End Game (Bad Boy Football Romance) (Cocky Bastards & Motorcycles Book 6)

by Faye, Amy

  He ends practice sore. He always does. There she is, he sees. Right on the edge of the quad. Watching him. She's got her head down. He's noticed that the girls have backed down a little. Some aren't even looking his way. It's almost a comfort.

  She sees him coming up right to her.

  "What do you want?"

  "I want you to come to the game on Saturday."

  "I—I have to study," she says. She's embarrassed.

  Craig likes it. The way that she looks almost completely lost. Like she doesn't know how to react at all.

  "I want you to come to the game. It's at the stadium. Admission's free if you bring your student ID. I'll have a seat saved for you."

  She opens her mouth to respond, and then closes it again.

  "Saturday?"

  "I have to—"

  "Are you going to come or not?"

  She chews her lip when she's nervous. "I'll think about it."

  Craig smiles. That's a yes if he's ever heard one, coming from her. "I'll look for you in the stands."

  "Don't do that," she says.

  "I'm going to, so you'd better make yourself easy to find."

  She rolls her eyes, but Craig knows the answer already. She'll be there. No question about it. And if he's lucky, he won't break a rib right in front of her.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Emma has never been to a sporting event. In point of fact, beyond the minute or so that she might glance at the television, walking through the room when her father had the game on, she'd never sat down and watched a game in her entire life.

  Which meant that she didn't expect much, and she expected to understand even less.

  She approached it the same way she approached everything that was new. First she avoided it, then she studied it, then at the last moment she panicked and tried avoiding it again.

  Which made it all that much more strange when she found herself walking into the stadium. There were already folks starting to find their seats, though she'd thought that she was coming pretty early. Not early enough, it seems.

  She pulls the hat down to hide her eyes a little. She'd bought it an hour or two ago, when she was still trying to decide whether or not she was really going to go through with this.

  It seemed like it was going to make everything a little easier to deal with, a little less stressful, and with only a little bit of luck, she might not have been entirely wrong.

  All she has to do is keep her head down, watch the game, and then she can tell Craig she did it. No problem. Whatever the reason he'd asked her, he wouldn't have done it if it weren't important, right?

  So she came. In spite of her reservations. Her very, very strong reservations. Reservations that could fill the entire stadium, and then spill a little out over the sides.

  Not hard to find, huh?

  She went down the steps. Folks seemed to be congregating around there. Only a few so far. Maybe a dozen people. They sat in small groups of two or three, a couple of them alone, all the way around the stadium. More of them bunched at the middle than the sides.

  It made sense when Emma thought about it. You get an equally-good view of both… shit. End zones? Was that…?

  Yes. Okay. End zones. You get an equally good view of both of them, rather than having a really good view of one and missing out on the other.

  She found herself a seat as close to the middle as she could. It wasn't far off the middle, she thought. Not a bad seat at all. Second row back, and right by the line marked '40.'

  Below her, a lot of umpires, or referees—something or other, she forgot. They walked around, inspecting things, talking to each other. Somewhere inside, she could just about hear the brass band tuning up.

  More people filed in. The seats around her filled up with people she didn't recognize. Which was, she had to admit, better than the alternative. If they'd gotten it into their heads that she and Craig were some kind of item, well, this would just about confirm it.

  Not that they wouldn't find out she was here somehow. Whoever it was, some little birdie was apparently keeping an eye on her to make sure that everyone knew everything that she did.

  Which, by the way, was about as embarrassing as hell. She was never going to live this down, not in a million years, but if Craig asked her to come, she reminded herself again—it must be important. Even if it's only important to him.

  The marching band comes out. A dozen girls who look like the sort of girls that Craig would like to get to know, in the sort of uniforms that Craig would like girls to wear follow behind.

  It's a real old-fashioned party. Nothing else she could call it, not really. Loud music, coming from down on the field. Then the screaming started. Hooting and hollering and yelling and screaming. Some folks stood up to see the boys coming out. Deep red uniforms, white numbers.

  They looked like real players. Somehow, Emma had gotten it into her head that this was all just a bunch of students. Like high school had been. Like her little notes project.

  The players coming out onto the field—she recognized Craig, who carried his helmet in his hands and walked near the front of the group, raising that helmet up in the air as if he were showing it to everyone in the stands—looked like real football players. The kind that her dad would watch on television, if he were still awake at that time of day.

  They broke for the benches. The other team came out. If Craig saw her, he didn't make any sign of it. Just came onto the field, smacked that helmet down onto his head.

  She'd studied football, a little. Enough to know the rules. She was still fuzzy on strategy, but she knew what a quarterback was. She knew that Craig was one of those. Which meant he was pretty much the guy on the field who made the decisions.

  Well, other than Donahue, who stood on the sidelines, looking as sour as ever, as his hair got grayer and grayer each year.

  Craig and a guy from the other team went out into the middle, and one of the umpire-referees flipped a coin. They made an announcement, waved their hands around, and our team kicked the ball to the other team a minute later.

