Page 142 of The Hot Shot

“When I enter my bank, Jamie is always there to watch,” James retorts with a devious grin.

“TMI,” Jamie huffs, pinching him. “You’re going to give Chess indigestion.”

“Well, she’s killed prime fantasy material for me, so we’re even.”

I know Jamie is embarrassed on my behalf, but I also know James is trying to distract me. He’s doing a good job of it. We exchange a secret smile between us, one that’s gotten us through a lot of tough times. Gratitude fills me, and I want to hug my best friend. He gives me a little wink in silent reply.

“I’d flip you off,” I say with false annoyance, “but it’s too cold.” I tuck my icy hands under my arms.

“Come on.” James snuffs his cigarette on the side of the building then tosses the butt into a nearby trash can. “Let’s find a bar and watch your boyfriend play.”

Three doors down, we find a bar that, no surprise to anyone, is showing the game on multiple TVs. Patrons are yelling at the screen, and I see that the score is seven to fourteen, and New Orleans is down. Given that Finn’s team is playing against New York, everyone is ecstatic.

We get our beers at the bar then James finds us a seat by the door, facing one of the TVs. We sit down as Finn and his offense trot back on the field. I can’t see his face behind the helmet he wears, but just the sight of the number ten on his jersey has my heart clenching.

Although his team is currently losing, he moves with authority, bringing his guys in for a huddle. They’re on their home turf and the crowd chants for Finn. The commentator on the TV spews on about the offense having not been at their best in games past and how Finn has struggled throughout the season to regain control.

“That’s why our defense is gonna kick your ass, Manny,” a guy at the bar shouts.

I know it’s not personal; it’s part of the game. But it feels personal. I want to yell at the guy to either put on a uniform and try it or shut the fuck up.

James reads me well. “Easy there, tiger.”

My fingers grip the edges of my chair. “I’m fine.”

On the screen, the next drive begins. I don’t know much about football. Next to nothing really, but watching Finn makes my breath catch and pride swell through my chest. He is beautiful in the way rare and powerful things are.

Finn catches the ball hiked to him by Dex, and then he dances back, his guys protecting him. To me, it’s a scramble, the defense scurrying around like mad ants trying to get him, the offense scurrying like mad ants running this way and that. All the while, Finn remains the center of calm.

He cocks his arm back and throws, heedless of the big barn of a guy hurtling toward him. The ball soars through the air like it’s on a string, but my eyes are on Finn. Unfortunately, the camera follows the ball as it shoots downfield toward Jake.

The guys at the bar shout. Jake arcs in the air like a ballerina, catches the ball, and lands in an inelegant heap as a bunch of defenders tackle him. But he keeps the ball.

“Right through traffic!” James slams his fist on the table in victory as the rest of the bar groans.

I grin wide. The camera goes back to Finn, who jumps once and then pumps his fist.

As Jake runs back to the huddle, Finn smacks him on the butt in congratulations.

“Come on, defense,” bar dude shouts, doing that annoying rapid clap thing.

I ignore it and watch Finn. This time he passes the ball off to North, who doesn’t get very far, much to the bar’s delight.

Doesn’t matter. I can sense the difference in Finn’s game.He has a rhythm going, a confidence about him. He’s playing to win. I’m so proud of him that I bite my lips to keep from shouting my encouragement to the screen, because it’s not like he can hear me. And yet, some small, shitty dark corner of my mind feels distress. Because he is playing better now. Without me in his life.

It could be a fluke. But they haven’t lost a game since I’ve been gone.

The announcer babbles on about Finn being in the zone. He is. This is what he does best.

You love him. And if he knew that, he’d be...

My thoughts scatter because Finn has the ball again. This time he scrambles back, guys homing in on him.

At the bar, the crowd shouts at the defense to take him down, knock his ass flat.

But Finn isn’t an easy target. He evades like the pro that he is.

My stomach clenches, my heart kicking my ribs. A lineman hooks Finn around his waist. My fingernails dig into the wood. But Finn swings around, somehow slipping out of his grip.