The Wrong Play: A Football Romance (The Wrong Player Series Book 2)
The Wrong Play: Chapter 9

I wasn’t going for him.

That’s what I kept telling myself as I stood in front of my mirror, tugging at the hem of my black tee for the hundredth time, like it’d magically turn me into someone who wasn’t full of shit. My reflection stared back—messy blonde hair spilling over my shoulders, my hazel eyes too wide, too jittery, like I was about to bolt. I yanked my fingers through a tangle, cursing under my breath, trying to shake the nerves buzzing under my skin like a swarm of pissed-off bees.

I was going for me. Not Jace. Not the guy who’d been haunting my head for two days straight, ever since I’d run away from him, my chest tight, throat burning…telling myself it was done. Tasha had invited me to the game after she’d found me hiding out in the library again—another sorority recruiting event, apparently. And while I was pretty sure sorority life wasn’t for me, and Tasha had not shown me the sisterhood that supposedly went with it…I hadn’t said no.

The fact that Emma had done something weird again had also been motivating in accepting any excuse to get out of the room.

Yesterday morning, I had woken up to replace her sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, completely still, just staring at me again. Not blinking. Not moving. Just watching.

When I finally sat up, groggy and thoroughly creeped out, she smiled—an eerie, slow stretch of her lips—and whispered, “I counted how many times you stopped breathing in your sleep.”

I had bolted out of bed so fast I nearly tripped.

So yeah, maybe I didn’t have a future as a sorority girl, but getting out of my dorm, away from Emma and her unsettling midnight activities, seemed like the right call.

If I was honest with myself, though…

I wanted to see him. Even from far off. It had been two days, but no amount of reasoning, no stern self-lectures, had made the ache in my chest go away.

Two days since his brown eyes had locked on mine, all heat and fight, since his voice, low and rough, had cut through me like a blade. Two days since I’d let the past dictate my future.

Two days…

And now? Now, I was craving him, like a starving woman desperate for a taste, even though I knew how it would end. It was pathetic. Stalkerish, even. I’d been the one to run, and here I was, creeping back for a peek through the crack.

I groaned, loud and dramatic, grabbing my small purse off the bed and storming out before I could talk myself into staying. The air outside hit me cool and sharp, late October crispness cutting through the humidity, and I shoved my hands in my jeans pockets, trudging toward the stadium. My sneakers scuffed the pavement, each step a little heavier, my stomach twisting tighter the closer I got. I could hear the crowd already—distant roars, chants bleeding through the trees—and my pulse kicked up, a quick thud against my ribs.

Tasha was waiting by the gate, bouncing on her toes like a cheerleader, her dark ponytail swinging and an orange T on her cheek as she waved me over. “I thought you were gonna flake again, St. James,” she teased, linking her arm through mine before I could dodge, her grip firm and annoyingly chipper.

“I almost did,” I admitted, letting her pull me toward the entrance, my sneakers dragging like I could slow this whole thing down. My eyes darted around—orange jerseys everywhere, drunk guys yelling, girls in glittery makeup giggling past us—and once again I felt like a fish out of water, flopping in the chaos.

She laughed, bright and unbothered, her eyes glinting with that sorority-girl shine I’d never get. “That’s ’cause you don’t know how good these games are yet. You’re gonna love it—promise. But first—” She stopped, digging into the little pouch slung over her shoulder, pulling out a sponge and a tube of thick orange paint. “Face paint.”

I blinked, stepping back like she’d pulled a knife. “Wait—what?”

“For school spirit, duh,” she said, already dabbing the sponge into the paint, the stuff oozing like tar. She gestured for me to lean down, her grin wide and relentless. “C’mon, sweetcheeks—don’t be a buzzkill.”

Her calling me something ridiculous reminded me of Jace. Ugh.

I sighed, loudly, but bent anyway, feeling the cool, wet stroke of the sponge as she pressed it to my left cheek. It tickled, the paint cold against my skin, and I scrunched my nose, holding still while she worked. “What are you putting on me?” I mumbled.

“Perfection,” she said vaguely, stepping back, admiring her work like I was a canvas instead of a human being. She held up her phone to show me the sorority symbol—a sharp, swoopy theta thing—staring back at me from her camera. Then she winked…suspiciously, and said, “One more thing.”

Before I could open my mouth to protest, she was at it again, the sponge swiping across my right cheek, quick and deliberate. Her grin turned smug, all too pleased with herself, and my stomach did a slow, uneasy flip. “Tasha,” I said, voice low, warning, “what are you doing?”

She smirked, flipping her phone around again, the front camera flashing my reflection back at me.

I nearly choked. There—clear as day, bold and orange—was Jace’s number. The 77 scrawled across my right cheek was like a neon sign screaming my stupid, secret obsession.

