The End Game

by Kate McCarthy

  Leah has already taken off, starting her warm up laps without me. I jog quickly to catch up, ignoring the burn of pain shooting up my leg. “Have you noticed the crowd?”

  “I’m not talking to you,” Leah replies, panting softly as her booted feet hit the soft grass in a steady rhythm. She scans the bleachers anyway. “Oh look who’s here to see his girl play.”

  A smirk spreads across her face like butter. I follow her line of sight and my lips tighten against the wide smile trying to break free. Brody’s here. He’s midway down the stadium, standing in front of the first row of prime seats where our team bench is located. The Colton Bulls cap he’s always wearing hides his beautiful eyes and half his face. I can’t see his expression, but I can feel it. A heavy blanket of disapproval swamps me. It radiates outwards from his folded arms and tense stance like gamma rays. It doesn’t bode well, not with me here warming up when I told him I wasn’t playing.

  A scowl fixes on my face. Who does he think he is anyway? My brother?

  Behind him sits Jaxon and what appears to be half the college football team. They’re all wearing team colors, which includes the addition of war paint coating their cheeks. I glance over my shoulder. The team is jogging behind the pace we set, their eyes caught on the beefcake display that is Brody and his teammates. The boys see they have our attention and perform a mini Mexican wave.

  “The crowd must be here because half the football team is,” Leah puffs out, a trace of excitement in her tone. “You dating Brody is fantastic for us. Wait. He looks pissed.” She glances sideways at me, suspicion shooting from her eyes like darts. “Why does he look pissed, Elliott?”

  I purse my lips, not as easy to do as one would think while jogging warm-up laps.

  “Elliooottt,” Leah drawls in a warning tone.

  I exhale a loud puff of air. “Because I might have told him I wasn’t playing.”

  “Awesome. You’re starting your relationship off on a foundation of lies.”

  Oh you have no idea.

  “Calm down, Dr. Phil,” I retort as my booted feet sink into the lush grass with steady thumps. “It’s not a relationship. It’s casual dating.”

  “It’s exclusive dating,” she corrects. “That, my sad oblivious friend, is a relationship.”

  “How do you even know? Did you ever even date or were you and Hayden just born in a relationship with each other?”

  Leah doesn’t even acknowledge my response. She glances Brody’s way again. “He’s crooking his finger at you. You better go over.”

  “What?” My voice is a whip, but I don’t swivel my head. Instead, I look from my peripheral vision, trying not to be obvious. I have a game to prepare for, both mentally and physically, and he thinks I can just take time out to chat? Clearly he’s never heard the word no in his life. I refocus on my warm-up laps, keeping my eyes trained dead ahead.

  “No he’s not,” I say to Leah. “That’s just a twitch in his finger from an old football injury. He gets that all the time.” We’ve reached midfield now, leading the team behind us. Every step brings us closer to the subject of our conversation. I jerk my chin at the center of the field. “Let’s cross here.”

  “Elliott!” Paige puffs loudly from behind us. She must have run hard to catch up. “I think your boyfriend wants your attention.”

  I growl. I literally growl. It comes from deep inside, vibrating outwards from my throat with frustration. “For the love of …” I change direction toward Brody, over my shoulder saying, “Be right back.”

  Brody unfolds his arms, taking a step forward when I reach the hip-high fence that separates us. “This is you not playing, huh?”

  “That’s right,” I snap, in no mood to argue.

  He must sense it because he shrugs and says quietly, “Okay. I get it.”

  “Good.” I nod shortly. “Is there anything else or can I go now?”

  “Actually.” He turns his cap around, setting it backwards on his head. Then he grips the railing and leans in, his eyes glittering gems of mischief. “You should kiss me. For luck,” he adds.

  The very thought has my heart thundering in my chest, leaving me dizzy. My hands grip the fence tight, keeping me from pitching over. He peels them off and takes them in his, linking our fingers.

  “People want to see us together. They’re going to think it’s weird we’re not all over each other. Just—”

  Before I can second-guess myself, I free my hands and grab his tee shirt in both fists. I drag him as close to me as the fence allows and mash my lips down on his. The press of his mouth is warm and firm and shoots heat straight to my belly. Catcalls and whistles come from every direction. I shove him away with a gasp. “There.”

