“Here comes Baylor,” annoying bar dude says, clapping. “Kick some ass, Battle.”
“Is he any good?” I ask James as New York’s quarterback takes the field.
“Yeah.” James looks disgruntled. “He was Manny’s rival in college, you know. Finn was drafted the year before Drew Baylor. And you should know this, missy.”
“We don’t exactly talk about football all the time.”
James grins. “Right. Too busy licking his fine—”
“James!” Jamie gives his arm a slap. She’s been quiet up until now, clearly not in her element. “Stop it.”
He cackles but then gives her a swift kiss. “I’m just messing with Chess.”
“You’re being a pig.”
“Yeah, that too.”
Unfortunately, James is right. Drew Baylor is good. He reminds me a lot of Finn in the way he moves and in the size and shape of his body. The main difference seems to be that while Finn has a more playful demeanor, clearly joking with his offense and even the defensive linemen who try to tackle him, Baylor is all gruff business.
I don’t like watching him play, because it means Finn might lose. Part of me wants to leave now, go book a flight home and just be there. But it feels like a betrayal not to watch Finn finish this game. He has no idea that I’m watching, so it shouldn’t matter but it feels like it does. As if I’m supporting him, even though I’m nearly two thousand miles away.
I hate that distance.
New York doesn’t manage to score and, after a nice punt return, Finn is soon back on the field. They’re tied now, and tension coils in my gut. Please win. He needs this. I need this for him.
For three plays, I sit on the edge of my seat, as Finn and his offense battle their way down field, gaining some yards, losing others. Another drive, and I’m fairly twitching. The ball snaps. Finn catches it, steps back, he pump fakes one way and then, as if on cue, lets it fly. James screams as the ball soars.
Guys at the bar scream too, lamenting.
It’s to Jake again. He jumps high, his body stretched to its limit. I bite my lip hard. Jake catches the ball and, in the same instant, a safety slams into his lower half. Jake flips head over heels, still clutching the ball. He lands head first onto the field, his head snapping towards his chest.
He crumples. And doesn’t get up.
My heart stops so hard and fast, the room spins. Refs blow whistles. Medics rush onto the field.
“Jake.”
I know this man. I’ve laughed with him. Eaten with him. He is Finn’s best friend.
Finn, who, when Jake doesn’t get up runs over to be with him. His helmet is off and he stands far enough back to let the medical staff work. His eyes never leave Jake, who lies lifeless in the end zone, his arm still wrapped around the ball.
I stand in the middle of the bar, my fists balled at my side, thinking he’ll get up. It will be like Jerry McGuire, and Jake will soon be dancing around in the end zone. But he doesn’t. They call for a stretcher.
Finn grasps the back of his neck with both hands and begins to pace. The camera zooms in on him. A strangled sound leaves me. Because the look in Finn’s eyes has ripped open my heart. Although his expression is tightly controlled, I know him. Terror, agony, helplessness, it’s all there, swimming in those blue depths. He’s crumbling inside.
I grab my coat, slinging it over my shoulders. “I have to go.”
James rises. “Chess.”
“No,” I shout, then take a breath. “No waiting. He can’t be alone like this. I won’t let him be alone anymore.”
James nods. I don’t wait to see if he and Jamie follow. I run straight out the door. The night is bitterly cold. My breath leaves in white puffs that obscure my vision. A cab comes down the block on the opposite side of the street. Without pause, I whistle high, lifting my arm.
It starts to slow, and I run to meet it.
Call it sixth sense, call it self-preservation, but the second I step out onto the street, my body tenses all at once. I feel the danger before I see it. Or maybe I hear it.
Someone shouts my name, unhinged and desperate. But I don’t turn that way. I turn towards the rushing sound at my side. All I see is a blur before impact. Something hits me so hard, my brain registers it as sound: shattering light bulbs, dropping from a great height. Stars sparkle behind my lids.
I think of Fred slamming into me in a smoke filled hall, and for a second I don’t know where I am.
Finn’s frowning face flashes in my mind, and then there is nothing.
* * *
Finn
* * *
What the fuck just happened? What the fuck just happened!
The thought cycles through my skull as I pace the halls in the bowels of the stadium. It had been a perfect pass, a sweet forty yard spiral straight into the end zone. Jake had caught it. Perfect catch. A thing of poetry.
That ball had landed in his hands, and I swear I felt the contact. We’d been connected in that play, one mind. Fucking poetry.
And then he went down.
Panic skitters up my throat. I can’t breathe. I’m going to be sick. I halt and bend over, resting my hands on my thighs as I take deep breaths. We deal with injuries all the time. Pain and football go hand in hand.
But neck injuries, spinal damage. It’s the thing you don’t even want to think about. Not just career ending but life altering. He could die.
The ground beneath me sways. I grip my thighs tight.
Breathe. Breathe.
A door opens with a squeak. I don’t look up as footsteps approach.
Charlie stops beside me. “Been looking for you.”
I’d done my part. Finished the game. Bucked the fuck up and buckled down to win it. Nothing less would satisfy any of my guys. The fact that Jake had been joking at halftime about a “Win one for the Gipper” speech, almost made me lose it a couple of times.
But I’d held it together. Kept my game face on after the game, through the post game interviews where reporters clamored to know how Jake was doing. I’d wanted to know too. It fucking killed me, not knowing, waiting to hear what the doctors had to say.