Page 23 of Heart of Thorns

So excited to see you again, Thorne!!! Daddy and I are in the stands. You’re doing so good!!!!

Holy fucking exclamation points.

My stomach cramps, and I put my phone away without replying. No doubt it’s Cynthia Keenland, the name conveniently supplied by my father again a few hours ago. To make sure I give a swoon-worthy performanceafterthe game, both to her and her father. The investor.

The day my parents stop using me to further their one-percent, billionaire, blue-blood society friends, will be the day I drop dead of a heart attack.

Coach comes in and gives us a spiel about not slacking in the fourth quarter. I drain half my water bottle and use the restroom, and then we’re back on the field.

Thoughts of Cynthia and her dad fade, but Briar’s face remains.

Our opponents kick, and we get possession. I put on my helmet and hop up and down, resisting the urge to scan the crowd. That’s the kind of shit that gets me in trouble.

And yet…

Maybe she just sticks out in a crowd.

Or maybe it’s the blue-and-white jersey she’s wearing in a sea of red.

Briar Hart.

“Come on!” Rhys tugs at my arm.

I rip my gaze away from her and follow him onto the field. She’s wearing the other team’s jersey. Her and another beside her…

Why?

She goes to Shadow Valley U—does she not have any fucking respect for the school?

“The play?” Rhys elbows me hard.

I jerk and look around at my teammates, then call out a familiar play. One that will get the ball down the field. I point at Rhys, and he just nods.

All business.

We get our first down, and I call another play. Line up.Snap. The football feels warm in my hands, and I dance in the pocket for a moment, then another. Waiting, waiting…there.

I throw. It’s a beautiful spiral that just seems to go and go?—

Oof.

I’m hit hard from the side. The guy drives me into the ground, his shoulder pad digging into my neck. And for a second, I can’t seem to get air in my lungs.

The body is yanked off me. I’m lifted to my feet by teammates, and it still takes another second to drag in a ragged breath.

“That fucker,” my center seethes. “You threw the ball already—where the fuck is the flag?”

“Don’t worry about it.” I clap him on the arm and cast a quick, innocuous glance toward the stands.

Fuck me, does she seem worried?

My helmet obscures my face, so she probably doesn’t know I’ve clocked her. Her hair is up in a messy bun on top of her head, but she’s wearing a bright-red lipstick that’s totally at odds with the blue jersey.

The image of backing her against a wall and lifting the fabric off her comes unbidden.

Shit.

Before I know it, we’re in formation again. My head swims, and I shake out my limbs. My body goes on autopilot, and we’re fifteen yards away from the goal line by the time the defense manages to halt our forward progress.

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