  “Oh no you don’t,” he mutters when I disentangle myself from his shirt to make my escape.

  Brody grabs me before I get away. Planting his large hands on my ass, he digs his fingers in and drags me back. “Oomph,” is the extent of my contribution when I slam against his chest. I seize his shoulders before I fall over, and he ducks his head and plants his mouth back on mine. His tongue parts my lips and sweeps inside, hot, hard, and aggressive.

  For a moment I’m suspended in shock. It quickly disappears, and I don’t hold back. A groan rises from his chest when I return the kiss with equal enthusiasm. My hands slide from the muscular contours of his shoulders and loop around his neck.

  Brody pushes his tongue deep, kissing me like I’m air and he’s drowning. I don’t want him to stop. Ever. I need more because it doesn’t feel enough. I know he feels the same when he frees a hand from my backside and uses it to fist my hair violently, ramping my pulse up and into the stratosphere. That’s where I float, mouth fused to his, ready to perform carnal acts without a second thought about where I am or who the hell’s watching.

  “I think they’re actually going to have sex right here in the stadium,” Eddie says from somewhere very, very far away. “Is anyone filming this?”

  “I’m on it,” Carter replies.

  Brody’s hands on me gentle, but he doesn’t let go. He draws his mouth from mine and I’m a panting, trembling mess with legs made of jelly.

  “Jordan,” he croaks, the first one to speak. He licks along his bottom lip, his eyes dark and disoriented as he stares at me, breathing hard.

  I stare back, shock freezing me to the ground so I can’t move.

  What in the freaking hell was that?

  The sharp shrill of a whistle pierces my skull, jerking me from my stupor. With a quick glance of my surroundings, I’m reminded of our audience and the imminence of my soccer match, and I’m horrified.

  “I have to go.” I extract myself from Brody’s hold. He doesn’t fight me and I’m thankful. I jog backwards for a moment, his eyes holding mine. I drag them away and turn, making my way toward Coach Kerr.

  Damn, damn, damn, I chant in time with the rapid beat of my heart. I shouldn’t have done that. Now my mind is complete mush.

  “You finished there?” Coach asks when I reach her side.

  I clear my throat. “It was just a quick kiss for luck.”

  Coach Kerr shutters the amusement in her eyes, keeping her expression stern. “Get out on the field, Elliott, or no amount of luck will help you when I bench you for not warming up properly.”

  I do as she says, and after a long, sweaty match, we’re tied one all with twenty minutes left in the game. The opposition is relentless and unforgiving but struggles to breach our defense. Our plan from the beginning was to wear them down. It’s working. Exhaustion makes their passes sloppy and their play more chaotic. Another five minutes pass before I get my break and shoot for goal.

  The air burns in my lungs and my ankle screams, but adrenaline is a powerful force that won’t be denied. Our team holds their collective breath as the ball tips off the goalie’s fingers in slow motion, reducing momentum. The entire stadium is silent for a single pin-dropping moment as the goalie falters, once, twice, and then loses the battle. The ball hits the back of the
net before dropping inside the goal.

  The stadium erupts and I’m tackled first by Paige and then the rest of the team. When I emerge from beneath a crushing, celebratory pile of sweaty limbs and excited hollers, I catch the football team doing another Mexican wave in the stands, this time Brody joining in and bringing his fingers to his lips, letting out a piercing whistle.

  Jubilant, I give them a quick bow and begin a jog back to position. The opposing team’s defender is letting loose a litany of foul curses from beside me.

  “Lucky shot,” she mutters somewhere in between, her tone disparaging.

  “There was no luck about it,” I snap. I’m sick of her taunts. They’ve been constant, her sledging an effort to destroy my concentration through the entire match. “We’re a fitter, better team.”

  With a sneering face and the referees focus elsewhere, she jabs her booted foot at my injured ankle. Her strike hits right in the tender part, and I crumple like a cheap suit, crying out as I hit the ground.

