Page 47 of Against the Clock

I don’t spare a thought for them, gunning as fast as I can for the end zone. I don’t have the speed I used to, but I’m still fast enough. I’m eating up the ground, yard lines blurring past me, the lactic acid in my thighs burning as I turn it up, faster now.

And I think of Kelsey, wearing my jersey, watching me run for the end zone, a thousand miles away.

When I cross the goal line, my smile isn’t ugly anymore.

I feel fantastic.

A glance up tells me there’s still twenty-seven seconds left in the game, but it’s not enough time for Miami to do shit. We’ve fucking won.

I can’t wait to see Kelsey tonight. I can’t wait to celebrate.

I turn, watching the refs put their arms up to signal the TD.

A second later, I’m flying through the air, a massive orange-and-teal-clad player on top of me.

It stuns me. A yellow flag floats into my periphery, landing somewhere next to me.

“Go home, old man,” the player on top of me says, kneeing me in the hip.

“Get the fuck off him,” someone shouts, pulling the Miami player off me. Ty Matthews.

“Unnecessary roughness,” a voice booms through the stadium.

I’m dazed, trying to shake it off. Trying to shake it off, but it’s taking longer than it should.

CHAPTER 20

KELSEY

I never thought I’d actually enjoy watching a football game.

The Beaver Trap, the local bar for the wildest fans, the one Cameron likes to go to for Beavers games, is packed. The energy is wild, the whole bar on edge, living for the seconds ticking down on a clock a thousand miles away.

Daniel is magnificent, and I can’t keep the smile off my face as he squares off with a minute left on the clock. I know enough from watching with my dad growing up to follow the action, know enough to scream for him to go, go, as he sprints toward the end zone.

But I know too much, too, and when he gets tackled, flying through the air, my hand covers my mouth. He bounces, the Miami player pinning him down as his head snaps back.

Then he lies still.

Horror fills me. The cold chill of it trickles down my spine, and I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

A Wilmington player pulls the asshole off Daniel, and still, he lies there. Not moving.

I rake a hand through my hair, and a sob leaves my throat.

I can’t watch this. I can’t.

“Kelsey?” Cameron’s voice is low and worried, and her hand lands on my wrist.

I shake my head, tearing my gaze away from the huge screen behind the bar. Everyone’s celebrating. Everyone’s cheering.

He’s not getting up.

“I can’t,” I tell her. “I can’t.”

I push past her, through the swell of the navy-and-gold crowd. I can’t breathe.

He’s hurt, he’s hurt, and I knew this would happen, I knew I shouldn’t have enjoyed watching the game.

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