Love, Ally by Hannah Gray
thirty-one
Ally
“They are going to lose this game,” Sloane mutters to me.
“And it’ll be Cole’s fault,” I say the sentence I know she’s thinking.
“Well … I wasn’t going to say that. But …”
I can’t defend him because he is sucking ass out there. But I know why he’s struggling so much. Not only did I unload my secrets, but I also unloaded Jenn and Matt’s too. I damaged him before this game. If they lose, it’ll be as much my fault as his.
Normally, he dominates the field. He demands attention. He’s six foot two and as graceful as a damn tiny dancer. He’s light on his feet, and he always seems to know exactly what’s going to happen next. It’s truly an honor to watch him play to his full potential.
Unfortunately, tonight isn’t that.
“Storms is fucking terrible tonight,” a guy with gelled hair says in front of me. “They ought to shit-can his ass. Embarrassment to the team.”
“And you ought to shit-can your hairstyle, asshole. It isn’t exactly hiding your receding hairline,” I mumble much louder than I anticipated.
“What the fuck did you say, bitch?” He stands up, not looking intimidating at all.
“Pfft … please. You’re a balding, middle-aged man who likely never played sports and who likely didn’t get off your mom’s tit till you were fifteen years old. Please sit down and shut your mouth. Or better yet, shove some more of that popcorn in it.”
Reluctantly, he huffs and puffs before sitting back down. Never saying another word besides a few inaudible grumbles.
“Remind me not to piss you off,” Sloane says quietly, leaning into me. “You go for the jugular.”
“Fuck with my family, and I’ll piss in your Cheerios.” I shrug. “Cole is family, and so are you.”
She smiles and pats my shoulder. “Thanks, Al.”
Cole’s body is out there, running around. Physically, he’s there. Mentally, he’s not even in the same state. It’s heartbreaking to watch. Each throw that he doesn’t catch, sack he doesn’t avoid, and incomplete pass he launches into the air only seems to make losing feel inevitable.
Normally, if he messes up, he turns his game up to one hundred and ten percent, just to prove himself. But not this game. This game, he just seems more defeated with each mistake he makes.
Looking at the clock winding down, I can’t wait for it to be over. All I want to do is run to him and make sure that he’s all right. He’s saved me more times than I can count. It’s my turn to save him. Or at least try.