Page 71 of Final Down

He’ll break loose somehow and run the ball himself, hopefully not getting nailed by the secondary.

None of that happens, though, because Wyatt Stone has found himself. He throws across his body as he’s scrambling to his right, defenders rushing him with arms up, ready to knock his pass down. They’re not even close, and Jax is all alone midfield when the ball lands in his hands mid-stride. He runs for sixty more yards to nab the Cyclones six. The kick makes it seven.

Chance Hickory may have just lost his starting job.

And I may have just lost full custody of my husband.

This is what we wanted. Right?

Chapter Twenty-Seven

That felt amazing.

Every single second I was on that field was euphoria. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get to feel that again, but now that I have, well, it’s going to make walking away even harder.

“Dude, you owned it out there today. Nice work!” Cisco pats my back as he passes me on his way out of the locker room.

“Brother!”

Whiskey steps in front of me, dressed and ready to head out. He’s flying back with the team since the girls have started school in Portland so Tasha didn’t come out for the trip. Their life is there now.

I hug my friend and fill with memories of what this was like years ago, when we first met, as well as our unforgettable college years.

“You gave them a lot to think about,” he says, his hands fisting my shoulders.

I nod, but I can’t seem to get myself over this hump of doubt.

“Hey, you killed it! If you were taking the jet home with us, I’d be getting you shitfaced with me as soon as we land,” my friend says. “You know. To celebrate.”

I chuckle and pat his chest.

“Sure, to celebrate. Has nothing to do with you going home and having to watch dance recital rehearsals for the seventieth time.”

“Dude, it’s so bad,” Whiskey grumbles. It’s partly in jest, but also, Tasha is well on her way to becoming quite the passionate dance mom. Their girls have been learning jazz dance since they moved to Portland, and their first recital is coming up. Whiskey says practices have been . . . intense.

“Just wait until they start noisy tap classes,” I tease.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” my friend grumbles as he walks away.

It’s just me and Chance in here now. He’s still sitting in the trainer’s room, alone. The team had him checked out at the nearby neuro center, and the docs advised him to fly home tomorrow just in case. Concussions and flying aren’t a great combo. We’ll be on the same plane.

Shit.

Peyton and the family are waiting for me, but there’s this heaviness to the air that I can’t seem to shake. Maybe talking to Chance will help. I pull my travel bag out of the cubby and tuck my wallet and headphones inside before sliding it over my shoulder. Chance’s legs are dangling from the trainer’s table. He’s still wearing his team shorts and the blue Nike slides he wore to the medical center in. I take a deep breath and head toward him, knocking on the door jamb to snap him out of his daze.

“Oh, hey,” he says with a nod.

He looks miserable. I’ve been there.

“I heard they’re taking it day-to-day?” I quirk a brow.

His shoulders lift with a silent laugh.

“Yeah, but you know that’s just something they say. I’m probably sitting out next game, so . . . bet you’re happy.”

“Hey,” I breathe out, my head falling to the side. “Don’t do that. I’m not happy about you getting hurt. And it really might be day-to-day. You never know. Thursday comes and you check out fine, get cleared for practice, and then there you are, back in the shotgun taking Cisco’s fucked up snaps.”

Chance laughs out loud this time.

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