Page 87 of The Game Plan

“Lookie here,” he says as we take the field. “It’s old Paul Bunyan. Where’s your big blue ox, boy?”

At your mamma’s house having a smoke.

I don’t say it. Not speaking is much more effective.

I hunker down, my quads giving a nice stretch that brings me right back into the physical.

“So that shit true, Dexter?” he goes on. “You haven’t busted your cherry? Damn, man.” He shakes his head. “Some sorry-assshit right there.”

I breathe in deep. Pay attention to my team. His team. Watch. Wait. Listen.

“Naw, I don’t believe it. What’s the matter, Dexter? Afraid of the pussy?” Emmet is meowing like a cat.

The sound fades as I focus on the line. The pads of my gloved fingers rest on the ball, the shape grounding me. I draw ina breath, let my gaze open up until I see the whole picture—my guys, the defense, how they line up.

I call out a play adjustment. My guys hustle, changing positions. And the defense scrambles to follow.

The instant Finn makes his signal, I snap the ball and explode into action. Emmet and I meet like a thunderclap, helmets clacking,bones rattling. My thighs bunch as I push forward, the balls of my feet digging into soft earth as I drive him back. He’shammering his fists at my wrists, sending shards of pain up my arms, straight to my brain. But I hold tight and strong-armhim to the side to clear a path for my guy.

Emmet goes down in a tumble. And, when the play ends, I lean over him. “If you ran your ass half as good as you run your mouth,I just might be afraid, bitch.”

Trotting back to the huddle, I give Finn a slap on the helmet. “Let’s light ’em up, rook.”

He gives me a grin. “You know it.”

For the rest of the game, we do just that. We play smart, crafty, and light them up like fireworks on the Fourth of July.My guys play like a well-oiled machine—Finn picking apart the defense with a football sense you can’t learn; it’s just innate,and a beautiful fucking thing to witness.

But the taunts don’t stop, they grow. Doesn’t matter if I play my best. It’s no longer all about my performance. The worldis pulling down the walls I’ve built to protect myself, exposing me without my consent.

Fiona

I love parties. I love the noise and the chatter and the chance to talk to new people.

I love free booze and sampling cute little appetizers. I love dressing up and looking at other women’s dresses—I always findmyself envying at least one outfit. But this party? Kind of blows.

Oh, the food is stellar. Champagne flows, and the decor is as impeccable as the view. Janice Mark’s penthouse is incredible,with views of the entire city spread out beneath us like a sequined dress, glittering and twinkling in the night.

By all accounts, I should be loving this. Dozens of top interior designers are here, giving me the chance to network. Andthe energy in the room is high.

I just don’t feel it. Because Ethan isn’t here. The sad part is I’m equally sure he’d hate this party. I can imagine him now,tugging at his collar and finding a nice corner to prop up. Now that he holds all my attention, memories of him before wewere together come flooding back. He was always in the corner, nursing one of his water bottles, talking to a few guys—orlistening, rather, and saying little.

But what he said always seemed to count for more. Ethan chooses his words carefully, never giving up useless spares. I remember that now and how it fascinated me then, because I usually have words enough for two people.

I remember that he used to watch me with those deep-set hazel eyes. It hadn’t made much of an impression then because I wasloud, and people usually glanced my way when I was in a room. Never really bothered me. I’d assumed Ethan was doing the same—givingwild Fi Mackenzie a once-over before going back to his life.

Now I know it had been more. Strangely, this makes me warm all over. He saw when I wasn’t “on” or trying to impress him, butas myself. And he’d wanted me anyway.

But now he’s in New Orleans, and I’m stuck fifty stories over Manhattan, surrounded by the type of people I grew up around.And it all feels foreign and off. Nothing is right anymore.

“Fabulous party, isn’t it?” Jackson is resplendent in a shiny, sapphire blue Zegna suit that would look ridiculous on mostmen but he pulls off with aplomb.

“Yes.” It is. Even if I’d rather be somewhere else, I can admit that much. “Makes me wonder why Felix isn’t here.” My bossshould be all over this.

“As I said before, Janice, our lovely hostess, is mortal enemies with his current client, Cecelia. The very notion of lettinga potential spy into her nest would enrage Janice. Which reminds me...” He drops his voice. “Let’s not tell anyone you’reworking for Felix, eh?”

My lips quirk. “Don’t want to be kicked out on your couture?”

“Don’t even jest.” He fiddles with the cuffs of his shirt, a silk peacock print that somehow works with the outfit.

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