“Tasha—” I started, my voice climbing as my hand flew up to scrub it off. The paint was already drying, though, sticking like glue.

“Relax,” she giggled, grabbing my wrist to stop me, her nails digging in just enough to hold me still. “It’s just a number. Besides, you like him.”

“I do not—” I spluttered, heat rushing to my face, my free hand flapping like I could wave the lie away. “That’s not—I’m not⁠—”

“Then why are you here?” She cut in, arching a brow, her voice all knowing, like she’d caught me red-handed.

I opened my mouth. Shut it. Opened it again, fumbling for something—anything—that wasn’t the truth. “I—I’m checking out your sisterhood thing,” I finally said lamely, crossing my arms tight over my chest, glaring at her like it’d make her drop it.

“Uh-huh,” she said, smirking wider, dragging me through the gate before I could bolt. “Sure, Riley. It’s fine—no one’ll even notice.”

For a dumb, fleeting second, I let myself buy it. I told myself one little number didn’t mean anything, that I could slip into the crowd, watch from a safe distance, get my fix of Jace without him ever knowing I was there. Just a glimpse—his broad shoulders under the pads, that cocky grin flashing through the helmet—then I’d be gone, back to my room, back to pretending I didn’t care.

Until we got to our seats.

Tasha tugged me down the steps, chattering about tailgates and some sorority mixer after, her voice a blur as my eyes darted around, taking it in. The stands were packed—orange and white bleeding together, flags waving, the air thick with beer and sweat and that electric hum of a game day. She stopped, plopping down, and I sank into the seat next to her, my bag thudding to the concrete under my feet. Then I looked up—really looked—and my stomach dropped like a rock.

Front row. Practically on the freaking field. So close I could see the scuff marks on the sideline, the sweat on the referees’ foreheads as they jogged past, the field passes on some of the people wandering around. My breath caught, a sharp hitch in my chest, and I slouched lower, tugging my hair forward like it’d hide me. “Tasha,” I hissed, voice tight. “You didn’t say we’d be this close.”

She grinned, popping a piece of gum in her mouth, completely unfazed. “Best seats in the house—sorority perks. You’re welcome.”

“I’m not thanking you for this,” I muttered, my hands twisting in my lap, nails digging into my palms. The 77 on my cheek felt like it was glowing, burning, like every eye in the stadium could see it, could see me, sitting here like some desperate groupie, stalking the guy I’d pushed away. I’d told him no—told myself no—and now here I was, painted up like his biggest fan, heart hammering so loud I swore it’d drown out the crowd.

The field was still empty, and I let out a shaky breath, trying to calm down. He wouldn’t notice. There were thousands upon thousands of people here, and he’d be concentrating on the game. Maybe I could keep my head down, blend in with the crowd, sneak my glimpse and get out before he ever⁠—

The roar hit first, a wave of noise crashing over the stands as the team burst from the tunnel, their helmets glinting under the lights. My eyes snapped up, traitor that I was, as I desperately scanned the pack of broad shoulders in orange jerseys.

And then, there he was.

He was jogging out with his helmet tucked under one arm, his long hair flowing out behind him. His stupid, cocky…incredibly gorgeous grin tugging at his lips like the roar of screaming fans was no different than any other day, and he was king of it all. My chest tightened, a quick, sharp squeeze, and I slouched lower, heat flooding my face, the 77 prickling like a brand.

Jace moved like he always did when I saw him—loose, easy, all swagger and muscle. His pads shifted with every step, and I watched in awe at the sight of his biceps flexing as he caught a football. I couldn’t look away.

I didn’t want to.

My breath was shallow as I stared, my hands clammy against my jeans. Two days without him, and it hit me like a freight train—how much I missed him…and how much I hated myself for it. I’d pushed him away, and now I was here, creeping like some lovesick idiot, desperate for just one look.

Then it happened. His head turned, casual at first, scanning the crowd, and his eyes found me. Instantly. Like he’d known exactly where I’d be. His piercing brown eyes locked on me, cutting through the chaos like a laser, and my heart stopped, a dead thud in my chest. His grin faltered, just for a second, then stretched wider—smug, knowing, a little dangerous—and I froze, my face on fire, the 77 screaming my guilt louder than the crowd ever could.

But then I saw it—something on his cheek, a smudge of black under the stadium lights. I squinted, leaning forward despite myself, my breath catching as it came into focus.

Riley St. James. My name. Scrawled across both cheeks in bold, messy paint, right there for the world to see.