  “Ref!” Paige’s shout rips across the field, signaling him with her arm thrown high as she jogs toward me.

  I roll over and sit up, pain seizing hard and fast. My nostrils flare wide as I breathe through it in sharp, shallow pants. Loud shouts erupt from the bleachers. I barely hear it over the roar of blood in my ears.

  “Bitch,” Paige growls and shoves the defender in the chest. A cheer goes up from the spectators when the girl stumbles backwards. “I saw what you did.”

  The whistle blows, suspending play. The referee reaches me at the same time our team physician, Emilio, does. He runs a medical practice on the outskirts of Austin, and his fierce Italian temper is legendary. He keeps it leashed as he drops to a crouch in front of me, his eyes pinched in angry slits.

  “What happened?” he asks, taking hold of my left foot with care.

  “What happened?” Paige echoes with a shrill screech. She faces the ref while jabbing her finger at the number five center-back, her body a tense, quivering volcano ready to erupt. “That bitch just kicked Jordan in the ankle. You need to send her off, right now.”

  That bitch smirks while Emilio prods at my tender ankle. It feels like it’s been put through a meat grinder. I look away, hot tears pricking my eyes. I’m definitely benched now.

  Paige emits a low growl from her throat. She sounds ready to morph into a beast and seek violent revenge. Leah joins her side, and half the team circles us.

  “Don’t tell me how to do my job,” the referee barks at Paige. “I didn’t see the supposed altercation, so I can’t call it. Let’s resume play and watch your language, or you’ll be the one sent off.”

  “Are you effing blind?” she shrieks. A huge argument blows up. Shouts break out. Paige pushes the defender again when she starts returning fire. More cheers erupt from the bleachers. The girl pushes back, fisting Paige’s jersey and shoving her.

  “Come on. Let’s get you off this field,” Emilio says quickly when the confrontation escalates into chaos. “Can you walk?”

  The idea of being carried off is not one I want to entertain. “I can walk.”

  I yelp as I’m helped to my feet. The sound is drowned out by the argument in progress. It gains momentum when the referee holds up a yellow card.

  “Oh this is bullshit!” Paige gripes.

  I don’t hear the rest. My arm is looped around Emilio’s shoulder as he helps me limp from the field. The closer we get, the better I can hear Brody’s shout from the sidelines. My eyes find him. His body vibrates with anger. He redirects it from the sideline referee to my coach, who’s busy telling him to cool it or she’ll have him escorted from the stadium.

  “Hell,” I mutter.

  My cheeks heat. He’s making it worse. And when I reach the bench, claps break out as if I’m a war-torn hero returning victorious from battle. I duck my head and sit with an exhausted sigh of relief.

  “This is the best shit I’ve seen in ages,” I hear Carter say when the applause dies off. “Chick fights are hot. Way to go, Jordan!” he yells in my direction, as if I masterminded the entire altercation just for their viewing benefit.

  Eddie throws down his agreement. “We need to watch more women’s soccer.”

  “I don’t know,” someone else pipes in. “I haven’t seen any jersey’s ripped off yet.”

  Emilio kneels in front of me, shaking his head. Lifting my booted left foot, he rests it on his knee and begins undoing the laces. A shadow looms over us, blocking the bright glare of the stadium lights.

  “Get off the field,” Emilio says to Brody without looking up and slowly begins removing my boot, taking care not to jostle my ankle.

  I’m sucking in a hiss of pain when Brody crouches beside me. He looks up from beneath the brim of his cap, placing his palm on my right knee. There’s tenderness in his expression that melts me like butter. My eyes drop to his lips and my pulse thumps, reminded of how much damage he did to my heart with that kiss earlier. “You okay?”

  “Look, bud,” Emilio pauses and tilts his head, giving Brody a firm glare. “I don’t care who you are. I’m the team physician and it’s my responsibility to take care of my girl here. So either get your ass off the field or I’ll call security.”

  Brody’s nostrils flare. “So call security,” he bites out, his Texan drawl more defined with his anger. “I don’t care. Some bitch just jabbed my girl with a spiked cleat. I’m not going back to my seat.”

