Page 49 of The Game Plan (Game On #3)

Fiona

Trudging to the bathroom, I feel hollow, yet calmer. Last night with Ethan made me remember how good it can be between us,

how necessary. Nothing is perfect, but I feel grounded now. A little more myself.

In the shower, I turn the water to as hot as I can stand it. Ethan’s shower is a glorious thing with multiple heads, designed

to shoot out water at different speeds and strengths. The first time I used it, they were all adjusted to his height, and

I got a face full of water.

Hearing my shouts of ire, Ethan had run into the bathroom—and promptly laughed his ass off. A wet washcloth to the face ended

his glee. He’d retaliated by fucking me up against the shower tiles until I cried for mercy.

I smile at the memory, my thighs tightening with a luscious pull that makes me want Ethan here now, loving me hard and deep

all over again. But he’s already gone to the stadium to prepare for his game today.

I know he doesn’t want me to go to London. While he’s excellent at hiding his thoughts from the rest of the world, I can read him like a favorite story. I know the idea of me going away hurts him. But he agreed to it anyway. Because I wanted it.

For so long I thought I needed a man who was always there. One who’d cling to me and tell me he couldn’t bear to leave my

sight. Which makes me wonder what the hell I was thinking. I like my space, those quiet times when I’m in my own world, creating

a design or working on a piece.

A clinger would annoy the shit out of me. Ethan doesn’t do that. He has his own life, and while it sucks when he’s at an away

game, when we’re together it’s perfection. Being apart and having those times to myself only makes me crave him more, makes

me treasure our time together.

I tell myself it will be the same when I go to London, that our eventual reunion will be awesome. But it all feels off, wrong

in some way. I think about leaving, and I’m not happy; I’m sad, desperate to hold on to Ethan and not let go. Does that make

me the clinger now?

Frowning, I turn off the taps and reach for a towel. Only I make the mistake of turning on my phone as I brush my teeth. It’s

habit, checking for messages, trolling the internet. Stupid habit.

Because they’ve found me again. Doesn’t matter that I’ve changed all accounts.

Ugly messages find their way to me.

U Suk cum slut

You dnt deserve him whore!

I wanna fuk U good.

With a shaking hand I delete it all, set the phone down and close my eyes. I didn’t sign up for this, never wanted attention.

But it’s my world now.

The reality of it threatens to break me. Even now, I can feel all that judgment pushing into my flesh and expanding outward, filling me with hate and self-loathing.

It makes me want to run. Far away. London seems like the answer. But even as I cling to the thought, I think of Ethan. I fear

running will break us. He blames himself for this. If I leave, I’m confirming that it’s true.

They claim love conquers all. I used to believe that. Used to think that if someone just loved me enough, it would make everything

better.

Now I know the truth. Ethan’s love won’t fix me. I have to do that myself. So no, his love isn’t the cure. But it is something

to live for. Without him, I might not want to fix myself. Ethan Dexter makes me want to be a better person. To be brave.

With a hard swipe, I clear the condensation away from the mirror. A version of myself stares back, her eyes ringed with fatigue

and stress, her cheeks hollow. I rake my fingers through my wet hair, and Mirror Fi’s face comes into sharper relief.

I take her in, study her with unblinking eyes. She looks like shit. Ragged. Defeated. Before he left, Ethan kissed this face,

raining soft gifts of love over cheeks, nose, chin, mouth. Ethan worshipped this face, whispering, “You’re beautiful” with

each reverent touch. Thing is, I knew he wasn’t talking about the way I look, but about how he saw the whole of me.

Who is the real me? I’m not sure I’ve ever really known. Despite what I project to people, I’ve never taken the time to get

comfortable with myself as a person.

Truth is, we all project a false front to the world, peppering our social media pages with witty words and silly emoticons.

Life narrowed down to staged selfies, videos and tirades over opinion posts. Life lived for the approval of the masses, all

while tearing strangers down for the slightest misstep.

And when you turn away from that electric glow, when you no longer see those silent, pixelated opinions, who are you, really?

