The Wrong Play: A Football Romance (The Wrong Player Series Book 2)
The Wrong Play: Chapter 19

Something was off. I felt it the second I dropped into my seat, the sense of something missing settling over me like a weight I couldn’t shake.

Not because of anything obvious—not because my gut was twisting in warning or because my instincts were screaming at me to pay attention. No, it was something much simpler.

She wasn’t here.

Riley was always here.

Parked near the window with her laptop open, pretending to be focused on something important while totally people-watching instead. I’d watch the way her eyes would flicker over the room, cataloging everything, catching every whispered conversation, every unspoken tension.

And the second I slid into the seat next to her?

She’d roll her eyes, let out that little exasperated sigh when I handed her the coffee that she loved, like my presence was an inconvenience, like she wasn’t hyperaware of me, like she wasn’t stealing glances when she thought I wasn’t looking.

But today?

Her seat sat empty.

I pulled out my phone, flipping through my texts, searching for something—anything—but there was nothing. No memes. No sassy insults. No response to the love-sick text I’d sent her this morning just to get a reaction.

A weird, unwelcome feeling crawled up my spine, slow and suffocating.

Had I done something? Had I pushed too hard? Said something to scare her off?

I frowned. She hadn’t been feeling well the last couple of days. I’d caught the way she yawned between classes, the way she rubbed at her temples when she thought no one was paying attention. Riley never admitted when she felt like shit, never let on when she was running on empty, but I noticed.

I always noticed.

A sharp pulse of unease settled deep in my chest.

I needed to see her.

Now.

I pulled up the app, tapping into the camera feed I’d installed in her dorm. The screen flickered for half a second before settling into focus, and my chest tightened the second I saw her.

Riley.

Sprawled out on her bed, lying so still it almost didn’t look real. Her body was curled toward the wall, one arm tucked beneath her pillow, the other resting limply on top of the blanket like she hadn’t moved in hours.

I stared, my grip tightening on the phone, waiting for something—anything—to change. To show that maybe she was just sleeping in.

But she was too still, too silent, like the weight of something heavy had pressed her into the mattress and refused to let go.

A tingling prickle crawled up my spine, my skin going tight, my instincts screaming at me that something was wrong. The longer I watched, the harder my stomach twisted, like a fist had lodged itself beneath my ribs and squeezed. I knew Riley. I knew how she moved, how she curled and stretched and burrowed under the covers when she slept. But this? This wasn’t rest.

This was something else entirely.

What if it was her condition? What if she was having an episode? Fuck.

I shoved back my chair so hard the legs screeched against the floor, the loud sound cutting through the murmur of the classroom. The noise barely registered. My body was already in motion, muscles tensed, instincts screaming at me to move. My brain hadn’t even caught up yet, but it didn’t have to.

Because I knew.

The professor barely got a word out before I was halfway to the door, moving with a singular focus…my blood thrumming with urgency.

“Mr. Thatcher, where do you think you’re⁠—”

I didn’t answer, and I definitely didn’t slow down.

I didn’t give a single fuck about whatever consequence was waiting for me for ditching class. Because nothing in that classroom mattered. Not the lecture. Not the grade. Not the fact that football depended on me keeping passing grades. None of it.

Not when something was wrong with her.

I sprinted across campus like a lunatic, shoving past people, ignoring the weird looks and the muttered complaints as I bulldozed through the crowd. The pavement blurred beneath my feet, the dread growing with every step.

By the time I reached her dorm, my breath was coming fast, my entire body thrumming with urgency.

I didn’t bother knocking. My fingers curled around the cool metal in my pocket, gripping it tight, and I slid the key I’d made into the lock, turning the handle and pushing the door open in one smooth motion.

The room was completely silent.

Riley was still curled up on her bed, in the exact same position as she’d been when I’d first looked.

Pale. Unmoving.

Fuck.

I moved toward her on autopilot, dropping onto the bed beside her. My fingers grazed her cheek. “Hey, Riley-girl,” I murmured, my voice rougher than I meant it to be. “You decide that Ethics wasn’t worth it anymore?”

Her honey-colored eyes flickered open and stared at me with complete…hopelessness.

Something in my chest twisted, deep and unrelenting.

Fuck this.

