Page 24 of The Pact
“Pres,” Alie says, interrupting my thoughts, “what are you staring at?”
“I’m not staring. I’m monitoring,” I say automatically.
“Uh-huh.”
I adjust Sera on my hip. “What? It’s literally my job.”
“And yet, somehow, you’ve managed to monitor Saint specifically for the last”—she looks at her phone—“thirty seconds.”
I shoot her a look. “Would you like me to list the other twelve players I’ve also checked on this morning—including Liam Pitz?”
She blushes. “Okay, I get it. But I gotta say, I do enjoy this version of you.”
“What version?” I look back to Saint.
“The one where my big sister looks like she wants something she can’t have.”
And that is part of the problem. But I can’t deny that images of us having sex in the trainers’ office are running on a loop inmy mind. I mean, Jesus, it was the best sex I’d ever had, and honestly, it’s exactly what I fantasize about when I allow myself to think about him as more than my best friend.
I do stand by my decision to keep our relationship in the friend zone though. I cannot lose him. He’s too important to me, and it would devastate me if we ruined our friendship because we wanted to scratch an itch.
With a quick kiss on the cheek, I set my niece back down, and my sister hands me my clipboard as the scrimmage begins.
They aren’t wearing pads, and it’s a no-tackle scrimmage, but they are wearing helmets.
The sound of Liam calling plays and coaches barking from the sideline gives me a rush. I love what I do.
I scan the field, watching everyone’s movements, posture, and signs of strain or injury.
Halfway through the second set, one of my rookie wide receivers pulls up short on a play.
“Shit.”
I make my way over to him, and by the time I reach him, he’s slightly bent at the waist, one hand on his thigh.
“Talk to me, Alonzo,” I say, dropping to a crouch beside him.
“Hammie,” he says through gritted teeth. “Just a little tight.”
“Please tell me you stretched properly before you started today.”
“I did. I was on the field with everyone else.”
I nod. “On a scale of one to ten, how bad?”
He huffs out a breath. “Five.”
“Okay, go ahead and sit for a few and see if it eases up.”
I walk him to the bench, running through the possibilities in my head. Likely a pulled muscle, which would be the best-case scenario and easily treatable. Sprain wouldn’t be good.
I kneel in front of him and straighten his leg out.
“You didn’t feel anything pop, right?” I ask.
“No, nothing popped.”
“Okay, that’s good.” I press gently along the muscle, watching his response. “Feels tight, but I don’t think it’s torn. But I want you sitting out the rest of the day.”