Who do you see in the mirror? When did the regard of those unknown masses become your existence? Those who will never be there

for you except to judge.

If I run, I’m saying that every ugly word thrown my way is true. Worse, if I run, I’m taking the easy way out. I’m letting

those people define me.

Staring in the mirror now, a surge of potent rage hits me. It’s all bullshit, these pictures I’ve let tear me down. I let

myself feel the rage. And it gives me power. It fills me up and breaks free with a scream. Because I’m over feeling ashamed,

and I’m never running away from life again.

Ethan once told me I’d been searching for my joy. I’ve found it. Now I need to reclaim it.

The edges of my phone bite into my palm as I clench it and dial.

“You’ve reached Bloom,” a woman’s voice purrs. “What is your pleasure?”

I grit my teeth, clutch the phone hard enough to feel it creak. “My name is Fiona Mackenzie. I took Ethan Dexter’s virginity.

I want my million-dollar prize.”

Dex

I have absolutely no desire to play the game today. But there’s no such thing as taking a personal day in the NFL. Definitely

not because you want to watch over your girlfriend. And sure as shit not on a game day.

Fi had shoved me out the door with the assurance that she’d be fine. Right. As if I don’t see the shadows under her eyes,

the tight lines around her usually soft mouth.

I’m in a bad mood when I enter the locker room. But the familiar reek of sweat, body wash and equipment soothes me a bit.

No one makes eye contact. It’s fucking awkward, and I spot more than one wince as I walk by. The idea that these fuckers have

seen Fi’s naked body makes me want to break teeth.

I’m almost to my spot when Darren, a safety, mutters “titties” under his breath. He doesn’t get to take another. With a snarl,

I grab hold of his throat, slam him into the wall. Guys explode into action around me, pulling at my arms to get me to let

the little shit go. I brush them off, step into Darren’s face.

“You got something to say, motherfucker?”

Darren is wiggling like a worm, punching at my arms, his face darkening and sweaty under my grip. “Get the fuck off me.”

I don’t think so. No even when hard hands are jerking me back. Not when all the guys are shouting at me to take it easy. Fuck

easy. I give Darren another slam before letting him drop. He stumbles but rights himself and takes a step toward me, murder

in his eye.

Good. Bring it.

“Dexter!” At my head coach’s shout, everyone goes still.

I give Darren one last glare as I turn around. No one will look at me.

Coach’s expression is tight. “In my office.”

I don’t say a word as I follow Coach. There isn’t any needed. I’d do the same thing again, and everyone in the room knows

it.

Getting called into Coach’s office is never a good feeling. You remember training camp and the utter terror that hung over

your head waiting to be called in to be cut or kept on. It permeates your bones until even walking by Coach’s office doors

can give you the willies.

Inside, Coach stares me down from the opposite side of his glossy desk. “You going to be able to hold it together, Dexter?”

“Yes.” No. Maybe. I don’t fucking know. But he doesn’t want to hear any of that noise. So I stare back calmly, collected.

He steeples his fingers—resting them under his chin in the annoying way of all coaches—and continues to stare like it’s a high-noon showdown.

Unfortunately for him, that shit has never worked on me. Something he clearly realizes when he sighs and his hands fall to

his lap. “You’re one of the smartest guys on the team, Dexter. You’ve always played well. But that extra bit of intensity

was missing. It’s there now. Focused. You’re playing better than I’ve ever seen.”

Great. My rage is a bonus. It’s not like I haven’t realized this as well. But I don’t like it. Maybe Coach knows that too,

because he leans forward, bracing his hands on the desk.

“This media circus will die down soon enough. In the meantime, take this as the opportunity it is. Channel that rage, Dex.”

His expression goes brutal and dead serious. “But keep it on the fucking field.”

“Sure thing, Coach.” What else can I say?

I’m no less angry once I’m on the field and playing. Not by a long fucking shot. Oh, but I channel that rage, pushing it through

my lungs until they burn, forcing it into my muscles until they twitch with the need to punish. I use it to break apart the

defense, and I soak it up when the crowd roars its approval.

