Page 71 of Play Maker

Coach Cox pulled a hamstring five minutes in and refused to come off the field, limping up and down the sideline, yelling, “I’m fine! I’m fine!”

“You’re not fine; you’re old!” Logan laughed.

Coach M got flagged—twice—for “excessive celebration” after scoring a single touchdown.

Lucas told him he looked like a drunk goose trying to moonwalk.

Logan tripped over CJ’s foot mid-route, blamed the turf, and then tried to challenge the play, even though there’s no review system in flag football.

Boone made a dramatic show of denying the nonexistent challenge with a thumbs-down and a “Back to the huddle, son.”

Ryan had his flags all but super glued on, and Alex pulled so hard his pants went down, and he made a touchdown with his ass half-exposed.

Jade was screaming something about making number five, and Jackson tackled him, anyway. “That’s for stealing my fantasy league win three years ago.”

The security team was actually smiling, mostly Matthew, who every time he pulled someone’s flag, he yelled “Gotcha!”

Liam tried to block Brody and got steamrolled by the old man. Jake called him a pancake, and Liam tackled him out of pure pride. Flags went flying. So did a shoe.

Phoebe, who’s usually the sweetest of all of them, yelled, “Put your big girl panties on and stop playing like pussies!”

That’s when I stopped even pretending to play.

Izzy kept holding up injury reports on the board. The end of the game, it read:

“CURRENT INJURIES: 2 PULLED MUSCLES, 23 BRUISED EGOS, 17 LOST FLAGS.

ALL OF YOU ARE A DISGRACE TO THE GAME.”

The real highlight? Coach Cohen.

Final play. Down by one. He went long—reallong. Lucas lobbed him a perfect spiral. The man leapt like he was auditioning for a Monday Night Football throwback segment, fingertips just brushing glory …

And then he fell flat on his ass.

The ball bounced off the frozen turf. Game over. No one even checked the score. Didn’t matter. We all won.

Every man out here grinned through sore knees and bruised pride, even the ones who carried the heaviest weight.

The stands erupted. Clapping. Cheering. A few too-loud cat calls.

I glance up and catch Lo’s slow clap, one brow raised like she’s still trying to decide if this whole thing was a bad dream. Then she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and scans the crowd like she’s calculating the quickest way out. I don’t blame her.

I keep my eyes on her too long. Not because I’m worried about the contract—I’ve got options—but because I’d miss the hell out of seeing her. Even like it used to be.

She walks straight toward me.

I brace for it. For the “You’re a good time, but …” followed by a polite pat on the chest and a graceful exit.

Instead, she stops in front of me and says, “You should laugh more, Grimes.” She brushes her fingers along the space between my eyes. “You’re gonna have lines.”

“All that I laid on your lap last night, and you’re worried I’ll have wrinkles?”

She crosses her arms. “All that’s behind you now.” Then she stretches her arms out wide. “Little birdie told me you’ve got a whole world of choices ahead of you. Seems like something to smile about.”

I nod, arms crossed, guard up.

“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?” she asks, tone sharper now.

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