Page 57 of Near Miss

Greer

Promise me you’ll only do what’s right for you.

I wouldn’t have guessed what was right for me would be standing here, in a line to get into the stadium, shoulder to shoulder with strangers draped in white, gold, and black, or in such proximity to so many people with air horns.

Stella cuts a look at the man standing in front of us, jade eyes tracking the horn as he waves it back and forth with a bit too much exuberance for my liking. Her hand finds the crook of my elbow. “Do you have your pills?”

“Yes, Mom.” I hold up my bag, widening my eyes. “I don’t think he’s going to randomly turn around and blow that in my ear, Cash.”

Her lips pull into a tight line and she tips her chin up, hooking her arm through mine. “He better not if he knows what’s good for him. But you can’t trust these people, Greer. Sports fans—Canadian sports fans—are a little too enthusiastic.”

“I think I’ll be okay. But you might be onto something. Remember Beckett told me someone threw a Timbit at him?”

Stella whips her head towards me. “What flavour was it again?”

“Birthday cake.”

She purses her lips and shakes her head. “What a waste. I can think of so many other uses for a Timbit and Beckett Davis together.”

“Ew.” I wrinkle my nose, but my stomach twists uncomfortably. He’s not mine. He’s just my friend, but I think of Beckett on his knees for me, Beckett hovering over me, hand gripping the headboard, so he can find out what I like. What I don’t like is the idea of him with someone else.

“What? You’ve seen it all up close. I know—” Stella snaps her fingers and fishes her phone out of her pocket. “Let’s watch the Gatorade commercial while we wait.”

I give her a flat look. “No.”

She tips her head back, an exaggerated sigh towards the sky, and lets her phone fall back into her pocket. “Where are we sitting?”

“I didn’t look at the tickets.” I pull my phone out when we step towards the security guard at the door. “But he said he needed us to stop by the counter before we sit down.”

“Why?” Stella asks, stepping back and dropping her bag into a bucket so it can go through the metal detector.

I shrug. “Who knows. But he was adamant.”

Stella steps through the scanner after me, lips tipping up when she retrieves her bag. “Do you think he left a surprise for you? A sexy surprise? Like a signed shirtless photo?”

“How old are you?”

“Is one ever too old to tease their sister?” Stella laments. She looks like she’s about to traipse right through the crowd towards the ticket counter, but she stops with a tiny gasp and points towards one of the giant pictures mounted to the walls alongthe concourse. “There he is—your lover. My god, he really is photogenic, isn’t he?”

I grab her arm and I tug her towards the counter, but my eyes flick up to the poster. He’s not wearing a helmet, unlike the rest of the players in similar photos spanning the concrete wall.

A smart decision by the photographer and whoever oversees marketing because Beckett really is beautiful.

He’s smiling—one of those smiles that kicks the dimple up in his cheek—green eyes bright, and the lines of his jaw clean-shaven. Chocolate hair perfectly tousled with waves curling over his ears. He’s in his equipment, white jersey with gold lettering, ridges of muscle in his arms taut and on display because he holds a football in his palms across the centre of his chest.

His name stretches across the bottom of the poster in block lettering, and underneath that, a list of titles.

Beckett Davis, #19

All-Time NCAA Division 1 FBS Field Goal Leader (Career)

All-Time NCAA Division 1 FBS Field Goal Leader (Single Season)

All-Time Rookie Longest Field Goal

Five-Times First Team All-Pro

Six-Times Pro-Bowl

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