Page 68 of The Wrong Play

He huffed and eyed my face paint because evidently he’d decided to be Judgy McJudgster today. My lips twitched, stretching into a slow, smug smirk as I smeared my eye black under my eyes just to fuck with him. At some point in this game I was obviously going to score, and then the cameras would catch me. And when they zoomed in, the whole world was gonna see what I’d painted on my own cheeks.Riley St.James, scratched in black, a little messy but clear as hell. Just another way I was hoping to nudge Riley to figure out she wasn’t just some girl…she was mine—signed, sealed, and about to be delivered.

We lined up at the twenty-yard line, second and five, clock ticking down in the first quarter. I adjusted my gloves, fingers flexing, digging my cleats into the turf until I felt the bite through my soles. My eyes flicked across the defense—the linebackers creeping up, the corners pressing tight…obviously expecting some short-yardage play.

“Hey, Thatcher, your dick’s the size of a tic-tac,” Clayton, one of the aforementioned corners, taunted.

“That’s why your mom’s breath smells so good,” I told him, enjoying the weird red color that creeped up his neck.

Parker’s cadence cut through the noise, sounding suspiciously like he was struggling not to laugh. “Set! Hut!”

I exploded off the line, legs pumping, faking a quick inside slant before cutting hard to the outside, my cleats tearing into the field. The cornerback bit like a dumbass, his feet tripping over themselves as he scrambled to recover, his arms flailing.

Parker read it like the god he was, and the ball was already soaring—a perfect spiral slicing through the stadium lights, glinting as it arced toward me. I stretched out, fingers brushing the laces, then hauled it in, yanking it tight against my chest, my heart slamming like a jackhammer. A safety charged in, and I lowered my shoulder and plowed through, slamming into himlike a truck, dragging his ass a few extra yards, his grunt loud in my ear as we hit the turf hard.

First down. I popped up, the ball still locked in my grip, adrenaline buzzing through me, and my pulse thundering in my chest. Every yard, every route, every hit—I was playing for her. Knowing Riley was up there watching, those honey angel eyes tracking me, was like pure, uncut dope pumping through my veins. Superman? Fuck that—I was better, stronger, running on her like she was my own personal fuel.

We didn’t slow down. We kept the tempo hot, snapping the ball fast. The next play, I ran a quick hitch, letting Turner take the spotlight. Parker fired it out—an out route, crisp and low—and Turner caught it clean, turned upfield, and took off. The crowd lost their shit, screaming as he juked one defender, then spun past another, cutting through them like a magician pulling tricks before a linebacker finally snagged him at the knees, dragging him down. Fifteen yards, easy. We were marching—eating up the field—and the anticipation of scoring and getting in front of those cameras was making me giddy.

“Why do you have that look on your face?” Parker muttered as I jogged past him to line up.

“It’s my face, Parkey-Poo. It’s just pretty like that.”

Third and goal. Red zone flashing under the lights, the kill zone—where games got won, where legacies got carved into stone, and where gods like me loved to live. I lined up wide, rolling my shoulders, shaking out my hands, my gloves tacky with sweat and turf.

And then I looked.Icouldn’t help it.

Riley.

Front row, arms wrapped tight around herself, her hair falling in her face like she thought that’d be enough to keep me from seeing her.Fat chance. I felt her watching—like static in my veins, that undeniable charge between us. She was definitelynervous about the play judging by the way she was biting down on her lip like she wanted to chomp it off.

I wanted to bite that lip.

Focus,Jace.Now’s not the time to pop another woody.

Parker clapped his hands, voice sharp over the line. “Hut!”

The second the ball was snapped, my body ignited. Instinct took over. I exploded off the line, cutting straight through the defense. The red zone was tight—less space to work with, less time to react—but I knew where I was going before the defense even realized it.

Footsteps thundered behind me. I felt the safety closing in, felt his presence like a storm at my back. But I was already there—already two steps ahead, already reading Parker’s eyes as he scanned the field.

A beat. A breath.

Then—release.

The ball spiraled through the air, cutting clean through the stadium lights, headed exactly where I needed it to be. I turned, extending my hands, fingers tightening around the leather just as a linebacker lunged for me.

Too late.

I planted my foot and twisted, breaking past his outstretched arms. The moment my cleats hit the end zone, I tucked the ball tight against my chest, grinning as the roar of the stadium crashed over me.

Touchdown.

Jogging toward the nearest camera, sweat sliding down my face, my chest heaving under my pads, I waited for the lens to find me—which it obviously would…because I was the fuckingmoney shot.

And when it did?

I tapped my fingers against both cheeks, right wherehername was smeared in black ink.

Then I turned, slow. Deliberate.

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