27. Jase

Ipace the sidelines at Tropicana Field, fisting my hair as my eyes glare at the clock.

Fucking Tampa Bay Pirates.

We battle with these guys every season and after finally breaking our losing streak, we're facing them again at a critical time. The playoffs are closing in on us and for the first time, I'm actually hopeful we can make it.

From the looks of the current standings, the Crusaders would face off against the Oakland Saints.

Gabe Kelly versus Bryce Maxwell.

And you'd better believe my ass is gonna be on the line, too. My chance to prove to the world that this Maxwell is just as fucking talented, capable, and full of goddamn hustle as the shining star of the Saints.

I clench and unclench the fingers of my good hand.

But not if we lose this fucking game.

More pacing leads me right to the offensive coordinator. He looks up from his iPad. "You good, Maxwell?"

I nod, my lips pressed tight. "One more down and they're gonna score."

I don't want to say it. The Pirates would have to cover enough yardage to make the touchdown, but they could do it. It's possible. And with only a minute or so left in the game, my heart swells with panic for my team.

Matt Harrison, the star kicker for the Crusaders, walks past and claps me on my good shoulder. "Maxwell, you're gonna crap out a diamond if you don't calm the fuck down. We've got this."

I narrow my eyes at him. He smirks in response and takes a chug of his Gatorade. Then he stops next to Lucas, who's dressed in a light-gray suit that makes my cock tingle.

Mainly because I know every inch of what lies beneath the expensive fabric. I tasted it all, caressed it all, plastered myself against it all.

He turns, like he can feel my disdainful gaze locked on him like a poisonous leech. His face pales, every smidge of color draining from his skin. I glare a little harder, knowing full well that my heart aches for more than one reason.

At that moment, the whistle blows, jarring my hate-filled thoughts of Lucas covered in honey with me dropping a hive of bees onto his bare and taut washboard abs. The crowd goes nuts. I whirl around to see what just happened.

A sea of orange and blue stains my view.

Goddammit. They scored.

Coach Greaves presses a hand into the top of his head, his lips thinning as he surveys the field. He speaks into his headset, no doubt calling a play into the defensive coordinator.

We're tied and there's about two minutes left in the game.

Fuck.

I should be out there right now, helping Gabe get that ball to the other end of the fucking field.

By some miracle, the Pirates miss the field goal, so we're still tied when we take possession of the ball. They kick the ball. My breath hitches as the offensive line marches down the field with it. We end up on the thirty-seventh yard line for our third down.

Eight seconds…

The center crouches to hike the ball. Gabe catches it and launches his arm backward to let the ball fly into the air. He jogs backward, searching for an open set of arms until a whistle blows.

Coach Greaves calls a time-out with two seconds to go. He turns and points to Matt Harrison. "Get out there. Like you said, we've got this."

Harrison looks at me, his eyes wide. He dumps his cup onto the ground and darts onto the field to get ready to kick a field goal.

Thirty-seven yards is far enough where my breath sticks in my throat, but not so far that it'd be divine intervention to make the field goal.

I clench the top of a chair in front of me, blood rushing between my ears as Harrison gets into position for the kick. Time slows, his right leg moving in slow motion. He makes the kick and the Pirates swarm and spin around to stare at the goal post. Everyone freezes, staring as the ball spirals through the air.

And then the fucking ball sails through the goal post, and the Crusaders win the game.

I let out a whoop and get ready to run onto the field when someone grabs my arm.

"If you want to play in that first playoff game, you'd better think twice before running into that." Colin Mercer nods his head at the mountain of football players moshing in the middle of Trop field.

I grin. "So you think I'll be ready?"

"I think we need to do another round of X-rays, but stupid ideas like the one you just had? Keep them to a minimum; otherwise, no promises you'll make it onto the field when we face off against the Saints." Colin grins. "I'll set something up this week and we'll get that arm checked out."

The guys come in off the field, the entire offensive line carrying Harrison on their shoulders. Gabe Kelly brings up the back of the celebration train. He sweeps a hand through his sweaty hair, his eyes glittering.

"Nice game," I say, giving him a fist bump.

"We're getting closer and closer, Maxwell. You ready for that matchup?" Gabe's lips curl upward. "When was the last time you went up against the Saints?"

"Oh, you mean, what was the last crushing loss we suffered against them?" I roll my eyes. "I try to forget them as soon as they happen, not that Bryce is much help in that department."

