but people looked at me...” My stomach clenches, remembering the way the delivery guy seemed to leer

at my chest when I’d gone to pay for the carryout Ethan had ordered.

Ethan had stepped in a second later, gently putting me behind him and paying the guy. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to.

It was obvious to the terrified delivery guy that he was a few seconds away from breathing out of a tube. He took his money

and practically sprinted away.

It might feel good to have Ethan to stand over me like a protective bear, but he can’t be there all the time. And he can’t

keep people from thinking what they want.

Some jackhole reporter pulled up pictures of me kissing Jaden—that silly stunt that feels like an eternity ago—and now they’re

calling me a money chaser, the same type as the woman who made my mom cry and my dad stray. I shouldn’t care what strangers

think. It’s a horrifying realization to know that I do.

Mom is talking again, drawing my attention back to the present. “Why don’t you come to London instead?”

“I don’t know...”

“No one here gives a fig about American football. You can relax. We can go Christmas shopping, have hot toddies, perhaps attend a musical.”

It sounds so perfectly lovely that I tear up again and sniffle. I miss my mom. I miss being a kid under her care, when the

biggest worry I had was doing my homework on time and whether she’d let me have cookies after school.

Mom’s voice is coaxing, working over me like spun sugar. “Think about it, darling girl.”

I close my eyes and take a breath. “Okay.”