Page 102 of First Down Promise

I keep swiping until I land on something new. A guy in a black jersey with eighty-one on the back heads into a tunnel on the side of the field, but he stops. It looks a lot like the Admirals’ stadium. The grainy video zooms in as a mostly visible honey-brunette throws her arms around his neck and kisses him. The video loops three or four times before my brain catches up.

Abby. Josh. Kissing. In public.

Having a moment in their own world, not meant for anyone else to see.

But the kiss isn’t heated. It’s restrained, almost careful. Josh’s shoulders visibly relax with her. I put the phone face down on the comforter over my chest.

How did I miss it? If I had pulled my head out of my ass, I could have picked up on the signs because he’s always looked at Abby the same way Dad looked at Mom. And Dad would have more than approved of Josh. Maybe he wouldn’t love that Josh is eight years older than Abby, but he’s the type Dad would want for her. More than that, she’s happy with him, according to Sadie…and this video clip.

And that night she was texting someone. I should’ve known something had changed.

Curiosity makes me explore the comments. There is already an overwhelming number of comments on a video posted just a few hours ago. A lot of commenters know the player is Josh but are speculating who he’s kissing.

Then a comment stops my thumb while swiping. Someone posted a picture of Abby in her cheer uniform from earlier this season, claiming the girl is Abby because of her unique hair color. I expand the replies to the comment, which the creator has now pinned, and people are putting it together that she didn’t cheer at the last home game. One reply asks if she might have quit the squad because of him. My thumbs twitch because I would love to troll these comments, but unfortunately, I don’t have a secret account to do that with.

I bookmark the video instead and click on the Josh Mackenzie hashtag in the description. The video has been reposted dozens of times already, and someone posted a conspiracy theory video that Abby is the girl. This video has a thumbnail composed of my sister’s official cheer picture next to Josh’s player picture. Why do people care?

I click on the video. Their pictures are still side-by-side in the background, and the video creator is green-screened in to discuss how the evidence—her hair color and lack of recent squad appearances—point to Abby being the not-so-mystery girl.

And now, my notifications are pinging with mentions and tags.

“Abby’s the younger sister of Pete Wilson, the Stallions’ starting quarterback…” the video says. “Who is out on injury leave following a severe car accident.”

For fuck’s sake.

I want to put my phone down, but something draws me to the comment section again. I mute the volume and scan over this video’s comments. There’s plenty of snark about Josh being taken and off the market, comments about him romancing his best friend’s sister, and thirsty claims that they belong with Josh instead. Someone mentions that at least I’m single, but others reply that I might have a secret relationship kept out of the spotlight.

Well, that’s enough internet for one day.

Maybe the Stallions’ marketing team will find a way to capitalize on this, but I turn my phone off and set it on my nightstand before I get involved. And what’s the big deal, anyway? They were going to be public, eventually.

The front door opening and closing startles me awake. Morning light pours in through the curtains, and I reach over to grab my phone and yank it off the charger. I press the power button as Abby and Josh’s voices echo from downstairs. My phone finally wakes up, showing it’s only eight. Yawning, I leave Do Not Disturb on and rub the sleep from my eyes.

After freshening up, I head downstairs where Abby and Josh are in the kitchen. He’s sitting on a barstool, and she’s leaning against the counter in one of his sweatshirts, judging by the oversized fit.

“We got you coffee,” Abby says.

Three to-go cups sit on the counter, and I grab the one furthest from them. “Thanks,” I mumble.

I swallow the two ibuprofen in my hand with the coffee, needing the relief too much to mind the scorching temperature. Then, I turn to the sink to rinse my water cup from last night without giving them too much attention.

“That game was rough,” Josh says.

I look at him for the first time since that morning.

‘I’m not ending it because you don’t like it,’ he said.

But after last night, I’m starting to understand why.

“I saw. Did you guys take a red-eye or something?”

“We had to fly separately, but yeah. I’m ready to crash,” Josh answers.

I bring the coffee to my lips. “Do it at your own house,” I say under my breath and take a sip.

“Pete,” Abby mutters.

“Do you guys know you went viral last night?” I ask.