"Yeah, that's gotta be harsh. Speaking of losses, you notice the one variable missing in both of our last two wins?" Gabe waggles his eyebrows at me, and I flip him off.

"There were a couple of variables, actually. Jase shouldn't be the only scapegoat for all those losses."

My spine stiffens when Lucas's voice hits my ears. I turn to see him standing to my left, a sheepish smile on his face. "Yeah, well, I'm pretty sure he's only looking at me right now." I toss Gabe a glance over my shoulder. "But don't worry, Kelly. I'm gonna be fierce once this cast is off. That game is as good as ours."

With a clenched gut, I push past Lucas and away from the rest of the team before I throttle the fucking guy. Blood boils in my veins, heat flooding my face to the ends of my hair as I stomp through the tunnel.

My skin prickles with sweat. It's always fucking brutally hot here, even in late fall. I'm gonna have to peel my shirt off like it's goddamn Saran Wrap. I grab my phone from my pocket. I don't give a fuck if I'm missing the post-game meeting. All I want is about five shots of bourbon and an Uber to get me the fuck away from Lucas Bentley.

With a thundering heart, I hold the phone out and scroll to the Uber app on my screen. I scroll some more, type in the stadium address, and just as I'm about to confirm the ride, Bryce's face appears.

I recoil. His was the last face I thought I'd see, especially since our last conversation.

Stabbing the Accept button, I manage a forced smile.

"Your face looks like you have to take a shit," my brother says.

"Makes sense since Harrison told me I was so tense a few minutes ago, I was gonna crap out a diamond."

"That was some kick." He nods and holds out a bottle of water as if to cheer to us. I narrow my eyes at the label of the hoity-toity alkaline water Lucas drinks.

"Yeah," I grit. "Something else."

He gives me an expectant look.

"I, uh, was a dick last time we spoke." I rub the back of my neck. "Sorry."

"And?"

I furrow my brow. "What? You guys don't play till later so I can't congratulate you on an amazing win because you ain't delivered it yet."

Bryce chuckles. "Jesus, Jase. I wasn't digging for compliments. I wanted to know how the arm's doing. When's the cast coming off?"

"Hopefully by game one of the playoffs. You gonna be there?"

"If you're facing off with me, then you'd better fucking believe it."

"Do you ever…" A pang slices at my heart, the words scraping against the sides of my throat like the sharpest knives. "You ever think about how Kyle should be out there? Christ, can you imagine what he'd have done if he was part of the league?" My shoulders sag, a deep breath shaking my chest. I lean back against the wall.

"Yeah." Bryce's voice is soft but tight. "The league never got to find out what a tremendous player he was. What a leader. What a talent. Such a goddamn waste."

The question sears the tip of my tongue, just like it has so many other times I've wondered if Bryce ever knew the truth about Kyle. He didn't show up at the house that night after homecoming. I never knew why.

Part of me wonders if he encouraged Kyle to tell Dad. Did he know and stayed away because he was afraid of our dad's reaction? Or did he stay away because he didn't support Kyle?

Does guilt haunt him because of his decision to bury his head in the sand?

I know guilt stains my soul because I never went after him and tried to convince him to stay instead of getting in his car that night. I never got to tell him that I didn't care about anything other than having him as my big brother.

He'd always been in my corner.

But that night, I didn't return the favor, and we lost him forever.

So did the football world.

But as much as I want to know what Bryce knew, I don't ask.

Because I'm afraid to hear the truth.

And more afraid that maybe, somehow, we could have saved him after all.

"I gotta go," Bryce says suddenly. "The busses are leaving the hotel soon and I have to finish getting my crap together."

I swallow hard past the lump in my throat. "Good luck," I choke out. "I'll be watching."

"Thanks." Bryce gives me a small wave. "See ya at the playoffs."

"That's right, you cocky bastard."

He chuckles and ends the call. I tug at the collar of my shirt with my phone in hand. The oppressive heat somehow made its way into the underbelly of the stadium and breathing is near impossible.

But I know it's not the heat.

It's the weight of my world and my reality lodged in my chest. The night I was with Lucas it had all but dissolved into sparks of light and hope. And then the morning after, those sparks were snuffed out by the same darkness that perpetually shadows my mind and my soul.

I thought I could escape it.

What a stupid fucking jock I am.

There's no way out for me.

And no way in for anyone else if I'm the goddamn gatekeeper.