Shock hit me like a slap, my jaw dropping, a choked sound slipping out before I could stop it. “What the—” I whispered, my hands gripping the seat…my brain short-circuiting. He’d painted my name on his face…my name. Like some kind of claim, like a mirror to the 77 Tasha had slapped on me. My stomach flipped, a wild, dizzy lurch, and I sank back, my pulse roaring as his gaze held mine, way too long and intense, before he turned back to the field, jogging off with that same damn swagger.

“Shit,” I breathed in a shaking voice. Tasha nudged me with a giggle I barely registered. He’d seen me. He’d seen the number. And now, I’d seen my name on him—Riley, right there, like he’d marked himself with me.

I loved it.

JACE

The stadium roared as we took the field, the noise shaking the ground as we ran, but it barely hit me. My head was somewhere else—locked on one thing, one person, like a missile with a target painted in neon. Her.

Helmet tucked under my arm, I stood on the field, sweat already beading down my neck from warm-ups, my eyes scanning the stands like a predator sniffing out prey. Even if I hadn’t given the tickets to that sorority chick so I could make sure Riley was here, it wouldn’t have taken long to replace her—it never did. I had a built-in radar for Riley St. James, some fucked-up homing device wired into my bones. I hadn’t asked for it; it would have been easier without it, but hell if I was turning it off now.

There she was—front row, smack in the middle of a few sorority girls. Her blonde hair was a wild mess over her shoulders, catching the stadium lights like some kind of golden beacon. And those hazel eyes…I could feel them from here; even if she was doing her best, I don’t see Jace Thatcher act.

Then I saw it.

My number.

Big, bold, mine.

An orange, inked-up 77 scrawled across her cheek. Holy fuck…

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Matty hissed, his gaze weirdly up in the sky.

“What’s wrong with you?” I growled back, because something primal had risen up in my chest when I saw my number on her skin, and I kind of felt like a grizzly bear…or a lion. Those were cooler. But seriously…how the fuck was I going to react when I got her to wear my jersey if this is how I was acting now?

One thing was for sure, I was definitely winning today, and the game hadn’t even kicked off yet.

“Why are you…” Matty continued, waving down at my…crotch?

Ohhh…the Anaconda was currently at full mast. Apparently, seeing my number on my lady was cause for him to celebrate. Down boy…that would not be pleasant if I got hit in this condition. I turned toward my bestie, hoping changing my viewpoint would help me to settle. “It’s okay, Matty. That extra inch won’t bite,” I told him assuredly.

He huffed and eyed my face paint because evidently he’d decided to be Judgy McJudgster today. My lips twitched, stretching into a slow, smug smirk as I smeared my eye black under my eyes just to fuck with him. At some point in this game I was obviously going to score, and then the cameras would catch me. And when they zoomed in, the whole world was gonna see what I’d painted on my own cheeks. Riley St. James, scratched in black, a little messy but clear as hell. Just another way I was hoping to nudge Riley to figure out she wasn’t just some girl…she was mine—signed, sealed, and about to be delivered.

We lined up at the twenty-yard line, second and five, clock ticking down in the first quarter. I adjusted my gloves, fingers flexing, digging my cleats into the turf until I felt the bite through my soles. My eyes flicked across the defense—the linebackers creeping up, the corners pressing tight…obviously expecting some short-yardage play.

“Hey, Thatcher, your dick’s the size of a tic-tac,” Clayton, one of the aforementioned corners, taunted.

“That’s why your mom’s breath smells so good,” I told him, enjoying the weird red color that creeped up his neck.

Parker’s cadence cut through the noise, sounding suspiciously like he was struggling not to laugh. “Set! Hut!”

I exploded off the line, legs pumping, faking a quick inside slant before cutting hard to the outside, my cleats tearing into the field. The cornerback bit like a dumbass, his feet tripping over themselves as he scrambled to recover, his arms flailing.

Parker read it like the god he was, and the ball was already soaring—a perfect spiral slicing through the stadium lights, glinting as it arced toward me. I stretched out, fingers brushing the laces, then hauled it in, yanking it tight against my chest, my heart slamming like a jackhammer. A safety charged in, and I lowered my shoulder and plowed through, slamming into him like a truck, dragging his ass a few extra yards, his grunt loud in my ear as we hit the turf hard.

First down. I popped up, the ball still locked in my grip, adrenaline buzzing through me, and my pulse thundering in my chest. Every yard, every route, every hit—I was playing for her. Knowing Riley was up there watching, those honey angel eyes tracking me, was like pure, uncut dope pumping through my veins. Superman? Fuck that—I was better, stronger, running on her like she was my own personal fuel.

