Page 47 of The Hot Shot

The kid looks unimpressed, but a couple of others pipe up to agree that the whale shark is awesome.

They race on to the next viewing window. Finn and I follow.He hasn’t let go of my hand, but I don’t mind. His is big and warm, the strength in his fingers tempered now by a gentle clasp. A hand worth around fifty million dollars a year in the eyes of pro football, and it’s holding on to me as though I’m the valuable one.

“Sorry I didn’t warn you,” he says at my ear.

Little shivers dance along my skin. I ignore them. “I’m beginning to think you like surprises.”

“I do.”

“Thanks for letting me be a part of this. You’re great with them.”

“Kids are easy. Completely unfiltered and ready to have fun, kind of like football players.” He gives my fingers a light squeeze. “So you don’t want to run away screaming?”

I’m not certain if he’s referring to the kids or football players. Either way, the answer is the same. “Only if you try to get me to touch a stingray.”

“Now, Chess, that’s basically a dare.”

Before I can answer, we’re swarmed by the kids who’ve realized their hero isn’t in their midst anymore. Finn doesn’t let me go, and I’m swept up along with him.

By the time we’re done, I know more about fish and sea life than I probably need to, and have been infected by a bit of Finn Mannus hero worship myself. How can I not be? When he lifts up each kid who asks for a better view. When he takes the time to shake employees’ hands and put them at ease when they get flustered.

Parents show up, and Finn takes a picture with anyone who asks. Each time, he grins wide as if he’s standing next to a good friend.

Finn might hate posing for professional cameras. But he clearly loves this part of his life.

He ends the tour by handing out T-shirts with his jersey number on them. “You didn’t give one to your girlfriend,” a solemn six-year-old girl points out. “You’ll hurt her feelings.”

I’m trying to figure out if it’s worth it to clarify that I’mnot Finn’s girlfriend and my feelings won’t be hurt, when Finn catches my eye. A teasing smile plays on his lips. “You’re right, Maisey. But I’m out of shirts.” He takes off his baseball cap with his team logo splashed over the front. “Think she’ll be okay with this?”

“If she doesn’t want it,” an older kid drawls, “I’ll take it!”

Finn shakes his head. “You got your shirt, Darrius. My girl here needs something special.” He looks over his flock. “Girls like special things.”

A bunch of boys gag, but a few girls giggle.

Me? I’m both trying not to blush and restraining myself from rolling my eyes at his antics.

Finn’s expression, however, is soft and sincere as he sets the hat on my head, deftly tucking strands of my hair back behind my ears. The cap is too big and sits low on my brow. I probably look like an idiot, but I’m not taking it off.

A little cheer rings out. Before I can blink, Finn swoops in and gives me a playful peck on the cheek. I feel the warm brush of his lips like a stamp on my skin, pressing there long after he’s moved away.

Finn

Losing sucks. Losing when you’re a quarterback sucks sweaty balls. I don’t give a shit what they say; if the offense is crumbling, it’s the QB’s fault. Fucking fair-weather reporters jump all over that: Has Mannus lost his touch? Can he handle the pressure? Is this just an off night or a sign of things to come?

I’m lying on the grass, a three-hundred-pound slab of lineman sprawled over my hips. My head rings, white lights popping behind my eyes.Fuck, that hit hurt. I can’t breathe for a second. My entire body has seized with an internal shout ofWhat the shit?!?

Davis, the lineman who’d plowed into me like a tank powered by nitro, lifts his head and grins at me as if I’m his newbitch. I want to get to my feet and show him that his effort failed, but my head is still swimming and I can’t feel my legs.

“Can I have some fries with that shake next time?” I ask lightly. His grin dies a swift death, and he jumps to his feet—show-off.

I’m not so quick because I hurt like a motherfucker. “Nice hit, bro,” I say, extending my hand out.Help me up, asshole.But I smile like it’s all good.

Have I mentioned that part of the art of playing football is to mindfuck your opponent? It’s one of my favorite aspects. I might get knocked down, but you better believe I’m going to take the wind out of the motherfucker’s sails in retaliation.

Slightly confused, Davis silently helps me up and then shakes his head with a laugh.

I laugh too, ignoring the pain in my ribs—I’m gonna feel that shit tonight—and give him a friendly slap on the shoulder before he jogs off.