My lips press together and her eyes narrow at the dirty gleam in my expression. “What?”
“You said hard!”
“Brody!”
Jordan’s lips twitch and I laugh, more than happy to surface from the deep waters our heavy conversation was falling into. She wriggles and I let her slide to the ground. When her feet hit the floor, she aims a hard jab to my bicep. Her fist bounces off. “Jesus,” she complains, taking in my large, rounded shoulders. Built-up deltoids are the best defense against injury for a wide receiver, and mine have never been bigger. “It’s like punching a brick wall.”
I grin and flex. “You like?”
Jordan’s gaze lowers over my chest and ribs. “You’re so bruised.” Her hands skim over my skin, her touch soothing and delicate.
“It doesn’t hurt.” She looks at me, skeptical, but the Toradol is so powerful I could get hit by a car and barely feel a thing. “I promise.”
My jersey slaps me in the head from out of nowhere. Grabbing it in my fist, I drag it from my face, revealing an exasperated Eddie. “Your five minutes are up, Showpony.” He gives Jordan his attention. “I’d apologize for dragging him away, but it looks like I’m actually doing you a favor.”
Dimples break out on Jordan’s cheeks when she gives Eddie a laugh. I don’t like it. They’re my dimples.
“Shutting your mouth would be doing us both a favor,” I retort. Slinging my jersey over a bare shoulder, I take Jordan’s hands in mine and tug her close. Seems I can’t handle having her in the same room without some part of her body touching mine. “I’ll be there in a second.”
Eddie gives me a nod and Jordan a salute. “See you after the game, sweetheart.”
“She’s not your sweetheart!” I call after him, flushing with indignation.
“Dude.” He holds up his hands defensively and turns, his big body disappearing from sight.
“Now,” I say, looking down at Jordan with intent. “Where were we?”
“We weren’t anywhere. You were too busy puffing out your chest like a peacock.”
I snigger.
Her eyes roll, amused. “Yes I said cock.”
My lids lower, liking the word on her lips. “Say it again.”
“Do you really want to go there right now?”
Jordan’s hips press against my groin, a reminder that I’m currently wearing tight football pants and no cup. It’s all on display down there. I draw my hips back. “Probably not a good idea.” Threading our fingers together, I finally get around to asking Jordan how she managed to be here. “You have finals in four days, babe,” I add as if she didn’t already know.
Heat steals over her cheeks, flushing them red. She clears her throat. “I uh, told them I had an ankle twinge. I’m supposed to be resting it overnight.”
I gasp in mock horror, clutching a hand to my chest. “You … lied?”
My words have her biting her lip, dragging it inside her mouth. “I wanted to see you.”
“And seeing me is all that and more, isn’t it?” I curl my forearm and biceps bulge.
Jordan laughs and I’m punched in the shoulder. Again. “Would you stop?” she asks.
“Can’t,” I say, shaking my head seriously. “You’re my girl. It’s programmed in my fundamental makeup as a man to show you my strength. You need to know I can provide for you.”
“Okay, you prehistoric brute.” My shoulder is rubbed in a placating gesture. “Use those manly muscles of yours to go forth and provide. You’re taking me out after the game, and I have a hankering for Japanese food.”
My insides recoil in horror. “Steak,” I correct firmly.
“Sushi.”
“Steak.”
“Sushi.”
I open my mouth and Jordan jabs a finger in the direction of the locker room. “Go!”
“I’m going.” Ducking my head, I press a long, slow kiss to her lips. Drawing away slowly, Jordan turns to leave. “Hey.” I pull her in close. Grasping her chin in my hand, my eyes lock with hers. “Don’t be scared, okay? Everything’s fine. I’ve got this.”
Maybe my words were prophetic because I bring my best game to the field. So do the Colts. Every sack they deliver hits like a freight train. One of them breaks a rib. There’s zero pain, but it’s getting harder to breathe so I know the fracture is there. My body will pay the price tomorrow, but I’m in the zone right now and it’s hard to care.
