Page 18 of The Backup

Me: Since I don’t have hoes, I’m assuming this is my new ho.

Unknown number: Whoa, whoa. Easy there. I’m not anyone’s ho. I’m playing the field. Just got out of a long relationship.

Me: Whatever you want, my HOT NERD friend.

Unknown number: lol. If that’s my nickname, I’ll take it. Jacklyn gave me your number.

Grinning, I save her number asHot Nerdand fire back:

Me: Good. I’ve been meaning to text you. You left something at my place last night.

Hot Nerd: Don’t act like you didn’t already frame them.

I chuckle, shaking my head. Frame them? No.

Did I get so hard this morning thinking about last night that I rubbed one out while staring at them on the couch?

Maybe.

Me: Okay, fine. Guilty. Is that so wrong? They look great on my wall in a frame.

Hot Nerd: So now that the conquest is over and the night has passed, guess we’re never doing that again, huh?

Me: Not sure which part you’re talking about with ‘never again.’ I’d happily repeat certain parts of last night. Though next time, I’d prefer no interruptions from your ex.

Hot Nerd: lol. Is it bad that I got turned on again this morning thinking about that?

My heart skips, and I glance over my shoulder at the stands, trying to calculate where she is from the angle of the photo she sent.

Hot Nerd: You’ll never find me. I took the photo from somewhere totally different than where I’m sitting. I knew you’d try to find me. Nerd. Stop stalking me.

I’m grinning like an idiot when Coach Connelly taps my shoulder.

“Knox! What’s this formation they’re running now?”

I snap my playbook shut, hoping he doesn’t notice that I’ve been flagrantly breaking his iron rule: no texting during games.

“Three-four defense,” I say quickly. “They ran this in their opener last week to confuse the offense, but really, they’re blitzing two linebackers. Same as a standard formation, just dressed up differently.”

Coach nods and shuffles back toward the field.

I tuck my phone away, my smirk lingering as I glance back toward the stands. I have no idea where Sloane is, but I can feel her watching.

We watch the play unfold, and lo and behold, they do exactly what I predicted. Joe overthrows a pass down the sideline, the ball sailing out of bounds.

Coach stands there, arms crossed, his face a mask of frustration. I’m just praying he walks away soon so I can get back to texting. Terrible, I know. But last night? Last night was so hot, I can’t stop thinking about all the things I want to do with Sloane.

“Anything else you need?” I ask, clipboard in hand, feigning focus.

Coach shakes his head, his gum snapping. “A damn touchdown would be nice.”

We run the ball on the next play, predictably get nowhere, and end up punting.

Heading into the locker room at halftime, we’re down 21–0. It’s bleak.

Inside, the air is heavy with shame. Coach is pissed, stalking the room, his sharp gaze slicing through us as we sit in silence.

“Is everyone giving maximum effort?” he asks, his voice cutting through the tension.

---