Instantly, everyone perks up, shooting glances as me, then back at the TV. I can’t even meet Drew’s eyes. I want to cry. I stare at the TV instead. The footage splices to my face, the very moment, I’d broken, tired of hearing the doubt in the reporter’s voices, of seeing them turn against their hero. I’d wanted to punch each and every one of them.
“You named him Battle for a reason,” my voice snaps through the speakers. I look angry. I remember that anger. It had fueled me, made my words come out hard. “Because he never quits. You’re going to have to trust that he won’t give up on this either.” My TV self pushes past them then and escapes in Drew’s car.
My face is positively on fire now. Every eye is on me, but I only care about one set, and he isn’t looking my way. And then I notice that the rest of the guys are grinning.
“You tell ‘em, Scarlett,” says Marshal, which for some reason earns him a bap on the head by Dex.
“Ain’t nobody messing with our boy,” Rolondo insists. “Not with our girl kicking ass.”
Gray catches my eyes, and a small, bemused smile plays about his mouth. I blush harder.
And then they’re all laughing and talking as if nothing happened.
I stare at Drew until he finally lifts his head. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, and that scares me. I move close to him, afraid to touch him. I shouldn’t have talked. Never talk to the press. Even I know that.
Still not quite meeting my gaze, Drew collects my hand. His is cold and dry as he links his fingers with mine and brings them up for a kiss. “You defended me.” It’s a quiet murmur.
“Of course I did. I’ll always defend you, Drew.”
He presses his lips against my fingers. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”
“I’m not,” I say. “I’m only sorry that they had to ask. Of course you’re coming back.”
He looks away. Not long after, he hobbles into our room, claiming that he’s tired. He doesn’t come back out. And from then on, he doesn’t ask the guys over. Avoids them all with a skill that would be impressive if it didn’t worry me so much.
“I only want you,” he whispers against my neck in the dark cocoon of our bed. “Only you.”
It ought to please me. But it doesn’t.
AS LONG AS I don’t think about football, I’m all right. But the world doesn’t want me to stop thinking about football. I’m beginning to resent the claim the game and its fans have on me. I’ve given it my all. I’m tired now.
Coach expects me to come to practice, there’s only one game left, and it’s the National Championship. I need to be there, show my support. The coward in me wants to hide. I don’t want the pity looks. But my team deserves better from me. So I’ll go. But Coach also wants me to go to physical therapy. I need to stay in form as my leg heals.
I promise to go to PT, but I don’t. I don’t do anything. And it becomes a weight on my chest. But I can’t seem to snap out of it. I know Anna notices. She hasn’t said anything, but it’s coming. She wouldn’t be Anna if she kept her opinions to herself.
Worse? The nightmares. They hit me like a sack. I wake shaking and sweating. It takes me too long to realize that I’m not on the field, my mask buried in mud, turf in my mouth, and my leg bone snapped in half.
But I’m okay. As long as I don’t think about football, I’ll be okay.
Hard not thinking about something you love.
Anna has gone out with Iris. She was antsy as she left, fidgeting with the car keys and kissing me almost absently as she bustled out of the door.