  They hit hard, she thought. It didn't look hard on television, but watching these guys get up again, looking like they're all seeing stars from getting three hundred pounds of big guy pounded into them… it put a different perspective on things.

  As close as she was, she could practically smell the sweat, could practically feel the pain they were feeling when the other guy slammed his shoulder down into someone's middle.

  Then they were on fourth down, and the other team kicked it back. Simple. Painless. They came down the field to the thirty-yard line, because apparently the other guys weren't all that prepared for a good return.

  Then it was our team's turn to play. I watched Craig get up, his helmet already on. 'Weston,' the back of his shirt said. Number seven.

  The teams circled up and talked for a minute, and then they broke back up, and it was as easy as could be. A second later, Craig had the football in his hands, and a second after that, it had left his hands.

  The ball flew through the air, right into the waiting arms of one of our guys. He ran about as fast as anything Emma had ever seen. Someone hit him hard, but he just rocked to the side, caught himself, and kept going. Then the guy in the back—the safety?—wrapped his arms around and pulled the receiver to the ground.

  First down, ten yards to go.

  Emma felt a little rush of adrenaline. Jesus Christ. Was this what football was like? They looked like they were about to kill each other out there any second. And worse, if they didn't, she might just end up liking this stupid game.

  Because damned if Craig Weston hadn't let go of a really good throw there. And then, after the ball left his hands, he'd avoided a good hit. Right from the left side. Which was when Emma started to worry.

  What happened when they figured out that side was weak? He'd get creamed.

  Wouldn't that hurt? What if it didn't just hurt a little? What if it was something more serious than that? Would they let him
go off the field to get taken care of? Worse, would he let himself go off the field?

  Or would he just stay there and keep trying to go even if they hurt him bad?

  If there was one thing that Emma knew about Craig Weston, it was that he was stubborn. If there were two things, the other was that he was just the kind of idiot to think that staying on and getting himself even more hurt would help somehow.

  That was what worried her the most.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It's easy to feel confident on the field. It's even easy to feel confident when nothing's going right. When you're constantly facing trouble, when your god damn left side can't stay up to save its life.

  Because when you have to win, and all it takes is a little compromise, then you compromise. All you have to do is know where you can afford to trade away.

  Don't throw into coverage. If you have to, just run the damn ball yourself, and hope the hit doesn't come too hard. If there's nobody at a good range, go for something short. It's not easy, but it's not hard. Just keep your head on straight and watch for openings.

  It's not anything like that when it comes to class-work. Not anything like that when it comes to the little weekly quizzes.

  Mid-term exams, on the other hand, are an entirely new level of nothing like that. Hundred percent on the last test or not, Craig Weston isn't in a position to feel that confident about the mid-terms.

  No amount of study sessions with Emma, or with anyone for that matter, are going to really fix that. In the end, same as with football, same as with anything, you have to make sure that you're holding up your end of things.

  It's no different than any other year, though. Every year is hard. Every semester. Every exam. Every time, it's a long dark night of the soul. And like everything, Craig has to deal with it whether he likes it or not.

  It would just be nice to feel as if he's not completely floundering first, then take the test. Rather than the other way around.

  He could text Emma. It would be weird, but she was always telling everyone, text her if they're worried.

  Well, he's worried. No way is this going to end well for him. But then again, everyone is going to be worried with midterms coming up. He's not the only one that she's going to have to deal with.

  And if it's just nerves—it probably is just nerves, after all—then he's wasting her time. No need to text just for a pep-talk. He can give his own damn pep-talks. It's easy.

  'Everything's going to be fine.' Then you wait a second, and you look them in the eyes, and you make them believe it. 'We've been preparing for this for months.'

  You lean in, you give them all another good, hard look. 'The other team, they're tough. I'm not going to lie to you. But you're all tough sons of bitches, too, and you're not going to take it lying down. So get your heads on straight and let's go out there and win this thing.'

  That kind of speech. No problem. It's easy, once you've got a little practice. No reason that he needs someone else to give him a speech he's rehearsed himself a hundred times if he's done it once.

  Deep breath. Nothing to be worried about. You've prepared for this. Everything you've done is going to pay off in the end. That's why you did all that practicing, all that training, all that studying.

  When the time comes, you'll be ready, because you have to be ready. Exams are hard. No need to feel stupid for worrying, because you should be worried. Exams are hard. But after preparing all that time, it's not going to be any kind of problem, is it?

  No way. That's why you prepared. So that it wouldn't get you down, no matter what happened. You're going to be out ahead of it, no matter what. That's how it works. Just keep your head on straight, pick your junk up off the floor, and get ready to take care of business.

  He looks in the mirror. His phone is heavy in his pocket. It would be so nice to hear her voice, though. Just to hear someone else confirm that it would be fine. That he was ready, that he had done everything he could.

