Page 104 of The Check Down
“That kiss was hot enough to keep me warm for the entire game.” He grins and rubs his gloved hands up and down my upper arms, though I hardly feel it through the puffer. “Still love seeing you in blue.” He tweaks the pom-pom on top of my Blues beanie.
Popping up onto my tiptoes, I speak low into his ear. “If you don’t get inside and warm up, your balls are going to turn blue and fall off, and I love them, so…” I peck his beard and lips. “Have a good game.”
I expect him to join the teammates headed into the tunnel, but he bends and puts his mouth to my ear. “My blue balls have nothing to do with the weather. Later, after we win this fucking game, you and I can fix them. I’ll make you a deal: the number of times I score today will be the number of times I make you come tonight.”
Holy. Hell.
Face heating, I peer at the people around us, making sure no one overheard his filthy bargain. “What’s your record for number of touchdowns in a single game, Racy?”
He smirks and holds up two fingers.
Lips part. Toes curl. Thighs clench.
God, I need him to have a good game.
With a wink, he smacks one final kiss to my still-red cheeks. Then he tears off down the tunnel.
In a daze, I follow Paige to the suite level, where we have a sweet reunion with the Laceys. I haven’t seen Griff’s family since before the holidays, so it’s wonderful to have time to catch up before kickoff.
When number 89 runs in a touchdown at the beginning of the second quarter, I shed the navy- and sky-blue scarf Mrs. Lacey knitted for me. In the third, when Beau sends a beautiful spiral down the field and Griffin makes the catch in the end zone, then points at our suite, my hat and gloves come off.
Even though offense has played flawlessly so far, the Blues are down by six with two minutes left. Paige clasps my hand in a death-grip when the Warriors are forced to punt. Our receiver signals a fair catch, and then the whole stadium is on their feet as the guys step up to the twenty-five yard line.
“I’m so nervous,” Donna wails, clutching Fred’s arm.
On her sister’s other side, Dottie glares at the field like she can scare the players into winning from here. “They’ve got this.”
Tucker looks nauseous, while Shaw paces behind the seating area, his eyes glued to the TV monitor in the corner.
“Come on, Beau. Come on, Beau,” Paige whispers under her breath as her fiancé steps back and launches a pass on first down. His aim is perfect; the ball sails into the capable hands of Tyrell Jefferson, who tucks it and whizzes down the sideline. He’s the fastest guy on the team, and for a second, it looks as though hemay run it all the way. But he’s forced out of bounds at the Warrior twenty-five.
On second down, the Blues attempt a draw play, but it only yields a five-yard gain. They run it again on second down, this time earning another ten yards. The clock steadily ticks down, and the Blues use their final time-out with a minute left.
While the guys huddle up with Mundy and Dobbins on the sideline, I fight the urge to gnaw on my fingernails. My pulse has skyrocketed, my temple throbs, and the fingers on my right hand are numb from Paige’s grip.
As the players jog back to the line of scrimmage, I slip my free hand into my pocket and feel around until my fingers find the smooth green aventurine. I hold it tight and let its warmth seep into my skin.
I want this win for Griffin so damn bad.
At the Warriors’ fifteen, Beau signals for the next play. But it’s a bad snap and our center almost fumbles the ball. Beau manages to land on it, and our only loss is a down. There’s a collective sigh of relief throughout the stadium.
On second down, the Blues run the ball and gain eight yards.
“Watch your time,” Fred warns from the row behind us.
Seconds ticking down, the guys get in formation. It’s third and goal. Beau steps back in the pocket, searching for an open guy in the end zone.
A six-five tight end in the back corner is his target. Griff leaps into the air, hands up, and makes the catch, landing with both feet in bounds. The stadium erupts as sixty-thousand Blues fans scream and cheer.
But we still have to make the extra point to win the game.
I hold my breath as our kicker’s foot connects with the ball. It sails through the air almost in slow motion, and when it clears the uprights, it’s bedlam—on the field and in the stands.
Our suite goes nuts. Paige and I jump up and down, tears streaming down our cheeks and smiling wide with joy. Tucker circles our bouncing bodies with his arms, throws his head back and whoops, his eyes red rimmed. Fred gathers Donna and Dottie in a group hug, and Trixie even leaps into Cam’s arms, knocking the cap off her copper pigtails. Shaw braces his hands on the bar behind the seats, head hanging low, taking a moment. When he raises to his full height, there’s no mistaking the gleam in his eye or the heavy rise and fall of his chest as he exhales his relief.
“First time in nine years!” Fred shouts over our excitement—this will be the Blues’ first playoff appearance in nearly a decade.
We’re standing in the family zone to greet the guys after their locker room celebration and press duties when it hits me—Griffin scoredthreetouchdowns today.