With a minute left on the clock, we’re trailing by four points. One touchdown is all we need. I step into the huddle, sweat in my eyes and every breath harsh inside my helmet. When Hawk calls the play, my pulse spikes, forcing an adrenaline rush so hard I feel the surge in my veins.
“Hut!” we roar in unity. With a loud clap we break and take formation. My eyes focus dead ahead, tuning out the screaming, chanting sea of blue that surrounds us. The opposing linesmen stare back at me, determination making their eyes hard and dark inside their helmets. There’s an endless field of green behind them. I fix on it. Nothing else exists except that empty space, and our entire team is betting against the clock, giving everything they have left to ensure I find it and bring the ball over the line.
I roll my shoulders. This is it, Madden. Breathe and run. That’s all you need to do. Breathe and motherfucking run.
“Hut!” The ball is snapped to Hawk and both teams rush. Digging in my heels, I push off, clumps of turf flying up behind me as I sprint for the green, ducking and weaving every Colt who comes at me. A player slides and I hurdle the felled body.
A quick glance to my right shows Hawk tossing the ball to Felix Lynch, our first string wide receiver. From there, the Colts strike, expecting him to carry the ball. But it’s a trick play that allows me to find the pocket I need to take possession. With the double pass in play, Lynch throws the ball down the opposite sideline. Vaulting high, the ball slides into my outstretched arms. Perfect orchestration. Wranglers supporters roar in triumph. I don’t hear them. I don’t see them. My task is clear. Run like a motherfucker.
With a final burst of speed, I reach the end zone and make the touchdown. Throwing the ball away, I leap up and fist pump the air. “Whoooop!”
“Umphf!” Eddie slams me before I hit ground. Lifting me high, he roars our victory. When I do hit the ground, Hawk runs at us both. His hand grabs my neck and we headbutt helmets with a loud crack. “You brilliant sonofabitch,” he gasps and slaps me on the back. “Didn’t think you were gonna make that catch.”
Pandemonium from the crowd surrounds our team as we slowly reach the sidelines. I’m snagged by a reporter before I can go any further. Dragging fingers through sweaty hair, I tuck my helmet under my armpit and give her my attention. Holding my sweaty bicep to prevent escape, she faces the camera.
“In what will likely be touted as one of the best games of the season, the Houston Wranglers clinch a nail-biting win against the Indianapolis Colts. Here I am with man of the hour, rookie wide receiver Brody Madden.” Erica looks at me. “Brody, a brilliant last few minutes. It secured a win for the Wranglers. Tell us about your final play.” She shoves the microphone in my face.
Swiping a hand across my grimy face, I shrug and grin. “We knew we had to pull out something miraculous.” I drag a few deep breaths into my lungs while Erica waits expectantly. “The Colts defense was like a brick wall. Our final play was the best way we knew to break through.”
Erica draws the microphone back to her. “It was a thirty-five yard catch and beautiful to watch,” she informs me. “I’d have to call that pretty miraculous. So do the Wranglers supporters.” Erica gestures toward the screaming crowd, waving flags and banners and homemade signs, some with my name on them. “It looks like Madden Fever is sweeping the nation. How does that make you feel?”
Back slaps hit me as team members walk past. Joe gives me a noogie, making me laugh as he pulls me in for a half hug. “Insane catch, Madden,” he shouts in my ear before walking off, victory making his steps light. I give my attention back to the micro
phone in front of me. “How does that make me feel?” My lungs expand with euphoria. How do you explain what it’s like to fly? “Incredible. Playing with the Wranglers, a team I’ve idolized all my life, is a dream come true.”
Erica smiles, pleased with my answer. “For the last two games you were a chosen finalist for the Pepsi NFL Rookie of the Week. There’s no doubt you will be again this week, which will make it the third week running. How do you do it?” She brushes away a lock of hair that blows in her face. “What does it take, as a rookie, to maintain this level of play?”
Lady, you have no idea. I swallow the lump of shame. I’m not the only one who does what they need to do in order to get time on the field. “Discipline and hard work.”
“What about family?” she asks, digging for a more personal angle.
