Finn shakes his head. “You got your shirt, Darrius. My girl here needs something special.” He looks over his flock. “Girls like special things.”

A bunch of boys gag. But a few girls giggle.

Me? I’m both trying not to blush and restraining myself from rolling my eyes at his antics.

Finn’s expression, however, is soft and sincere as he sets the hat on my head, deftly tucking strands of my hair back behind my ears. The cap is too big, and sits low on my brow. I probably look like an idiot, but I’m not taking it off.

A little cheer rings out. And, before I can blink, Finn swoops in and gives me a playful peck on the cheek. I feel the warm brush of his lips like a stamp on my skin, pressing there long after he’s moved away.

 

* * *

 

Finn

 

* * *

 

Losing sucks. Losing when you’re a quarterback sucks sweaty balls. And I don’t give a shit what they say; if the offense is crumbling, it’s the QB’s fault. Fucking fair weather reporters jump all over that: Has Mannus lost his touch? Can he handle the pressure? Is this just an off night or a sign of things to come?

I’m lying on the grass, a three hundred pound slab of lineman sprawled over my hips. My head rings, white lights popping behind my eyes. Fuck, that hit hurt. I can’t breathe for a second. My entire body has seized with an internal shout of what the shit?

Davis, the lineman who’d plowed into me like a tank powered by nitro, lifts his head and grins at me as if I’m his new bitch. I want to get to my feet and show him that his effort failed, but my head is still swimming and I can’t feel my legs.

“Can I have some fries with that shake next time?” I ask lightly.

His grin dies a swift death. He jumps to his feet—show off.

I’m not so quick, because I hurt like a motherfucker. “Nice hit, bro,” I say, extending my arm, my hand out. Help me up, asshole. But I smile like it’s all good.

Have I mentioned that part of the art of playing football is to mindfuck your opponent? It’s actually one of my favorite aspects. I might get knocked down, but you better believe I’m going to take the wind out the motherfucker’s sails in retaliation.

Slightly confused, Davis silently helps me up and then shakes his head with a laugh.

I laugh too, ignoring the pain in my ribs—I’m gonna feel that shit tonight—and give him a friendly slap on the shoulder before he jogs off.

Only when my guys surround me do I let my smile fall. “Dex,” I say to my center, “I don’t know what bug crawled up your ass, but get it together and pay attention.”

He’s been addled the whole game and completely misread the defense on this last play. Resulting in me getting sacked before I could blink. I’m fairly certain the press digging into his personal life is getting to him, but we have a job to do.

Glumly, he nods. “On it.”

I slap his helmet. “Good man.”

But it’s a lost cause. Whatever is going on with Dex spreads like a disease through the line. Soon, everyone is fucking up. Jake and Rolondo both drop passes. North, my tight end, can’t gain yards. Moorehouse, my running back goes down with a bad hit, and they haul him into the locker room for evaluation.

As for me, I’m battered like a goddam piñata. I try to focus, try to rally. I might as well be attempting to hold water in my hands. All the while, Coach and my coordinators are having apoplectic fits. Most of which ring in my ears through the mic in my helmet.

That this is an away game and the crowd is completely loving our defeat doesn’t exactly help.

The distinct shout of, “Eat turf, pussy boy Mannus!” somehow makes it through the din of the crowd. Excellent.

It is, as Chess would say, a complete shitcake of a game.

By the time we hobble off the field, defeated and deflated, I am ready to sink into a hot bath and swallow down a mouthful of painkillers. But I’m not going to get to do that. I’m going to get reamed by my coach and then reamed by the press.

I’ll have to stand at a podium, lights shinning on my face, and answer insightful questions such as, “Do you think you could have done something better?” Yeah, I could have fucking won. Or, “Do you think you lost because you failed to score during the second half?” Considering this game is won based on a points system, I would say not scoring had something to do with it.

In the dank, echoing hall that leads to the locker room, I turn to Jake, who walks weary at my side. “Give me a reminder.”

Since I ask this question every time we have a shit day, he doesn’t miss a beat. “Fifteen million signing bonus.”

“I’m going to have to put that aside for new hips when I’m forty.”

“When you’re thirty-five,” he counters easily. “And are we getting solid gold hips?”

I laugh. “I’m going full on cyborg. Try again.”

Jake smirks. “Willing women in every city.”

“I’m too tired to screw.”

Jake shoots me a glance. “Man, you are a sad sack today.”

He’s right. I’m in full on pity-party of one mode. “I’m depressing myself,” I tell him.

“Which is why you need to let off some steam. I’m going out as soon we get back. You want to join me?”

I’m already shaking my head. “I’m going home, taking a bath, and getting some sleep.”

“Jesus, you really are an old man now.”

Maybe I am. But the prospect of going out and looking for a quick hookup is utterly unappealing. I’d rather call Chess and see if she’s up for dinner. And right there is what truly makes me a sad sack.

I don’t get to dwell on that any longer. Because we reach the locker room and the reality of my job snaps right back into place.

Grimly, I walk through the locker room doors and prepare to defend my performance and my men.

 

* * *

 

Chess

 

* * *

 

I’m mopey. Finn is at an away game, and James is in New York with Jamie again. It’s his second visit, and I gather things are getting serious between them.

I’ve received two texts from James. One selfie of him and Jamie in Central Park by the Bethesda Fountain, the other of them all smooshie-faced in Times Square on the night they went to see Hamilton, the musical—the lucky bastards. A wave of homesickness had hit me, seeing those pictures.