Page 78 of Score to Settle
JAKE
Shouts and whistles pierce the air as I charge onto the field with the team, cleats crunching on the frozen turf, my breath fogging in the cold air. The stands are a sea of red and white, and even though I told myself I wouldn’t, my gaze flicks to the skybox. Families and friends stand in front of the glass alongside a few celebrity fans. I spot a country singer and an actor fromGame of Thrones.
I see Mama’s gray-blonde head of hair and Dylan’s hulking frame beside her. It’s the first Stormhawks game he’s come to since his injury. I know he’s here for Chase and not me. It’s a kick in the gut, but it’s nothing compared to the knowledge that Harper isn’t beside them. No beautiful smile. No Stormhawks tee clinging to her perfect curves. And even though I didn’t think I wanted her here, didn’t think she’d come, disappointment and regret snake through me.
Our fight races through my mind as I take my position. After all the time we spent together, getting closer than I’ve ever let anyone, I thought she saw the real me. But maybe it was all a ploy to get me to open up for the feature. Was her plan all along to write something bad about me because she’s always hated my guts?
The questions are followed by a whispered voice, reminding me that I didn’t exactly make it easy for her at the start. I was rude and arrogant and pissed at having a journalist up my ass for five weeks. Maybe some of her notes were justified, but not all of them. And maybe deep down I know there was nothing fake about the way Harper looked at me on our last night in the barn. Nothing fake about the electricity that shoots through me when we touch. But as I drag my eyes away from the skybox for a final time and slip on my helmet, I remind myself I have a right to be angry. The question is—can I get past it?
I sigh and force my thoughts to settle. All I’ve done today is think about our fight. I need to focus. Our chance of making the playoffs if we don’t win today feels impossible. We need this win.
We take our positions opposite the bright white jerseys of the Trailblazers. Across the field, I see Chase in his crouch, ready. For the next sixty minutes, he isn’t my brother, or me his. We’re opponents both fighting for this win.
The whistle blows, and the game begins with the kickoff. The Trailblazers kicker sends the ball soaring high into the air. It arcs against the stadium lights before descending toward our end zone. The kick returner signals for the return, and catches, tucking it tight as he charges forward. The Trailblazers defense swarms, but he powers through to the twenty-five-yard line before they bring him down.
Adrenaline courses through me. It’s time to make our first drive. My fingers flex inside my gloves, muscles coiled and ready. The ball is snapped, and we’re in motion. Billy executes a perfect pass that spirals into Rob’s hands. A split second later, he’s speeding down the field. I charge forward, ready to block, taking out a linebacker coming from his right side. This is where I’m most alive—in the heat of the game with a stadium full of screaming fans. The Trailblazers defense comes at us with everything they’ve got. We’re stopped short of the red zone, soJT comes in for the field goal. He kicks it and the ball arcs through the air, slicing through the uprights for three points. The crowd roars. The scoreboard lights up. The score is 3-0 to the Stormhawks.
We battle back and forth. A touchdown and extra point from the Trailblazers puts them in the lead. 3-7. Then a touchdown from Rob followed by the extra point to make it 10-7. We’re winning, but it’s tight and it’s relentless. Sweat pours down my forehead despite the cold. As we take our positions for the third quarter, it’s a tie at 17-17. Just before I pull my helmet on, I can’t stop my gaze from dragging back to the skybox. Even from the field, I can see the tension radiating from Mama and Dylan. Then a swish of glossy brown hair catches my eye. Is that Harper? Before I can look again, the ref is calling for the quarter to start. I clip my helmet and try to focus.
Trailblazers have possession. The ball snaps and Chase drops back, eyes scanning the field. He launches a long pass, sailing high over our defenders. It’s good. Their wide receiver leaps, snagging the ball out of the air. He hits the ground running, weaving through tackles. He makes the twenty-yard line, the ten, the five. Our safety dives, but it’s too late. Touchdown.
They line up for the extra point, and it’s good. 17-24. We’re down by seven.
Fuck!
My heart pounds in my chest as we line up for the fourth quarter. We’re so close to the playoffs. I can feel the pressure mounting as we huddle. My eyes flick to the skybox again. I swear I saw Harper. Those red lips. That Stormhawks tee Mama gave her.
I have to focus. The game. It’s all that matters right now.
We drive the ball forward, closing the gap 20-24 with a field goal. We have possession with minutes on the clock. We need a touchdown. The huddle breaks, and Billy takes his placebehind the center. He calls out the cadence, voice steady despite the pressure we’re all feeling. I line up, heart hammering, eyes locked on the defense, looking for coverage shifts or signs they’ll blitz and charge, trying to disrupt play. The ball snaps again and Billy drops back. The pocket holds. His arm cocks and the ball spirals through the air to a spot ahead of me. My legs pump as I charge downfield, hands reaching, catching the ball and tucking it tight as I pick up speed.
Thirty yards. The Trailblazers defense comes at me, but I see a gap. My cleats dig into the turf and I slip through, adrenaline surging. Twenty yards. I hear the roar of the crowd, the pounding of my heart. Two safeties close in. I search for one of my team, but I’ve raced ahead and I’m alone.
I fake left and cut right, but they’re ready. One safety brushes my jersey—a near miss. I’m so close. Ten yards. Five. The end zone looms. One safety left, and he’s in my path. I need this win. Not just for the Stormhawks and the playoffs. But for me. I need to prove to Dylan I’m not distracted.
I can make it.
I can?—
The thought is knocked from my head as a savage weight slams into me. The breath whooshes out of my lungs as we crash to the ground. Pain erupts across my body. I stretch my arm out as far as it will go, desperate to cross the line, but the ref’s whistle blows. I’m just inches short.
The clock hits zero.
We’ve lost the game.
The safety pulls himself up, his hand out for me to take. I try to reach for it, but white-hot pain explodes from my neck. Something is wrong. I can’t move. Faces appear around me. Billy and then Chase, kneeling down, a hand gripping mine. As they stretcher me off the field, I catch a glimpse of the skybox again. It is Harper. I can see her face clearly now. Her hands covering hermouth. Our eyes meet for a split second before I’m carried into the tunnel and all I can think is that my head wasn’t in the game. If I’d gone left instead of right, I could’ve made it. I can see my path to the end zone so clearly. I let Harper distract me. I made the wrong choice. I lost us the game.
The room is finally quiet. Mama has gone to find the doctor and the X-rays on my neck we’re waiting for. I’m flat on my back, a fat white collar around my neck, and a warning not to move. I stare at the ceiling and try not to think about how bad it is, but my thoughts take me to dark places of never playing again. Never walking again. I close my eyes and grit my teeth to the anger and fear pounding through my body.
I don’t hear the door open and close, but I catch the scent of Harper’s wildflower perfume, and a second later, her soft fingers squeeze my hand. I don’t squeeze back. Not because I can’t, but because I won’t. If she’d trusted me, if we hadn’t fought, if my mind had been on the game instead of her, would we have won? If we’d never crossed the line from professional to something else, would I be lying on my back right now, my entire future uncertain?
“Jake?” she says, emotion quivering in her voice.
I open my eyes and look at her. Harper’s hair falls around her face, her eyes bright with tears. Faint mascara lines streak down her face, and yet she’s still beautiful. My chest aches, but only one thought fills my mind. I let myself get distracted. I lost us the game and maybe our place in the playoffs for the first time in four years. It might not be Harper’s fault, but it doesn’t make it easy to look at her right now. So I do the only thing I can do—I close my eyes.
“How are you feeling?” she asks.
“Like I’ve had two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle slam into my body.”