A grin lights my face. “That would be Jordan. She’s my biggest supporter.”
“You’re referring to Australian ex-pat and forward for Seattle Reign, Jordan Elliot. She’s been your girlfriend since senior year of college?”
I shake my head. “She’s not just my girlfriend.”
Erica’s brows rise in question. “No?”
“No.” My heart rate kicks up and a smile pulls at my face. Jordan is going to kill me for going public with this, but I’m ready to burst after sitting on the news for far too long. It’s time. Finding the family section where Jordan should be sitting, I press my index and middle finger to my lips and then hold them up high. The gesture is for her, and her alone. Jordan’s mine, and I want the whole world to know. She’s my reason for breathing. “Jordan Elliot is my wife.”
Erica fumbles the microphone. Before she can recover, I lean in to the camera, salute the home viewers, and walk off.
Jordan
No! He did not just say that. I rise in my seat, my eyes narrowed on a grinning Brody as he leaves the field. I’m going to kill him. I’m going to wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze until his pretty face turns red and his eyes bulge from their sockets.
“Did he just say what I think he said?” Renae screeches from beside me. She’s Felix Lynch’s wife, and we’ve been making general small talk throughout the game. I’ve only met her once before, but I like her. She’s loud and assertive, and reminds me of Leah. “You two are married?”
I turn toward her, my mouth open. A scant second later, my shorts begin to vibrate, alerting me to a phone call. Pressing my lips together, I close my eyes.
“You okay, Jordan?” Renae asks.
My pulse begins to race a mile a minute and a headache starts thumping at the base of my skull. “You know, I’m not sure.”
The phone in my pocket continues to vibrate, the sound seeming to get louder and louder. Little dings follow. Message after message is racking up.
“Ummm … are you going to get that?” Renae asks, her tone cautious as if she expects me to spaz out at any moment. It’s possible I might. I flinch when she reaches out and proceeds to pet me, her hand stroking my forearm in a slow, soothing motion.
“No.” I open my eyes. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Her expression of cautious delight changes to one of understanding. “You didn’t know he was going to do that, did you?”
“No.” The word comes out slow and shaky.
Her whole face lights up. “How romantic!”
“Sure.” My voice begins to rise as I speak, verging on hysteria. “Everything is all crazy and romantic until someone gets maimed!”
Meaning me. Nicky is going to shit a brick. He likely already has. He’s just waiting for me to check my voicemail and hear how it went down. Hell. “I have to go.” Grabbing my bag, I sling it over my shoulder and flee the stands.
My phone gives me a reprieve as I head for the locker room. It lasts five seconds. I’ll have to face the music sooner or later, but later is the sanest option right now. Winding my way quickly through hordes of people, I smack into a hard, grimy chest. Blinking, I stumble back. Before I can steady myself, I’m lifted and squeezed in a rib-cracking hug. I come face-to-face with Eddie, a grin splitting his face.
“It’s Mrs. Madden!” he shouts.
“Shhhh!” I glance around. Players are heading for their lockers, and reporters and trainers are swarming the area like bees. “Keep it down.”
Eddie laughs. It’s a loud, booming sound that comes from deep in his belly. “I’m pretty sure the whole world knows.”
My lips pinch. “Where is he?”
“Where’s who?”
“Peter Piper,” I hiss with loaded sarcasm. “He stole my pickled peppers and I want them back.” Another belly laugh from Eddie jostles me in his arms. “Put me down and go find Brody,” I order. “I have a killing to get to.”
He cocks his head as he sets me on my feet. “You know, I think you’re a bit pissy.”
“I am?” I wave my hand in a swift circle around my face. “Because this is my expression of happy excitement.” Try as I might, I can’t seem to un-pinch my lips and form a smile. I raise my brows instead. “I want to go hug the man of the hour. Mr. Pepsi NFL Rookie of the Week.”
My phone dings a few more times. Eddie’s gaze drops in the direction of the sound and comes back up. “Are you going to get that?”
“No!”
“You know…” he cocks his head “…if anyone has a right to be pissy, it’s us.”