  Emilio appraises Brody with his dark eyes. They must reach some kind of macho understanding because he gives Brody a brief nod. “Okay. You get Jordan’s cleat off. I’ll get a bandage and some ice.”

  Brody takes our team physician’s place, picking up where he left off. He sets my boot on the ground and begins peeling my sock down my calf.

  “So here we are again,” I reply lightly.

  “Here we are again,” Brody confirms. His voice is tight, and I’m waiting for him to tell me I shouldn’t have been on the field to start with but it doesn’t come. Instead he bends his head, intent on his task as he unwinds the strapping tape that would’ve given away my pre-existing injury to Emilio. He rolls it up and tucks it in the pocket of his jeans without missing a beat.

  Gratitude fills me. “Thank you.”

  “Jordan,” Brody begins and takes a deep breath. He looks away, his eyes on the distance while my bare foot rests on his leg and his hands hold my calf.

  “What?”

  Brody’s eyes return to mine. No lecture is given. His lips curve instead. “I’m proud of you. You played real good out there.”

  Warmth lights me up from the inside out. Heedless of my injury, my returning smile is bright and unrestrained. “Thank you.”

  Emilio returns and when I’m iced and as comfortable as possible, Brody sits beside me and we watch out the last ten minutes together. Our team’s defense holds and when the final whistle blows, we win 2-1.

  Brody goes with Emilio to get my bag and a set of crutches so I close my eyes. Sensing company, I open them to find Jaxon standing before me. It puts me on immediate alert considering our last conversation didn’t go down so well. “Are you lost, Jaxon?”

  “Nope.”

  That single word indicates a conversation is imminent. I sigh heavily and close my eyes again. The bench shudders when he sits beside me. After a moment of silence I squint an eye open at him. “What do you want?”

  Resting his elbows on his knees, he’s links his fingers together. “Would you believe me if I said I just don’t want to see you hurt?”

  “No.” I stare out into the emptying bleachers opposite me. “Would you believe me if I said it doesn’t matter because I can take care of myself?” Which clearly I can’t. A certain brooding, flirty footballer is under my skin and I can’t dig him out. If I do something so stupid as to hand over my heart, Brody will mark it ‘return to sender’ and mail it back flatter than a turkey sandwich. The problem is that I’m not sure I can stop myself. “Why do you even care?” I ask. “We’re not friends if I
recall.”

  It’s a cheap shot, but I’m not feeling nice right now.

  Jaxon hisses through his teeth. “I guess I deserved that, but you lied to me.”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  His eyes roll. “Jordan—”

  “I don’t have to explain myself to you, Jaxon. All I’m saying is that I never lied to you. Circumstances aren’t always what they seem.”

  “Oh they aren’t?” Jaxon sits back on the bench and folds his arms. I’m struck then by how much he looks like Brody. His body is leaner and his hair has more curl, but their eyes and mannerisms are the same. “Are you or are you not dating my cousin?”

  “Is there a problem, Jax?” Brody says from behind me. His timing is impeccable.

  “Nope. No problem.” Unfolding his arms, he tucks them behind his head and leans back like he’s enjoying himself. “I was just telling Jordan here how crazy you are about her.”

  “Of course he is.” That comment is thrown in from Leah. I turn my head. Both she and Brody stand behind us. Leah’s had a quick shower and changed into sweats, her sports bag slung over her shoulder. Mine is in Brody’s hand. His other holds a set of crutches. “No one missed that kiss before kick off. I thought the stadium would erupt in flames.”

  Me too. Heat floods my cheeks just thinking about it. “We should get going. I need a shower.”

  Brody helps me with the crutches and our progress outside the stadium is slow. “Jax.” He tosses a set of keys toward his cousin. “Can you bring the car to the front parking lot?”

  Jaxon snatches them midair and shrugs. “Yeah sure, whatever.”

  We make it outside where my car is parked by the entrance, and Brody halts so fast I almost go ass backwards.

  He waves a hand at the hunk of metal parked on a perfect angle. “This is your car?”

  “Yeah, it’s my car,” I reply, my defensive hackles rising. “What of it?”