Page 143 of The Hot Shot

James shouts.

Finn zings a pass to North, who takes off toward the end zone.

James jumps to his feet. Somehow, I’m on my feet too, and we booth cheer as North races along.

“Touchdown,” James cries, throwing up his arms. I laugh and pump a fist in the air.

“Man, shut up,” someone says behind us. We ignore him and wiggle our hips.

Finally, they show Finn on the sidelines, helmet off, as he sits on a bench next to Jake and they laugh about something. Sweat slicks his hair and his cheeks are ruddy. But his smile is big and infectious. He’s so damn gorgeous, my fingers ache to touch him. It hurts my heart to look at him, but I don’t dare blink.

It nearly kills me when they cut away to the other team.

“Here comes Baylor,” annoying bar dude says, clapping. “Kick some ass, Battle.”

“Is he any good?” I ask James as New York’s quarterback takes the field.

“Yeah.” James looks disgruntled. “He was Manny’s rival in college. Finn was drafted the year before Drew Baylor. And you should know this, missy.”

“We don’t exactly talk about football all the time.”

James grins. “Right. Too busy licking his fine—”

“James!” Jamie gives his arm a slap. She’s been quiet up until now, clearly not in her element. “Stop it.”

He cackles, but then gives her a swift kiss. “I’m just messing with Chess.”

“You’re being a pig.”

“Yeah, that, too.”

Unfortunately, James is right. Drew Baylor is good. He reminds me a lot of Finn in the way he moves and in the size and shape of his body. The main difference seems to be that while Finn has a more playful demeanor, clearly joking with his offense and even the defensive linemen who try to tackle him, Baylor is all gruff business.

I don’t like watching him play, because it means Finn might lose. Part of me wants to leave now, go book a flight home and just be there. But it feels like a betrayal not to watch Finn finish this game. He has no idea that I’m watching, so it shouldn’t matter but it feels like it does. As if I’m supporting him, even though I’m nearly two thousand miles away.

I hate that distance.

New York doesn’t manage to score, and after a nice punt return, Finn is soon back on the field. They’re tied now, and tension coils in my gut.Please win. He needs this. I need this for him.

For three plays, I sit on the edge of my seat, as Finn and his offense battle their way down field, gaining some yards, losing others. Another drive, and I’m fairly twitching.

The ball snaps. Finn catches it, steps back, he pump-fakes one way and then, as if on cue, lets it fly. James screams as the ball soars.

Guys at the bar scream too, lamenting.

It’s to Jake again. He jumps high, his body stretched to its limit. I bite my lip hard. Jake catches the ball and, in the same instant, a safety slams into his lower half. Jake flips head over heels, still clutching the ball. He lands headfirst onto the field, his helmet snapping toward his chest.

He crumples. And doesn’t get up.

My heart stops so hard and fast, the room spins. Refs blow whistles. Medics rush onto the field.

“Jake.”

I know this man. I’ve laughed with him. Eaten with him. He is Finn’s best friend.

When Jake doesn’t get up, Finn runs over to be with him. His helmet is off and he stands back just enough to let the medical staff work. His eyes never leave Jake, who lies lifeless in the end zone, his arm still wrapped around the ball.

I stand in the middle of the bar, my fists balled at my side, thinking he’ll get up. It will be likeJerry Maguire, and Jake will soon be dancing around in the end zone. But he doesn’t. They call for a stretcher.