“What are you going to do with them?” she asks.
I blink. I hadn’t thought this out. I’ve never asked a girl for her panties before. They more or less just get thrown at me.
“Keep them on me,” I manage, glad it sounds 100% not like I’m bullshitting. My game face is practically untouchable.
“Your uniform doesn’t have pockets.”
I raise an eyebrow. “And?”
Ah, there goes that blush creeping down her neck.
She gulps loudly, and my game face is having a hard time not cracking under the pressure.
“And I’ll need a good luck kiss,” I add.
“A good luck kiss?”
“A good luck kiss,” I say, repeating the words slowly.
“Won’t your parents be there?”
I shake my head and recite exactly what my mom told me earlier today. “Dad has pressing business matters upstate.”
“Anything else you demand of your good luck charm, sir?” It totally sounds likes she’s mocking me. Probably because she is.
I lean in because this next part is just for her.
“When we win tonight,” I say, “I want you in my bed, naked, with those beautiful legs spread wide.”
“And if you don’t win?” she squeaks.
I stare at her like that’s a dumb question, because it is.
“You said...” she begins, her eyes big, round saucers.
My game face splinters around the edges. I don’t want to worry her. Shit.
“Not for that, Stormy, not unless you want to.”
She lets out a steadying breath.
“I want you there,” I duck my head so close that our noses nearly touch, “because I am going to be hungry after the big game, and there’s only one thing on the menu.”
With that, I push away from her, biting my lip to stifle my shit-eating grin as I walk away, leaving her slack-jawed against her locker.
— Ian, That Night —
Coach calls us in for a final huddle. It’s the fourth quarter with 17 seconds left on the clock, and we are one point down with the Admirals in the lead.
Archie got benched three minutes into the first quarter. Chase in the third. Now there’s just me and Everett and the rest of the team.
The Admirals play dirty. They would’ve taken me out if they could have, but I learned my lesson the moment I saw one of their guys go for Archie’s knees. It was a dirty move, and they got flagged for it, but we are paying the price because I don’t have my best running back front and center.
Still, when Coach looks at me and says, “You got anything to add, Beckett?” I accept.
My brothers need to know it’s time to bring it all. But I’m not going to yell at them like Coach or kiss their asses like their parents.
“We do it for them.” I point at Chase, who probably has a torn rotator cuff, and Archie, with his leg straightened in a splint because God only knows what the assholes did to his knee. “We leave it all on the gridiron.”
My brothers break out into a chant of Hooah!
The referee blows his whistle, signaling it’s time to get our asses back on the field. I am carrying my helmet because despite the chilly air, I’m sweating my balls off. I see Harlow in the stands, next to Raven and Vixson. I blow her a kiss, and the home crowd goes wild.
Aurora starts a chant on the sidelines. Harlow ducks her head for a moment, but then seems to think better of it and blows me a kiss back.
We may be down by one, but I can’t help feeling like I’m the one winning. I am going to show her just where I hid her panties later tonight.
I shove on my helmet, and as we fall into position, everything fades away. There is just us, my team and me, surrounded by the smell of fresh-cut grass and the grease from the concession stand wafting through the air.
Michaels lines up in front of me, stepping in as Center for Davenport. I am ready as I call out, “Blue 42. Blue 42. Ready. Ready. Ready.” Ha, fuckers! “Hut!”
Michaels has barely passed the ball to me before an Admiral, who is likely pushing 350 and looks like he aged out about four years and a stay in the state penitentiary ago, takes him down.
My receiver off to my side goes down, and it’s like a row of dominoes. Rainey then Anders followed by Tinsor.
My brothers fall. They all fall until there’s no one left. Bones is scrambling to stand, but he is hopping on one ankle. The Admirals’ tightend looks like he wants to smash me between his meaty fingers and take a bite.
I run.
My brothers lie on the ground, clutching their stomachs to their knees. They took out some of the defense with them, but not the big guy.
My heart hammers inside my chest. All I hear is the rush of my breath. All I feel is the harsh shine of the stadium lights and my feet slamming into the grass.
I dart to the left, around Patton, lying on the ground and moaning, barely avoiding a hefty linebacker. Then another pops up out of nowhere, and his fingers skim my jersey. For a moment, I think I’m going to face plant, but I rip free of his grasp and barrel forward.
I spot an opening on the other side of the field, to the far right, but there are still three Admirals to get through and one of me. I sprint for it.
I hear one of them groan as he goes down, barely avoiding tackling me. Now the odds are better—two against one—but the hefty guy who looks like he could play for the NFL is still standing.
Hefty guy moves light on his feet given his size. I am at the 20 yard line, my legs pumping as hard as they can go, my arms swinging at my sides, my fingers gripping the leather ball.
15 yards.
A linebacker is on my heels. I can hear him breathing so loud it’s like he’s going to have a heart attack.
Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump
