My chest tightens at his words. “Of course I would.”
“Give me a kiss,” he says softly, “for luck.”
My breath catches in my throat as I lean in and crush my lips against his, willing him to see how much I care about him. He curls his fingers around the back of my neck, intensifying our kiss.
He slowly steps away, his gaze studying my features, before someone shouts his name from across the field. He spins around and takes off without another word.
When the game starts and the whistle blows, my hands ball up tightly.
Vale pats my shoulder. “It’s hard to watch him, isn’t it?”
I nod, willing myself to relax as I refocus. “Andrew has been testing me on plays and positions. He thinks I need to know what’s going on.”
He smiles. “You have a great family, Emmy. Thank you for inviting me to get to know them.”
I nod.
Chewing my lips, I look back at the field.
It’s just a game.
He’s going to be fine.
He wants to play.
He wants this.
I’m remembering the morning I stood on the edge of the desert in Arizona, beguiled and yet terrified of the vastness, afraid of being swallowed whole. By life. By love for a man.
He didn’t say he loved me this morning. He walked away.
I shove those feelings away and focus on the game.
We watch the first few plays, and I search for Graham’s jersey, number eighty-seven, on the field. Maybe the coach isn’t going to play him today. After a few minutes, the Pythons face third down and five around midfield. Their offense subs some players, and my stomach pitches when Graham runs onto the field. The crowd yells out a cheer.
The offense breaks the huddle, and Graham lines up in a blocking stance. Jasper looks over the defense and yells. Graham shuffles a few feet to the left as a linebacker shifts and lines up directly in front of him.
At the snap, Graham and the linebacker collide. Graham shoves the man away and breaks into the middle of the field. Jasper is barely able to throw the ball before getting tackled. Graham catches the wobbly pass and runs directly into the charging team. He’s hit when the safety places his helmet in the middle of Graham’s exposed chest and raises him off the ground.
“No!” I jump up as the thud of the impact seems to echo around the stadium. Graham falls backward, clutching the ball as he’s driven into the turf. When the two hit the ground, there’s a momentary hush from the crowd.
Vale’s hand holds mine tightly as we watch the field.
I can’t seem to breathe as I beg internally for Graham to get up. Please, please . . .
The safety moves to a stand, and Graham, still on the ground, clutches the ball in a death grip.
The referee signals first down.
Graham gets to his feet gingerly, seems to stagger a bit, then flips the ball to the ref and adjusts his helmet before raising a fist to the home crowd, who cheer wildly.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” I hear from a fan behind me. “Toughest tight end in the league is back! Almost died last year and fucking fearless! YEAAAHH!”
He was weaving on his feet, and yeah, I get it, that’s what football is, hard hits and catching the ball, but what if he hit his head too hard? What if he has a concussion and doesn’t even realize it yet?
Vale and Brody and I sit in stunned silence; then more anxiousness rises as Graham lines up for the next play.
Nausea swirls in my gut as he tightens his stance, ready to take down the defense. The ball is thrown to a wide receiver, but my eyes remain on Graham as a defender runs for him. He jumps at Graham and takes him down again. They crash to the ground.
I want to vomit. I want to cry.
Somehow, I hold it together.
On the next play, Jasper throws to Graham again. The linemen chase him, almost catching him as he runs into the end zone for a touchdown. A strangled sound of relief comes from my lips.
The crowd erupts into victorious cheers, chanting Graham’s name.
Vale grips my hand. “The game has just started, dear. We’ve got about two hours of this. Are you going to be able to make it?”
I swallow down the emotion in my throat as I nod an affirmative. Graham wants me here—for the pretend marriage—so I’ll stay.
It’s after eight in the evening by the time Graham arrives home from the postinterviews and catered meal the team had for them at the stadium with the owners. I’ve got a book in my hand and Magic in my lap when he walks in the door, dressed in joggers and a T-shirt.
Magic darts to him, hisses, then runs away. “Hey. Congrats on winning the game.” I stand and give him a hug, a long one.