“Us?”
“Your friends.” Eddie slings a sweaty arm around my shoulders and starts leading me toward the locker room. “Well, at least I thought we were.” He glares down at me, making his displeasure clear. “What’s the deal, Elliott?”
We reach the locker room to the loud chants of “Madden, Madden, Madden!” Eddie starts pushing me through the door, and I struggle backwards. “I can’t go in there!” But it’s like swimming against the tide. I’m expelled into the room like I’ve shot out from an overflowing storm drain.
My presence goes unnoticed as the chants continue. A champagne cork pops. The room is sprayed. Then I see him, caught in the middle of the rowdy bunch. Shirtless, soaking wet football pants, sweet sticky alcohol dripping from his chest, and a huge grin on his face. My heart pounds. He’s so full of life. So happy. So vital. I can’t shit all over that. At least not right now. I’ll do it later.
Pushing my way through the fray until I stand behind Brody, I tap him on the shoulder.
He turns and his grin falters. Taking my hand in a brave gesture, Brody lifts it to his lips and presses a kiss to the back of it. Desperate to preserve my anger, I restrain the visible shiver. Instead it rocks me on the inside, all the way down to my toes.
“Marry me, Jordan.”
I should say no. That would be the logical, smart thing to do, and I’ve always been logical and smart. We’re both young. We both have careers. We haven’t even graduated college. Yet I can’t bring myself to form the two-letter word. I swallow, my mouth dry. “I need to think about it.”
After a pause, a smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “That’s not a no.”
“And it’s not a yes.”
“Jordan.” Brody reaches across the restaurant table and grabs both my hands in his. There’s hope in his eyes and a doggedness that tells me he’s not letting this go easily. “Your whole life you’ve done what you’re told. Study, training, games. You’ve followed the path set out for you. Don’t you want to break free of that? At least a little? Life’s too short to wake up at the end of your soccer career and wonder if it was all worth it.” He squeezes my hands. “Do something crazy.” The words take root inside me and my heart begins to thump. “Make life worth living, Jordan. With me.”
How was I supposed to say no? Instead, I woke the next morning with a ring on my finger, and the knowledge that crawling off into a deep dark hole to die would be better than facing my brother with the news. I tried telling him, easing him into the idea by mentioning Brody’s proposal, but he completely lost it. How could I tell him the truth after that?
Brody lowers
my hand. “Are you mad?”
“Am I mad?” It’s not obvious? “Your little announcement tonight has brought the wrath of hell down on both of us.” Nicky would be the leading torchbearer. “We’re both dead.”
“And what a sweet tragedy it would be, Jordan Matilda Madden.” Brody shakes his head in mock sadness, yet there’s mischief glinting in his eyes. “But so be it.” He spreads his arms out wide and winks. “Life wouldn’t be worth living if you weren’t married to me anyway, right?”
Brody
“If that’s how you feel …” Jordan digs inside the pocket of her shorts. She pulls out her phone. Grabbing my hand, she slaps the device in my palm. “Then you can talk to Nicky.”
It vibrates in my hand. I check the screen and see that possibly every person Jordan has ever met in her lifetime (and those she hasn’t) has called to confirm the news. I scroll through the notifications. Nicky’s only called once. It’s more ominous than calling a thousand times. He’s not happy. And he knows we know he’s not happy. Jordan’s brother doesn’t need to call a thousand times to reinforce that fact. Just once will do.
Jordan wanted us to sit on the news until she could tell him in person. I just blew that right out of the water. Speaking to Nicky is the least I can do. “Sure, I’ll talk to him.”
Her brows rise. “Just like that?”
“We’re not in shooting distance, so it should be fine. Really,” I reassure her. “It’s better this way.”
Jordan’s bottom lip quivers. We’ve hurt her brother by hiding the news. Possibly hurt all our friends. I pull her close toward me, heedless of my dirty, sweaty body and everyone else around us. “I’ll just tell him that sometimes two people are meant to be.”
Her nostrils flare in a frustrated huff. “That’s it?”
The End Game Page 35