Page 22 of The Wrong Game

Walking into the stadium, I’d been overwhelmed by how fast everything came rushing back to me — the smell of the turf, the sound of pads crashing together on the field, the roar of the crowd. The last time I’d been this close to a football field was almost twelve years ago now.

I hadn’t touched a football since.

Suddenly, my fingers itched to feel the leather again, to trace that white stitching before tucking the ball into my side and running the field for a touchdown. But I couldn’t do that to myself, not when I knew what the end result would be. It didn’t matter how honorable my intentions were when I gave up my dream, or how it was worth it every day that my little brother woke up and got to live another twenty-four hours.

It was still a wound.

A gaping, sticky, still-tender gash.

And I knew without question that if I opened that cut, even an inch, it’d never heal again.

It was barely being held together by gum and paper clips, as it was.

A loud, exaggerated huff from a few rows behind us brought me back to the moment, to the present game, and I shook off my memories, focusing on the next play.

“Hey!” a gruff voice called out behind us.

I glanced at Gemma, who was still staring at the field. Our guys were way down at the other end zone, the quarterback searching for an open receiver to make the connection.

“Hey!” the voice said again, and this time I turned, finding a red-faced Bears fan glaring down at me from three rows up.

I cocked a brow, and he pointed at Gemma with one stumpy finger.

“You two enjoying the game?”

Gemma turned then, confusion written on her face. Neither one of us knew how to answer. It was a simple enough question, but the way the man asked it, I felt like we were walking right into a trap.

“I hope you are, because the rest of us can’t see it back here!” He pointed to our seats, sweat dripping from his curly black mop down to the bit of chest hair poking out of his Bears jersey. “Sit down, there’s nothing even going on.”

The crowd around us was suddenly more interested in our transgression than on the play taking place on the other side of the field, and I clenched my jaw tight, adrenaline spiking in my veins. I’d had to jump into more than my fair share of fights at the bar, and I knew all the signs of a drunk, angry asshole.

But before I could say a word, Gemma turned all the way around and hung both hands on her hips.

“Excuse me?”

Her little mouth gaped open, that plump, pink bottom lip almost pouty as she stared at the man and let her weight shift to one side.

“You’re kidding me, right?” she said, incredulous. “We’re at a football game.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to stand up the whole fucking time.”

Again, I opened my mouth, but Gemma held up a finger and pointed it directly at the red-faced man.

“I’ll do whatever the hell I want. I’m a season pass holder, buddy, and if you wanna sit on your ass and watch the game, you should go to a bar or stay at home on your couch.”

The crowd around us broke out in a mixture of laughs andooooh’s.

“You’re literally the only ones standing right now,” he pointed out.

Gemma glanced around, seeing the truth in his statement, and though her cheeks flushed a bit, she stood even taller. Her chin held high, she crossed one arm over the other. “And you’re the only one complaining about it.”

Our opponent puffed his chest, eyes landing hard on me next.

“Control your woman, douche bag. Should have left her at home, anyway.”

This time, I clenched my jaw so hard it ached.

My hands were balling into fists of their own accord, muscles straining from the fight or flight kicking in. And with me? It was always fight.