  She'd already told him so a dozen times, which is why, no matter how much it would be nice to have someone as fuckin' smart as Emma Owens tell him that he knew what he was doing and it was going to be fine, he wasn't going to call.

  He checks his watch. Time for morning practice. He goes down the stairs. Nerves are always going to get to him. ON the field, they get to him. In class, they get to him.

  But they get to everyone. And that's no problem. No shame. He's used to pressure. Used to the nerves. All he has to do now is just make sure that he's got everything good and figured out. Easy as pie.

  Practice will help with that. It always does. Just do what Coach says. Just like Emma will know what to do with tests, and she'll get him prepared by hook or by crook, Coach will fix the football.

  And if the football's fine, then that's at least one thing he doesn't have to worry about.

  And if Emma is half as good at what she's doing as Coach is at the football side of things, then there's not a whole lot to worry about.

  Which is the problem. Because Coach isn't also looking to tear his damn head off half the time. And he's never—the idea makes him burst out laughing, out of the blue—he's never imagined what Coach looks like without all those clothes on.

  Not that he'd ever admit it to Emma, of course. She'd probably go white as a sheet, or pass out from all the blood pumping right to her face.

  The smile it brings to Craig's face isn't exactly what he'd been hoping for. But for an instant, he's not worried about classes one damn bit. Because there's something else on his mind. He can feel himself stiffening in his jeans.

  That's not any damn good. He sucks in a breath. Not any good at all. The phone feels heavy in his pocket. What the fuck was on his mind today?

  He takes a deep breath. After classes, after practice, he'll see her again. Study time. They'll be able to do a post-exam look at how he's doing. Then they'll figure out what's going on from there.

  At least, that's the hope. She's always acted weird around him, but lately it's been double-weird. Whatever she's got going on, he'll let her deal with it. After all, whatever it is, she's got her own shit to deal with, right?

  Deep breaths.

  He pulls into the parking lot, one of only five or six cars at this point. Which means that he gets the best spots. Same as every morning.

  The duffel bag and his backpack come out, onto his broad shoulders. First things first. Get the football in order. Once his head is on straight, the rest will fall into place. No question about it.

  All he has to do is just sit down, do whatever Coach tells him to do, and absolutely not, under any circumstances, think about Emma Owens.

  Because until he figures out what the hell he's supposed to think about her, she's just a distraction from the two things he needs to be thinking about today: Practice, and the history midterm.

  Whatever the hell got up her ass, that can wait as long as it has to. The other two come first.

  She'll be dealt with after. When he's got plenty of time to devote to figuring out why she's being so distant, and hopefully, plenty of time to figure out how to get her the hell out of his head long enough to do the rest of the shit he needs to do with his day.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Erin looked at the phone again. She'd lost count how many times she'd picked it up, but then she hadn't been counting before.

  The test hadn't been hard for her, but that didn't mean it wasn't hard for other people. After all, she'd been teaching most of this material, and doing hardcore study sessions with people for the past week getting everyone prepped for midterms.

  No way was she going to have any problems. They always said that the best way to learn was to teach—and that couldn't possibly have been more true.

  She knew more about this stuff than she'd ever thought possible. When she'd started tutoring, it felt like there was going to never be enough time to study. To an extent, that was true.

  Cramming all her studying into Saturday, so she can get notes off to the printer's on
Sunday afternoon, was… interesting. Especially interesting when she'd gone to that football game, which carved several hours out of the middle of study time.

  But she'd managed, and she'd continue to manage.

  No, what worried her now wasn't that she couldn't find the time for anything else; it was the mounting texts that had been coming in. Ten students she was tutoring, and about twenty texts, in the last day alone.

  She'd been in a groove when she felt the phone buzz in her pocket and figured she'd check it later. Then it had buzzed again, and then again.

  And then she'd been too nervous to check it.

  Were they going to be upset? What was she supposed to do about it? She'd already done her best. And, in the end, ultimately it's just you and the test in there. You don't get to rely on your super great tutor to get you through it, no matter how super great they are.

  At some point, you just have to do it yourself, and that's just how it is. Emma Owens, who knew quite a bit about all the material being covered now that she'd read it four times and taught it to five separate people, was still unable to just call up the professor and say 'Yeah, can you just change the grades for me?'

  She swallowed hard. She should have looked already. It would be less painful that way, if she just dealt with it, rather than letting it get to her.

  But that didn't seem to make all that much difference, in the end. She still wanted more than anything to be able to just forget that the texts were there.

  She swallowed hard and pushed the button to turn her phone on.

  Twenty-two missed texts. Twenty-two. Jeepers.

  She swiped the screen to unlock it and then pushed the notification. The list popped up.

  Three from Owen, two from Julie. One from Jane. Two from Erin. One from Sara. Two from Lenny. Going down the list. Pretty much all of her students had sent at least something.

  With one exception. One noticeable exception.

  Craig hadn't sent anything at all. She'd been avoiding the campus. Not really avoiding him, per se, so much as avoiding all her students. Avoiding being accused of letting them down.