We didn’t slow down. We kept the tempo hot, snapping the ball fast. The next play, I ran a quick hitch, letting Turner take the spotlight. Parker fired it out—an out route, crisp and low—and Turner caught it clean, turned upfield, and took off. The crowd lost their shit, screaming as he juked one defender, then spun past another, cutting through them like a magician pulling tricks before a linebacker finally snagged him at the knees, dragging him down. Fifteen yards, easy. We were marching—eating up the field—and the anticipation of scoring and getting in front of those cameras was making me giddy.

“Why do you have that look on your face?” Parker muttered as I jogged past him to line up.

“It’s my face, Parkey-Poo. It’s just pretty like that.”

Third and goal. Red zone flashing under the lights, the kill zone—where games got won, where legacies got carved into stone, and where gods like me loved to live. I lined up wide, rolling my shoulders, shaking out my hands, my gloves tacky with sweat and turf.

And then I looked. I couldn’t help it.

Riley.

Front row, arms wrapped tight around herself, her hair falling in her face like she thought that’d be enough to keep me from seeing her. Fat chance. I felt her watching—like static in my veins, that undeniable charge between us. She was definitely nervous about the play judging by the way she was biting down on her lip like she wanted to chomp it off.

I wanted to bite that lip.

Focus, Jace. Now’s not the time to pop another woody.

Parker clapped his hands, voice sharp over the line. “Hut!”

The second the ball was snapped, my body ignited. Instinct took over. I exploded off the line, cutting straight through the defense. The red zone was tight—less space to work with, less time to react—but I knew where I was going before the defense even realized it.

Footsteps thundered behind me. I felt the safety closing in, felt his presence like a storm at my back. But I was already there—already two steps ahead, already reading Parker’s eyes as he scanned the field.

A beat. A breath.

Then—release.

The ball spiraled through the air, cutting clean through the stadium lights, headed exactly where I needed it to be. I turned, extending my hands, fingers tightening around the leather just as a linebacker lunged for me.

Too late.

I planted my foot and twisted, breaking past his outstretched arms. The moment my cleats hit the end zone, I tucked the ball tight against my chest, grinning as the roar of the stadium crashed over me.

Touchdown.

Jogging toward the nearest camera, sweat sliding down my face, my chest heaving under my pads, I waited for the lens to replace me—which it obviously would…because I was the fucking money shot.

And when it did?

I tapped my fingers against both cheeks, right where her name was smeared in black ink.

Then I turned, slow. Deliberate.

And locked eyes with her.

I was too far away to catch every detail, unfortunately—there was no way to see if her face went white, if her lips popped open, if her whole body locked up when she saw what I was doing. But I knew it had. I felt it, deep and sure, like I could reach out and touch her from fifty yards away.

Those honey-colored eyes were burning into me—I’d bet my left nut on it—wide and shocked, pinned on me like I’d just ripped the ground out from under her.

My Riley-girl thought she could run. She thought she could hide, push me off, bury whatever this was under two days of silence. But there was no escaping this—no ducking me, no dodging what I’d carved into my skin for her to see. She’d painted my number on her cheek—willingly or not, it didn’t matter—and I’d answered with her name on mine. Checkmate, baby llama.

We wouldn’t go into the fact that I’d been stalking her across the campus the last two days whenever I wasn’t in class or practice. Because, obviously, I couldn’t go two days without seeing her.

That wouldn’t have been just crazy.

The ref’s whistle cut through, signaling the extra point, and I jogged back to the sideline, giving Parker the hip thrust I usually did in the end zone, because I knew he would be missing it. He rolled his eyes, grinning like a jackass, and slapped my shoulder. “I thought you were trying to stop her from running,” he said, his voice rough with a laugh.

“It’s all in my master plan,” I shot back, wiping sweat off my forehead, my eyes flicking up to her again. She was still there, standing stiff, like she was caught in my crosshairs and didn’t know how to break free.

Good. Let her squirm. Let her feel it, the weight of my number on her, her name on me, this thing between us she couldn’t outrun.

Halftime came eventually with the score seventeen to seven, us in the lead, of course, and I jogged to the tunnel, peeling off my helmet, sweat dripping down my neck and soaking my jersey.

The boys were loud—Parker yapping about the drive, Matty cackling about some hit—but I tuned them out, my gaze flicking back to the stands one last time. Riley was still there, rooted, that 77 bold on her cheek, her arms crossed tighter now, like she could shield herself from me.

I tapped my cheek again, even though she couldn’t see me, my cock twitching just looking at her. I grinned, slow and determined, already picturing it—another image coming to mind…of me smearing that paint across her skin, dragging it over her lips, down her jaw, marking her messy with me. I’d paint her in my cum, inside and out, until she couldn’t breathe without tasting me.

She thought she could ditch me two days ago—she thought she could wash me off.

Nah, babycakes.

Riley St. James was fucked. ’Cause I wasn’t letting her go—ever.