Page 34 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Player

JO

I wasn't going to watch the game.

That was the plan. A very good plan.

One that lasted approximately until kickoff.

"You know you're staring at the television like it insulted our mother."

I don't look away from the screen. "I'm not staring."

Patrick snorts from the other end of my couch. "You've blinked twice in the last five minutes."

"I'm supporting the opposing defense."

"Sure."

I throw a throw pillow at him without taking my eyes off the television.

He catches it.

"You're hopeless."

Maybe I am.

It's been two weeks.

Two weeks since I told Cal we needed space.

Two weeks since my phone stopped saying good morning.

Two weeks since I deleted his contact only to memorize his number anyway.

My suspension officially becomes unpaid tomorrow. The partners still haven't decided what they're going to do with me.

Apparently exchanging spicy texts with a quarterback is bad for business. Who knew?

The commentators drone on about playoff implications—even though we’re barely into the season—while I pretend I'm watching because Patrick insisted.

I'm lying.

Mostly to myself.

The camera cuts to Cal. His helmet tucked beneath his arm. He's listening to his coach, but... Something's off.

"He looks tired," I murmur.

Patrick glances up from his wings. "He does."

The first half is ugly. Missed throws. A sack.

An interception. Every time the camera finds him on the sideline, he looks... Lost.

The commentators notice it too.

"Calhoun just doesn't look like himself today."

No. He doesn't.