Page 28 of Hart Breaker

“There’s definitely something about seeing your family on the sidelines, man.” He hits his chest with his fist. “It grounds me, reminds me of why I started playing this game.” He laughs out, “Why the hell I ever thought it would be easier to be a professional football player than a rancher is beyond me.”

“Pays a hell of a lot more, that’s why.” I laugh.

“Damn right, it does.”

We win the coin toss, and we’ll be receiving first.

“Coach, I want out there,” he calls to Coach Cohen.

“You sure about that?” he asks, as it’s not typical that Boone goes out at the kickoff; special team does.

“My kid’s here, and so is my ex. I got something to prove right now.”

“Then do it.”

The moment the ball soars into the air and Boone shifts to the left of the field, anticipation ripples down the sidelines. When it spirals down and lands in Boone’s hands, there is no pause—he’s off like lightning. The crowd’s roar is so loud I’m sure they hear it down in the village.

He darts to the right before cutting back left in a move so smooth it makes the Philly’s defenders stumble. I’m pretty fucking sure my heart is pounding in sync with his strides, each one faster than the last. Black and gold Knights block him from behind, making sure none of Philly’s players catch up to him; black and gold ahead of him crash into the oncoming wave of defenders, opening a lane that seems impossibly narrow, but they can’t touch him.

One quick leap over the player in front of him that Hunt took down, and he’s gone—past the thirty, the forty like he was shot out of a fucking cannon. The sideline erupts, and we’re all screaming, jumping, hands slapping helmets and backs, riding the wave of adrenaline as he outpaces the last desperate defender. The fifty-yard line flies beneath his feet, then our forty, and he’s still not slowing down.

“He’s taking it all the way!” The words barely leave my mouth as Boone hits the twenty, then the ten, still untouched.

“Fuck yes! Fuck yes!” I scream as he does his endzone dance, and he does it without humping the air.

POST GAME RUSH

Riley

Standing at the bar, I am doing my best to hide the fact that I’m pissed that I was not at the field, celebrating the most epic win in the history of the New York Knights because Brett had such a severe stomachache that he was going to call an ambulance to get him home, just because he knew I didn’t want to leave.

Now he’s sitting at my bar, pounding a steak.

“You seriously can’t be angry that I thought I had a major medical issue, so you had to leave one game out of how many have we been to?”

“Brett, you had to shit.”

He looks around to make sure no one heard me because God forbid anyone think Brett M. Thomas does something as disgusting as taking a shit. “I didn’t know that. Jesus, Riley, stop being such a bitch about it.”

Now I’m looking up and down the bar to make sure no one heard him say that to me. “You could have tried using the bathroom.”

“I don’t shit in public restrooms.”

“It’s the owner’s box. It?—”

“I’m done with this conversation. There’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Fine.” I grab the remote and turn up the TV as they wrap up the doing post-game press interviews.

Iz and Mags storm through the doors, hooting and howling. “The Knights are tied for number one in the NFC, baby!”

Lauren walks in behind them, shuffling through her bag, passing by the bar, not saying a word, and heads right to the back.

Sydney … well, Sydney has the fakest as fuck smile I’ve ever seen on her face, and I’ve seen her smile through a piece of shit ex saying it was her fault because she let herself go, as she walks in. “Where do you need me?”

“One never knows how many are showing up after a game, so have a seat and let me get you a drink.”

“Mixed Tape.” She cocks her head to the side. “Did you pick a genre?”

---