Page 144 of Game Plan

“I will.”

Why didn’t I believe him entirely right now?

38

Want me to kiss it better, Mase?

“Are you scared or excited?” Jules asked from beside me.

The last quarter was in full swing, with twenty seconds left on the clock and eighteen yards to cover. The Phoenix were losing by three points.

I was wound tight, my hands clasped in front of me. “I’m not sure.”

I could barely suck a full breath in, my attention locked on the quarterback calling the play and his players dispersing on the field below.

Mason was in the zone. I recognized all the signs. His words were clipped, his back straight, his gestures precise, and his eyes never drifting away.

The game resumed, and he positioned himself, ball in hand, and steadied his breath.

He looked so hot when he was in full game mode. I had missed watching him play after our friendship went up in flames last year.

He wiped his left hand on his powerful thighs, snug in tight football pants, and rotated his right shoulder back. To everyone else, it looked like he was loosening his joint, but I knew he was testing its stiffness, just like he had done several times during the game.

I mouthed a silent prayer when he tossed the ball into the air toward the end zone, and his players sprang into motion, scattering across the field and getting into position.

The seconds vanished one by one.

Around me, the crowd of navy-blue and teal supporters fell silent.

I could feel Mason’s burning stare on me, but I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the football sailing through the air to acknowledge him.

All my senses were on high alert.

The varsity-colored puffy jacket I was wearing suddenly felt too warm, and I was tempted to rip the knitted hat off my head. The cold breeze kissing my cheeks felt amazing.

Twelve seconds to go. Why did they feel like hours?

The pigskin was still airborne, and Bowman, one of the receivers, had his arms stretched high, ready to catch the ball.

Something didn’t feel right, though. It was a hunch, but from the way my spine prickled, it was impossible to ignore. I watched Mason and could tell I was right. His face contorted as if in pain.

He blinked, and I felt like we were in a car, hurtling toward a collision on the highway at full speed, the crash inevitable.

Near the end zone, Bowman caught the pass with his fingertips. The crowd exhaled in relief, but just as he was about to cradle the ball to his chest, his grip loosened.

“Ohmygod.” Jules dug her nails into my skin through the thick fabric of my jacket. “This is so stressful.”

I was too engrossed in the scene unfolding before us to shrug her off.

Before the receiver could secure the ball, a cornerback from the opposing team blocked his path and charged. Bowman tried to dodge him with a sharp jerk of his hips, but it was no use. The defender slammed into him.

People in the bleachers jumped to their feet.

Tension hung in the air, and a nervous energy settled over us.

I was relieved to know I wasn’t the only one on edge.

Bowman stumbled forward, still barely gripping the ball with his fingertips.