Page 137 of The Hot Shot

“Yes.”

I don’t expand on the disaster that was our phone call. Theconversation had been so stilted, it was like pulling teeth just to get the words out.

His stare is a weighty thing. “You going to go get her?”

When she’s in the middle of her dream job? WithThe Avengers? How the fuck do I compete against Iron Man? Or—fuck—Thor?

“She isn’t lost, Charles.”

He pulls a bottle of green juice from his backpack and hands it to me. “It’s about time to get going for the game.”

Normally, I’d drive myself, but this is a playoff game. When Charlie asked me if I wanted a ride to the stadium, I realized that he really wanted to drive me. He wanted to be a part of this. He deserves to be. So I have myself a chauffeur, even if he’s a nagging one.

“We have at least fifteen minutes to spare.” Because it’s in my hand, I open the bottle and take a drink. I’m not going to say I love the green health drink, because I have working taste buds, but it does send a nice shot of energy running through my system.

“Let’s spend them at the stadium,” Charlie says.

Charlie doesn’t like living on the edge. With a sigh, I heave myself up. “Fine. Let’s go win us a football game.”

Charlie stands too, turning off the TV with the remote. “We’ll work on your enthusiasm levels in the car.”

I’d like to think I’m a good actor, but apparently my performance today is lacking.

Despite digging deep and pulling out all the enthusiasm I can muster, as soon as it’s halftime and we’ve received all the instruction we’re going to get, Jake plops down next to me on the bench and elbows my ribs.

Pads keep me from feeling much, but it gets my attention. “What?”

He takes a bottle from a passing ball boy and squirts water onhis head before looking me over. “You’ve been playing better than you ever have.”

He’s right. I’m the best I’ve ever been. Each time I go out on the field, I become a machine, playing as if I have something to prove. The sad truth is, Iamtrying to prove something. Not to myself. It’s for her. Always for her.

But in the twisted way of things, with every win, I feel worse, the distance between Chess and I bigger. Because what the fuck am I really proving here? That she and North were right? That she was just a distraction? That I don’t need her?

I do. I fucking do.

“Thanks for letting me know,” I say to Jake, as if I don’t care. “I appreciate the pep talk.”

He gives me a sidelong look, but keeps a smile on his face. We might be in the relative privacy of our locker room, but someone is always watching when we’re in game mode, and neither of us wants to spook the team. “Wiseass. You’re playing great, but you have dead eyes.”

“Not liking the direction of this pep talk, Ryder.” I swipe a bottle from a basket near me and take a long drink. “Did Charlie put you up to this?”

“He noticed it too?”

I look over the locker room as if I’m on top of the world. “Now is not the time.”

“Your avoidance game is killer. It’s never the right time.”

God, Chess had accused me of the same thing.

My smile aches at the corners. “Well, it certainly isn’t right fuckingnow.”

Guys are milling around, some getting their limbs stretched by the trainers, some hydrating. We’ve all got our game faces on, counting down the minutes before we go back out.

North sits his ass down on my other side. “What are we talking about? Winning? ‘Because I love winning. It’s, like, better than losing, you know?’?”

“Easy there, Nuke LaLoosh,” I mutter.

He winks. “So?”