Sidelined (38 page)

It’s never easy; that I know.

Corey gets told by Coach what to call, sure, but at the end of the day, he’s the guy who ultimately decides. Corey is the guy who thinks up the code words and the word that will definitely snap us into action. All of it is on him, and that’s a huge-ass pressure on his shoulders every game. He calls it wrong, it could cost us a yard. A down. A touchdown. He calls a play that has a guy an inch out of where he should be and it’s play over, better fucking luck next time.

I take the ball from Corey and weave through the players until I’m nudged by the defense hard enough that I’d fall in a real game. I leap and roll to get the down.

And stop.

Macey’s the quarterback. In Mitch’s dumb game, she’s the quarterback, calling the plays. Except, in this game, she holds way more control than a normal quarterback. She’s the quarterback, the coach, and the referee. And if she wants to sideline someone, she’s damn well gonna do it.

I just hope to hell I’m not the guy who gets sidelined.

And hope is all I have.

Two-and-oh and we’re already showing the rest of the league that the Vipers aren’t fucking around this season.

Two-and-oh and we’re already instilling fear in our opponents, especially in our division, from the pure domination of our games. With two games down and a clear twenty-point lead in both of them, we’re to be feared. In a rare show of domination, both our offense and our defense are taking no prisoners.

It’s as simple as allowing their offense no time on the field. If they aren’t on the field, they can’t score a damn point. Even then, most of their points came from dumbass fumbles from the rookie wide receiver Coach decided to play.

To say that Reid had a face like thunder for most of the game is an understatement.

Yet I still wish I were back in L.A. with Macey. I wish I were trying in vain to explain the rules of football to her while trailing my fingers up her thighs to her tight pussy. I wish I were whispering rules in her ear while kissing her jaw and pretending like I care if she understands the game.

I don’t.

I don’t give a shit.

But she knows enough to wear my name on her back and get excited when I score a touchdown, and that’s enough.

If it weren’t so burned into my mind how she looks in nothing but a jersey and panties, I’d be sitting back in my hotel room doing something fucking stupid like jacking off to the picture she sent me. As it is, Reid and Corey have strong-armed me into the hotel bar for a beer to celebrate. Even Coach is here, which is rare.

I’m pretty much out of the conversation though, and it’s totally my own doing. I want to call Macey. I want to pick up the fucking phone up and just talk to her. I want her to sass me and giggle into my ear the way she does. Hell, I’d take a goddamn text message. Respecting her wishes to be left alone is damn near killing me, and now, I gotta face facts.

It was easier when I had to focus on the game. When I had to practice, to play, to win, it was easy to ignore the obvious nagging feeling in my gut.

Hell—the feeling is more than in my gut. It’s settling in my mind, crawling across my skin, and pounding right along with my heart.

It’s the feeling of knowing that I’m damn well in love with her.

D
ecisions are bullshit.

Really, they are. And I could swear someone up in the clouds hates me, because I’ve really had more than my fair share of them to make in my twenty-two years. Never mind that they’re never easy ones to make, like do I have pasta or pizza for dinner? Or do I drink orange juice or wine?

In fairness, I should probably go for the pasta and OJ.

See? Simple.

If only everything else were.

I know who I want.

I know who’s best for me, the past not included.

I also know who I should want.

Sometimes, those three things aren’t always synonymous with each other. Sometimes, they’re all a contradicting mess of logic and common sense that, in the end, makes no sense at all.

The problem with love is that it never really dies. It doesn’t matter how much a person hurts you or the manner in which they did. Love doesn’t get that.

First loves are the worst. There’s nothing like your first love, and it’ll always be a different kind of love compared to everything else. It’ll be the one you compare all other feelings to, and the guy you loved will forever be the benchmark you’ll hold every guy to, even if he was a total asshole. Subconsciously, there will always be a lingering feeling there that will eventually fade away.

But eventually is never soon enough. It’s always ten minutes too late and a million years too long.

Then again, maybe your first loves are different for a reason. First loves are rarely for forever because they’re not always strong enough to stand the test of time. Add that to the fact that nine out of ten first loves are born when you’re young and it’s not necessarily a matter of strength, but of dedication.

To your relationship. Your partner. Yourself. Your respect. Your honor. Your love.

Dedication is everything until you have none.

The moment you lose dedication to your relationship is the moment you should walk away, because with that, you lose respect, honor, and most of your love, too.

The problem with dedication is that it always seems to come back when you have nothing left to be dedicated to.

It’s never enough when it needs to be, yet it’s always too much when it isn’t needed…or wanted.

And now, with two text messages out telling two different guys to meet me in two different restaurants at the same time, dedication to a relationship is more important than ever.

Armed with a Facebook message from a girl called Lana proclaiming I’m not the only one, I take a deep breath, slip my pumps on, grab my purse, and head out of my door.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I wasn’t sure I would,” I admit.

He rubs his finger across his nose. “Can’t believe you’re here.”

“You knew I would be. Either way, you knew I’d be here.”

“True.” His voice is quiet. “Just hoping you’re gonna tell me what I wanna hear.”

I smile softly. “You know exactly what I’m gonna say, Mitch.”

E
verything she does is deliberate.

Macey Kelly rarely acts on impulse; this is something I learned quickly. She thinks through every move, every word, every decision, probably until she makes herself sick of her own thoughts.

So I know that it’s no fucking coincidence that I’m sitting in a restaurant across from the one she and Mitch are in with a perfect goddamn view of them talking.

Without a word, I drop ten dollars on the table for a beer I haven’t even touched and leave.