Page 130 of A Whole New Play

But I can’t.

We broke up.

It’s over.

I need to get a handle on the lingering affection that haunts my dreams—I need to silence the torturous musings of what could have been if only we’d been able to meet each other at different times in our lives.

“Valerie, you good?”

I inhale sharply.

Megan’s eyes dart between me and Carter with concern and uncertainty. She doesn’t know what to say or do.

That makes two of us.

“Let’s go.” I croak. I cough and say with more strength, “Let’s get out of here.”

Without another glance at Carter, I spin around and begin to nudge my way through the crowded sideline.

I’m disappointed in myself for how desperately I want to turn and see if he watches me go, but I’m far too cowardly to check.

Because no matter if he watches me or not, our relationship is over. It’s time to move on.

And maybe if I keep telling myself that, I’ll actually be able to do it one day.

41

CARTER

She’s here!

Valerie is here…

I can’t believe she’s here.

I know I shouldn’t be this surprised. Valerie is Coach Palmer’s daughter. All the coaching and training staff have invited loved ones to the game.

Not to mention, Valerie lives in California now. It’s not like it was a great lift for her to get to the stadium to watch the game. Not that going to the Super Bowl wouldn’t be worth whatever effort required to make it here.

I should have expected she’d be here and that I would see her. My subconscious must’ve blocked out the possibility to protect me.

Because after seeing her standing there in Rough Rider red, her long dark hair hanging over her shoulders, and her green eyes shining under the stadium lights—all progress I’d made in getting over her vanished into thin air.

She took my breath away.

Literally.

It took Watson slapping me in the back to make me inhale. By the time I caught my breath, she and Megan were disappearing into the crowded sideline, and I lost the chance to speak with her.

A pit in my stomach forms when I admit it might’ve been the only chance I’d get.

“Jones,” Coach Owens barks.

I jolt.

The head coach scowls at me. “Get your head out of your ass and focus.” He waves his laminated play page in his hands before turning it over to Coach Palmer to talk to the defensive squad.

“Yes, Coach,” I grunt, pulling my eyes away from the stadium's second deck. I’ve spent too much time pointlessly scouring the boxes as if I could see which one Valerie is in from down here.

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