Intercepted (New Hope #1)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Mason

Unfortunately for me, Sean Robinson is a huge football fan. His home is decorated in green and silver banners, blankets, and flags. He has strict rituals before the Eagles play. He wears a specific pair of underwear on gameday, he switches his Casio G-shock watch to his right wrist instead of his normal left, and he only eats eggs sunny side up until kickoff. After that, you can't put anything in front of the man besides beer or he'll growl like a rabid raccoon.

I haven't watched a single minute of football since I returned to New Hope, but my teammates have filled me in via email. I've tried to ignore them, but Dallas isn't performing well this season. Our second-string quarterback doesn't vibe with the offensive linemen. A few wide receivers have taken it upon themselves to leave voicemails on my phone, harping about the new addition to the team. I haven't answered anyone, not even my agent.

Philadelphia is hosting the Thanksgiving game this year, and what do you know, they're playing Dallas. I've been sequestered in the quaint Robinson living room, smashed between Sean and Phillip, Stephanie's husband, as my old team gets pummeled into the turf. Aidan is sitting by the fire, wincing along with me every time the quarterback gets sacked. Stephanie and Phillip's youngest son—Jaxon or Jason or Justin—inches closer and closer to the Christmas tree, his eyes on one of the crystal ornaments. When he reaches out his tiny hand, Phillip sprays his son with water from a squirt bottle designed for disobedient cats. The two-year-old squeals with laughter, darting across the room to try for another sneak attack.

The women are in the kitchen—a little misogynistic if you ask me, but no one has—prepping the feast. I've tried to traipse into the other room, but Jessica merely hands me another beer, and shoos me away. I'm on my fourth, and if I didn't know any better, I'd assume Mallory's mother is trying to get me drunk.

"Oof!" Aidan exclaims, but I can't even look at the television anymore. It's too painful. "Halftime, finally."

Sean elbows me in the ribs, taunting me with his grin. "The Birds might have a chance without you on that field, Reeves."

I'd like to tell him to fuck off, but I've already met the barrel of his shotgun on one occasion. When we told Mallory's parents that she was pregnant, Sean gave me a five second countdown to get the hell out of his sight, or he'd put a slug in my throwing arm. I hid in the bushes outside their colonial cottage, waiting for him to calm down. I was out there for three hours before Jessica brought me some hot chocolate and welcomed me indoors for an adult conversation.

Mallory's family is wealthy, but they don't act like it. Sean started his own logging company in his twenties. He's a millionaire, but he spends his money where it counts. He splurges on things like life insurance and his daughters' educations. He doesn't waste his cash on fancy cars or impressive houses. He wants to leave a sizeable sum for his descendants after he passes.

The halftime show starts. NBC is doing a ranking of the best touchdowns in Thanksgiving history. They start at number ten, Kanye West's "Praise God" serving as background music. I cringe, already knowing what's going to be number one.

When the time comes, I'm sunken into the leather sofa. Sean grunts when he sees my picture on the screen. It's a headshot from Dallas, my uniform crisp and bleached white for the cameras. My image fades, revealing the play I knew they'd show. It's one of the highlights of my career, but now it just makes me uncomfortable.

Four years ago, Dallas played the Eagles on Thanksgiving. Unlike today's game, we were decimating them. The center handed me the ball, and I ran with it. I had seventy yards to go, but fate aligned that night. My offensive linemen did their job, and so did I. I sprinted, football tucked safely beneath my arm. One of their defenders broke through the line, but I was too fast. Cocky, I waved as I passed him. I even had enough time to do a backflip into the endzone. I ripped my helmet off, cupping my hand around my ear, listening to the crowd scream.