The Game by Vi Keeland by Vi Keeland

* * *



BELLA



“Hey, kiddo.” I waved to Wyatt from the bottom of the bleachers as he ran over. He’d just kicked a forty-yard field goal to end the second quarter and was all smiles as he thumbed back toward the uprights.

“Did you see that? Where’s my contract? The Bruins gotta get them some of this.”

I laughed. “I think you should try finishing high school and college first.”

He waved me off. “Man…school’s for dummies.”

“I went to four years of college, did my master’s, and three quarters of a PhD. What does that make me?”

Wyatt grinned. “Wasteful. You own a football team. You didn’t need to do all that.”

He was teasing, so I spared him the lecture about the value of a good education. “Is your mom here? I didn’t see her in the stands.”

“She’s gotta work late again. She said she’d try to make the end of the game. But I told her not to. I don’t want her taking two trains to get here only to see the last sixty seconds. There’s a game next Saturday she can come to.”

“I’ll cheer you on for both of us.”

He waved. “I gotta get to the locker room before Coach kicks my ass. See you after the game?”

“Butt—before the coach kicks your butt. And yes, I’ll find you after the game is over.”

Wyatt ran back to join his team.

I took a seat on the bleachers and spent halftime catching up on emails from my phone. It was hard to imagine how most people in the Bruins organization got anything done with the amount of emails and meetings they had to manage. Five minutes into the third quarter, I noticed a news truck pull up in the parking lot not too far away. Then another one, and another. I really hoped they were here for the team and not me. I slouched down into my seat, just in case. By the end of the third quarter, there had to be a dozen trucks crammed into the already-full lot of cars. But none of the media had come in. They’d gotten out of their vans and were standing around waiting for something. I tried to focus on the game and pretend they weren’t there.

At one point, Wyatt’s team was behind by three, and it was third and twelve. Their offense hadn’t been too reliable making the long first downs this game, so the coach signaled for Wyatt to get ready. I watched with a smile on my face as he shot practice kicks into the net on the sideline behind his team’s bench. It seemed like only yesterday I was babysitting, and he was taking practice shots on me in front of the soccer goal.

As had been the case for most of the game today, his team didn’t convert for a first down. So Wyatt jogged onto the field to set up for a field-goal attempt. I nibbled my lip, feeling tightness in my chest as I waited for him to take his shot. I had no idea how professional players managed the stress. My heart felt like it was going to jump out of my chest, and I was only a spectator at a high school game. I might’ve held my breath as he ran toward the ball and reared his leg back for the kick.

But I jumped up and down and screamed when the ball sailed through the uprights. “Great job, Wyatt! Woo-hoo!”

“Damn, I didn’t see you jumping around like that when McKenzie knocked the ball in for three last Sunday right before halftime.” A man’s voice startled me.

“Christian?” I turned and blinked a few times.

He smiled. “Bella?”

I peered around him, though I had no idea what I was looking for. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged. “Bringing the media.”

“What do you mean?”

“You said your friend’s son is a good player, but his school doesn’t get much attention. I figured I’d help out.”

My mind was still boggled that Christian Knox was standing next to me, here at the field of St. Francis Prep High School in Queens. Not to mention, he looked ridiculously sexy in a backward baseball cap, so it took my brain some time to catch up. “But how did you know there was a game?”

“You told me the other day in your office, after you hung up from your call with the kid. I believe you referred to him as Trouble.”

I shook my head. “Oh, yeah…right.”

I wasn’t used to most men listening when I said something important, much less paying attention when I mentioned something in passing. “I can’t believe you’re here. Do all those news trucks follow you wherever you go?”

He shook his head. “I had one of the team’s publicists leak where I was heading.” Christian lifted his chin toward the scoreboard. “Your boy just tied it up, huh? I saw him knock it in while I was walking from the parking lot.”

“Yeah, he’s doing great. That’s his third field goal of the game.”

The reporters huddled in the parking lot were now spread out along the sideline, setting up their tripods. Christian noticed me looking around.

“I told them I’d talk to them after the game, but to keep their eye on the home team kicker until it’s over.”

“That was so kind of you. Thank you. Wyatt is going to freak out when he realizes all of these reporters are here to see him.” I paused. “Well, they’re here to see you, but you know what I mean.”

“No problem.”

We stood side by side, watching the game for a few minutes in silence. “Is your friend here?” Christian asked. “You said it was your friend’s son.”