Page 131 of A Whole New Play

I’m a fucking mess.

We’re halfway through the first quarter of the biggest game of my life and I can hardly think of anything but Valerie.

Did I imagine it, or has her skin lost some of its olive tone?

I know it’s winter, but she lives in California now. Surely, she goes outside. It shouldn’t be difficult for her to maintain her natural tan.

“Jones!” This time, it’s Brody who shouts my name. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Listen up!”

The men around me all stare with a mix of anger, uncertainty, and disappointment. It’s obvious my head is not in the game, but they aren’t sure why.

There was a slight hiccup in my performance when Valerie first left Dallas, but it didn’t last long. Turns out, I can be hyper-focused on the game when I don’t want to think about the girl of my dreams moving on with her life without me.

But seeing her in person shook me to my core.

I’m a distracted mess.

I need to get it together. I owe it to my team. Hell, I owe it to myself. We all worked hard to be here tonight. I’ll never forgive myself if I fuck it up because I’m behaving like an immature man-child who is unable to process a breakup he initiated.

“Sorry, man,” I tell Brody then make a point to stare at Coach Palmer as he finishes running down our defensive performance that possession.

We stopped Arizona from getting a touchdown, but we couldn’t hold them out of field goal range. The score is currently 3-0. We hope our offense will score this drive to give us the lead. But even if they do, Coach Palmer and the rest of the defensive coordinators have come up with a plan on how to disrupt Arizona’s running game the next time we take the field.

“Alright men.” Palmer claps his hands together firmly. “Hydrate and rest up. We’re back on shortly.” He and his assistant walk away from the benches to rejoin Coach Owens on the sideline. Our offense is already at Arizona’s forty-yard line. A few more yards and we’ll be in field goal range ourselves.

Some of the players around me get off the bench and begin talking to each other. They’re trying to distract themselves from the nerves we’re all feeling about the game today.

Other players remain sitting, acting chill as hell, and talking as if this isn’t the biggest game of our careers.

“You all good, Jones?” I look away from where I’d been staring at the water table a few feet in front of me to find Deon staring at me. His brow is furrowed in concern.

“Yeah, man.” I cough to clear my throat. “All good.”

“You sure? Because you look like shit.”

I huff a laugh. “Thanks, man. I appreciate that.”

“I mean it. Is something wrong? Are you sick? You gotta say something if you’re not up to playing. You owe it to the team.”

He’s right.

I do owe it to the team.

“I’m not sick, but I do need to talk to Coach Palmer.” I stand from the bench and make my way to the sideline where the defensive coordinator is chatting with his assistant.

Usually, Palmer sits in the box with more members of the defensive coaching staff to watch the game from above. Today, he’s staying on the field and trusting one of his assistants to take over that spot. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he switches it up at some point in the game.

“Coach,” I grunt when I reach him, belatedly realizing I interrupted him mid-sentence.

Coach Palmer furrows his brow. “Jones.”

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

“Can it wait?” He makes a point of looking at the playbook in his hands. “I’m a little busy.”

“It won’t be long.” Gripping my helmet’s facemask in my hand, I turn and stride over to the bright orange water coolers a few feet away. Most of the players have water bottles delivered to them by the training staff, so there aren’t many bodies in the area to eavesdrop on a conversation.

Coach follows. “What is it, Jones?”

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