It feels good. All of it so fucking good—an adrenaline rush, the likes of which I’ve only come close to while thrusting into

Fi.

I love football. Always have. Lived and breathed it. But it’s never been like this.

This rage, the way it suddenly flows through me without hindrance, is something different. Something inside has finally broken

free. No more holding back. No more fear.

My logical brain can’t switch off entirely. Because I still know it’s Fi’s pain that has set this part of me free. How fucked

up is that?

At the line, the defense scrambles around, and I sense a zone blitz coming. You can see it, if you pay attention, not just in the way the defense positions themselves, but in their eyes, the tension around their mouths.

I know they think Finn is too inexperienced to deal with them. They’re wrong.

I signal the play, and my guys adjust quickly. I get the snap off and we’re countering with an offensive blitz before the

defense knows what’s happening.

It’s a beautiful play, and it clearly pisses them off. Norris, a nose tackle, and the fuck-nugget who outed me to the tabloids,

whistles long and low. “Feeling good, Dexter? Yeah, I would too if my girl had them perky titties.”

Red fogs my vision.

“The fuck?” I lunge forward, only to bump into Rolondo, who braces a palm against my gut.

His eyes are dead serious. “Let it the fuck go, man. He’s only trying to get to you.”

From behind him, I hear a laugh. “Sucking on those titties...”

My teeth gnash. My guys are surrounding me.

“Save it for the play,” Ryder says at my side. “We will fuck them up.”

Someone gives me an encouraging slap to the helmet. I move back to the huddle, trying to concentrate. Finn gives me a quick

look, but he’s calling the next play.

Breathe. Focus. Get it together.

I try. I really do. But I miss a beat, and when I snap the ball, a defensive end blows by me and sacks Finn.

“Shit.”

Norris is at my elbow again, snickering. “Fiona Mackenzie, eh? Sweet little honey, D. Looks like she’s a natural blonde—”

I don’t see anything but a haze and the whites of Norris’s eyes as I grab hold of his helmet and rip it from his head. Mine is off too. Not sure how. Don’t care. My fist connects with his face, smashing into it so hard I feel it in my spine.

Whistles blow. Yellow flags fly.

Guys pile on top of us. Mine. His. Blows hit my head, back. I don’t feel them. I’m pounding Norris, who is stuck beneath me.

And then I’m thrown on my back with a jarring thud. It clears my head enough for me to pop up. A ref struggles to step into

my path. I duck around him as other guys scuffle.

“Cool it!” shouts a ref.

Finn is at my arm, pulling me back. “Easy, Dex.”

But then Norris is coming at me, blood pouring down his nose and in his teeth. “That’s why your girl took the money, cuz you’re

a fucking pussy!”

I’m two steps into coming at him again, when his words hit me, and I go ice-cold.

Took the money?

Guys are getting into smaller fights again. Rolondo is now up in Norris’s face, calling him a punk-ass bitch—refs are plucking

them apart.

Someone is walking me backward, pushing me toward the sidelines as shouts continue. But I’m numb, my ears ringing and all

available blood rushing to the pit of my stomach.

Took the money?

The ref ejects me and Norris from the game, and the stadium erupts into a chorus of boos.

On the sidelines, my offensive coach is shouting at me that I fucked up while also slapping my shoulder to say it’s okay I

nearly tore Norris’s head off. My head coach is bellowing in my ear about being a dumbass. But I’m barely listening.

I find an assistant coordinator. “You got a phone?”

He glances around as if trying to find an escape.

“Give me your fucking phone” Blood trickles in my eye, and a medic is trying to press a cloth to the cut on my fore head. I wave him off, grab the phone that’s offered to me with a shaking hand.

One glance around confirms that everyone’s been keeping something from me. I find out soon enough when the headlines pop up.

Fiona Mackenzie claims her million dollars. There’s a picture of Fi and me, fuzzy and taken from a distance. We’re laughing,

my arm slung around her slim shoulders as we stroll through Jackson Square.

And under that, the confirmation that Fi called Bloom this morning, demanding her prize.