He cocks his arm back and throws, heedless of the big barn of a guy hurtling toward him. The ball flies through the air like it’s on a string. But my eyes are on Finn. Unfortunately, the camera follows the ball as it shoots downfield toward Jake.

The guys at the bar shout. Jake arcs in the air like a ballerina, catches the ball, and lands in an inelegant heap as a bunch of defenders tackle him. But he keeps the ball.

“Right through traffic!” James slams his fist on the table in victory as the rest of the bar groans.

I grin wide. The camera goes back to Finn who jumps once and then pumps his fist once. As Jake runs back to the huddle, Finn smacks him on the butt in congratulations.

“Come on Defense,” annoying bar dude shouts, doing that annoying rapid clap thing.

I ignore it and watch Finn. This time he passes the ball off to North who doesn’t get very far, much to the bar’s delight.

Doesn’t matter. I can sense the difference in Finn’s game. He has a rhythm going, a confidence about him. He’s playing to win. I’m so proud of him that I have to bite my lips to keep from shouting my encouragement to the screen, because, really it’s not like he can hear me. And yet, some small, shitty dark corner of my mind feels distress. Because he is playing better now. Without me in his life.

It could be a fluke. But they haven’t lost a game since I’ve been gone.

The announcer babbles on about Finn being in the zone. He is. This is what he does best.

And you love him. And if he knew that, he’d be…

My thoughts scatter because Finn has the ball again. This time he scrambles back, guys honing in on him.

At the bar, the crowd shouts at the defense to take him down, knock his ass flat. But Finn isn’t an easy target. He evades like the pro that he is.

My stomach clenches, my heart kicking my ribs. A lineman hooks Finn around his waist. My fingernails dig into the wood. But Finn swings around, somehow slipping out of his grip.

James shouts.

Finn zings a pass to North, who takes off down the end zone.

James jumps to his feet. Somehow I’m on my feet too and we booth cheer as North races along.

“Touchdown,” James cries, throwing up his arms. I laugh and pump a fist in the air.

“Man, shut up,” someone says behind us. We ignore him and wiggle our hips.

Finally, they show Finn on the sidelines, helmet off, as he sits on a bench next to Jake and they laugh about something. Sweat slicks his hair and his cheeks are ruddy. But his smile is big and infectious. He’s so damn gorgeous, my fingers ache to touch him. It hurts my heart to look at him, but I don’t dare blink.

It nearly kills me with they cut away to the other team.

“Here comes Baylor,” annoying bar dude says, clapping. “Kick some ass, Battle.”

“Is he any good?” I ask James as New York’s quarterback takes the field.

“Yeah.” James looks disgruntled. “He was Manny’s rival in college, you know. Finn was drafted the year before Drew Baylor. And you should know this, missy.”

“We don’t exactly talk about football all the time.”

James grins. “Right. Too busy licking his fine—”

“James!” Jamie gives his arm a slap. She’s been quiet up until now, clearly not in her element. “Stop it.”

He cackles but then gives her a swift kiss. “I’m just messing with Chess.”

“You’re being a pig.”

“Yeah, that too.”

Unfortunately, James is right. Drew Baylor is good. He reminds me a lot of Finn in the way he moves and in the size and shape of his body. The main difference seems to be that while Finn has a more playful demeanor, clearly joking with his offense and even the defensive linemen who try to tackle him, Baylor is all gruff business.

I don’t like watching him play, because it means Finn might lose. Part of me wants to leave now, go book a flight home and just be there. But it feels like a betrayal not to watch Finn finish this game. He has no idea that I’m watching, so it shouldn’t matter but it feels like it does. As if I’m supporting him, even though I’m nearly two thousand miles away.

I hate that distance.

New York doesn’t manage to score and, after a nice punt return, Finn is soon back on the field. They’re tied now, and tension coils in my gut. Please win. He needs this. I need this for him.

For three plays, I sit on the edge of my seat, as Finn and his offense battle their way down field, gaining some yards, losing others. Another drive, and I’m fairly twitching. The ball snaps. Finn catches it, steps back, he pump fakes one way and then, as if on cue, lets it fly. James screams as the ball soars.

Guys at the bar scream too, lamenting.

It’s to Jake again. He jumps high, his body stretched to its limit. I bite my lip hard. Jake catches the ball and, in the same instant, a safety slams into his lower half. Jake flips head over heels, still clutching the ball. He lands head first onto the field, his head snapping towards his chest.

He crumples. And doesn’t get up.

My heart stops so hard and fast, the room spins. Refs blow whistles. Medics rush onto the field.

“Jake.”

I know this man. I’ve laughed with him. Eaten with him. He is Finn’s best friend.

Finn, who, when Jake doesn’t get up runs over to be with him. His helmet is off and he stands far enough back to let the medical staff work. His eyes never leave Jake, who lies lifeless in the end zone, his arm still wrapped around the ball.

I stand in the middle of the bar, my fists balled at my side, thinking he’ll get up. It will be like Jerry McGuire, and Jake will soon be dancing around in the end zone. But he doesn’t. They call for a stretcher.

Finn grasps the back of his neck with both hands and begins to pace. The camera zooms in on him. A strangled sound leaves me. Because the look in Finn’s eyes has ripped open my heart. Although his expression is tightly controlled, I know him. Terror, agony, helplessness, it’s all there, swimming in those blue depths. He’s crumbling inside.

I grab my coat, slinging it over my shoulders. “I have to go.”

James rises. “Chess.”

“No,” I shout, then take a breath. “No waiting. He can’t be alone like this. I won’t let him be alone anymore.”

James nods. I don’t wait to see if he and Jamie follow. I run straight out the door. The night is bitterly cold. My breath leaves in white puffs that obscure my vision. A cab comes down the block on the opposite side of the street. Without pause, I whistle high, lifting my arm.