Page 45 of Fair Catch

Phoenix’s body shakes beside mine as he chuckles. “Even better.”

A grin tugs at my lips, and I decide in that moment that Phoenix isn’t half bad. Which, for me, is a fucking miracle.

“Do you know where Kason is?” I ask, glancing from him to the field and back again.

Phoenix extends his arm and leans toward me so I can follow it to where he’s pointing. “He’s right there at tight end. Looks like he’s off the O-line for this play.”

I read enough via Google to know that O-line means the offensive line, and that tight ends are more of a flex player. They can block with the line, or go out for a pass like a receiver.

Now that I’ve found him, I fixate on his form whenever he’s on the field, and stay that way through the first quarter and partly into the second. Which is why, when he goes out for a pass from the quarterback around halfway through the quarter, I witness a hit unlike any I’ve seen yet.

Because all the others before this, the player gets up, and everyone goes about their business until the next play starts.

Kason isn’t getting up.

I’m on my feet in an instant, a bolt of adrenaline coursing through my veins as I stare down at the field, waiting for everyone to clear out of the way and see him rise to his feet. Except, when the players from both teams move, Kason is still lying flat on his back.

“Get up, Kase,” I mutter, more to myself than anything, because it’s not like he can hear my plea from all the way up here. A plea that goes unanswered. Instead, two medical personnel and, I’m assuming, their coach, head onto the field.

“You’re a jumpy one. I’m sure you’ve seen Quinton take hits just as hard.” Phoenix notes, though I don’t miss the tiny hint of worry in his voice too.

“He was the one doing the hitting most of the time,” I say absently, my eyes still locked on the field. “And I’ve never seen him down like this.”

For about two minutes, a medical team is on the field assessing him, and I don’t think a single person in the stadium makes a sound. I don’t dare fucking breathe, and neither does Phoenix beside me, until we catch Kason shift into a sitting position.

The crowd starts cheering when two of Kason’s teammates lift him to his feet and assist him in hobbling toward the sidelines. Phoenix starts clapping beside me too, drawing my attention away from the field for the briefest moment.

“He’s up. You can sit down now,” Phoenix says, meeting my gaze.

Oh. Right.

Taking his suggestion to heart, I drop back into my seat. Adrenaline and worry keeps my body on high alert as I focus back on the field, where Kason is now being helped onto an ATV looking thing behind the sidelines. After he’s loaded up, he’s quickly ushered toward one of the tunnels that I assume leads to the locker room.

But the game isn’t over?

“What’s going on? Where is he going?”

When I look at Phoenix, I find his attention fixed on Kason being carted away, a frown drawing his brows down. “The trainer is probably checking him out to make sure nothing is seriously wrong. It’s pretty standard.” He looks at me and gives a tentative smile, one that’s likely meant to be reassuring. “If he’s good to go, he’ll be back out in a little bit.”

“And if he’s not?”

“Well—”

“He told me he wants to get drafted. That won’t happen if he tore or broke something.” I say this as if Phoenix isn’t completely aware of his best friend’s intention to go pro, but I can’t stop myself. Just like I can’t seem to rein in the worry that’s still wreaking havoc on my nervous system.

“As athletes, we try not to think that way,” Phoenix murmurs slowly. “We cross that bridge if we come to it.”

“Shit. Okay, sorry,” I mumble, and I do my best to think good, happy thoughts, which is not an easy feat considering the circumstances. When Kason doesn’t make an appearance before both teams clear the field for halftime, I’m convinced he’s on his way to the damn hospital.

“You’re worried about him.”

“And you aren’t?” The question comes out defensive as hell, as do the next words that spill from my lips without merit. “Ex-best friend or not, you should still care—”

“No, of course I am. I just mean…you’rereallyworried.”

I don’t know why. It’s notmyfuture on the chopping block here, and a month ago, I couldn’t have cared less about anything having to do with Kason Fuller.

Yet, somewhere in all the roomie dates to the arcade or binge watching horror movies into the early hours of the morning or helping him charm his way into the hearts of the queer male population, I started to care for him.

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