Page 160 of The Wrong Play

A slow, knowing smirk curled at his lips, his head tilting slightly—like he was amused, like he’d caught me in some invisible trap, like I’d played right into his hands just by existing.

The crowd swarmed around him, oblivious, cheering and laughing, lost in the game while he lifted a hand, barely a movement, just enough for me to see. Just enough to remind me he was there.

My stomach twisted violently.

I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t sit here, pretending everything was fine while his stare stripped me down to nothing. I felt exposed, flayed open under his gaze, every breath too shallow, every nerve on fire.

I shot to my feet so fast my knee slammed into the metal in front of our seats. Casey startled beside me, blinking up in confusion. “Riley?”

“I’ll be right back,” I muttered, barely hearing myself over the blood pounding in my ears.

Natalie frowned. “Where are you?—”

But I was already moving.

I shoved past the people crammed in the row, barely hearing their complaints as I reached the stairs. My hands trembled, my legs carrying me on pure instinct.

Not toward him.

Away.

I had to get away from that stare. Away from the sick feeling twisting in my gut, from the phantom touch of his fingers on my skin, from the past slamming into me with every beat of my heart.

I took the stairs two at a time, blind panic nipping at my heels.

I didn’t stop.

I couldn’t stop.

CHAPTER 29

JACE

Right before the play, I happened to glance up at Riley, my good luck extraordinaire…and my stomach fucking dropped.

She was running.

Not just moving through the crowd—running. Full speed up the stairs, her blonde hair flying, her shoulders tense, her head snapping over her shoulder like something—someone—was chasing her.

Fear. I could see it, carved into the stiff line of her spine, the way she gripped the railing like she needed something to steady her.

The ball snapped.

I didn’t fucking move.

Didn’t even hear the play happening around me, didn’t register the footsteps pounding against the turf, my teammates shouting, the crowd roaring.

All I saw was her.

And then—she disappeared.

Gone. Vanished into the tunnel at the top of the stairs.

My chest tightened like someone had laced my ribs with barbed wire. My cleats felt glued to the field, my fingers twitching with the need to rip my helmet off and sprint after her.

Someone slammed into me, and I barely registered the hit. A blur of orange shot past me, Parker’s pass landing clean in Chris Jordan’s hands. The crowd erupted as he tore down the field.

None of it mattered.

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