RILEY

I knew the moment I drifted toward consciousness that getting out of bed today wasn’t going to happen.

Not because I didn’t want to—because fuck, I wanted to.

Because I couldn’t.

My eyelids felt heavy, weighted down like they had been glued shut. Each time I tried to lift them, they fluttered back closed, my body refusing to cooperate, betraying me in the way it always did when I needed it most. It felt as if a lead blanket had been draped over me, pressing me into the mattress, siphoning away whatever energy I might have had left.

Every inch of me ached. A dull, relentless throb radiated through my limbs…through my bones. My head pounded in time with my heartbeat, and my muscles burned like I had been running in my sleep. But I hadn’t been. I hadn’t done anything, and yet my body still felt like it was punishing me.

I let out a quiet groan and forced my eyes open, only for my vision to swim.

The weak morning light barely slipped through the gap in my curtains, but even that was too much, stabbing through my skull like a blade. The sharp, searing pain in my temples made me wince, my entire body curling inward instinctively.

No.

Not today.

I couldn’t afford this today.

I sucked in a shaky breath, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes as if I could somehow will the exhaustion away, but it didn’t work. It never worked.

I had already missed too many classes.

I was already so far behind.

I had to get up.

Swallowing hard, I blinked at the ceiling, trying to ignore the way my throat felt tight, like something was lodged there.

I could do this.

I had to do this.

Slowly, I forced myself to roll onto my side, bracing my hands against the mattress before pushing myself upright.

Pain shot through my back and down my spine, and the moment my feet hit the floor, nausea slammed into me like a freight train.

I sucked in a breath and bit down hard on my lip, trying to steady myself, but the room tilted.

I swayed, my knees buckling, and barely managed to catch myself against the nightstand.

My fingers dug into the wood as I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

Just get ready. Just push through it.

I let go of the nightstand and shuffled toward the bathroom, every step feeling like I was dragging myself through wet cement. By the time I reached the sink, my hands were trembling, my breath coming too fast, too shallow.

Still, I turned on the faucet and splashed cold water onto my face, hoping it would help, hoping it would do something.

It didn’t. Everything still felt wrong. Like my body had simply given up on me.

With shaking fingers, I grabbed my toothbrush, but the second I tried to lift it to my mouth, my arm barely made it halfway before it gave out.

The toothbrush slipped from my grasp, clattering into the sink.

I stared at it, my throat tightening, a lump forming that I couldn’t swallow past. Tears burned the backs of my eyes.

This wasn’t fair. I hated this.

I hated that no matter how hard I fought, no matter how much I pushed myself, my body still failed me.

I wanted to go to class. I wanted to be normal.

Grinding my teeth, I forced my body to move, snatching the toothbrush with a grip so tight my knuckles turned white. I wasn’t going to let this stop me.

I couldn’t.

But when I tried again, forcing my muscles to work, my legs buckled. I barely felt myself sink to the floor, gasping, my forehead dropping against the cabinet.

A strangled sob tore from my throat, and I covered my face with my hands, trying to keep it in, trying to breathe, trying to tell myself that this was just another bad day.

That it would pass. That it had to pass.

But sitting there on the cold bathroom tile, my body too weak to even hold itself up, it didn’t feel like it would. It felt like this was going to be the rest of my life.

And Jace—he couldn’t know. He couldn’t see me like this. I didn’t want him looking at me the way Callum used to, with thinly veiled disappointment, with impatience masked as concern. You’re too fragile, Riley. Too much work. Too much trouble.

Jace had fought for me, chased me down like I was something worth keeping. If he knew…if he saw me like this, broken and pathetic, would he still want me? Would he still look at me like I was his?

I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing down the nausea, the frustration, the fear. No. I wasn’t letting him see this part of me. I wouldn’t give him a reason to walk away.

I didn’t know if I could handle that.

I had no idea how long I sat there, curled up against the cabinet, shaking, crying—hating every second of it.

Eventually, my body forced itself into autopilot. I crawled back to bed, my limbs screaming in protest. The second I hit the mattress, I pulled the blankets over my head and squeezed my eyes shut, ignoring the wetness staining my cheeks.

I’d set an alarm. I’d try again in an hour.

But deep down, I already knew.

I wasn’t getting up today.