It started when I was a redshirt freshman, and I'd plugged my phone into a set of speakers, making the guys listen to music before a game. We'd crushed it that day, and, being superst.i.tious b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, we'd decided that we had to listen to the same song before each game.

I complete the ritual now, pulling up Radioactive by Imagine Dragons and hitting play.

Some guys close their eyes, let the pulsing music roll over them. Others kind of sway, start getting worked up, their blood pumping.

"Visualize," Coach says over the music. "See the win. It's there. Yours. Already."

It happens slowly, heads bobbing to the heavy beat. It draws us together, makes us form a huddle. Then we're jumping, one ma.s.s of bodies feeling the same rhythm, same beat, same mind. We are one. When the refrain hits, a bunch of them shout it out, "Woah-oh."

Energy flows through us, vibrating with the ba.s.s. The power of eighty guys jumping in unison shakes the floor. The music fades, and it's just us, revving up. My heart pounds, my body pulled tight with antic.i.p.ation. That tension within us reaches its peak, and as if we'd planned it we roar as one, "Go, Red Dogs!"

Ivy

"G.o.d, I'm nervous," Anna says at my side. "And Drew isn't even playing. I don't know how you deal with this."

Third quarter and the score is 35-30, and our team is the one down.

Fi shrugs. "I deal by people watching and hitting the buffet." She nods toward the impressive buffet spread at the back of the luxury box we're sitting in.

Anna laughs. "I used to cater that buffet spread. Well, not that one, but you know what I mean."

I'm trying not to notice the buffet because my stomach is rolling. Is it nerves or morning sickness? I don't know. Aside from slight fatigue and breast tenderness, I haven't had any pregnancy symptoms. It's early, so I'm guessing they'll develop. My fingers are cold too, so maybe it is nerves. I take a bracing breath. "They'll win."

"Of course they will." Anna nods then glances at me. "You're looking a little peaked. You want me to get you a ginger ale?"

"Yeah, that would be great, thanks." From the corner of my eye, I see my dad chatting with the university's athletic director, and a tinge of guilt hits me that my friends know about the pregnancy but my parents do not. One thing at a time. Bowl game, then confess to the parents. Yay.

Leaning back in my chair, I wave the big foam finger Fi gave me back and forth to get some air movement. It's freaking hot in here and too confining. I cast a longing glance at the stadium seats below. I want to be out there where it's nice and open. But Anna, Fi, and I are all up here with my dad, the university staff, and a couple of boosters.

I watch Gray take the field again. He's not hard to miss, towering above most of his teammates, the number eighty-eight clear on his wide back. Football uniforms aren't exactly s.e.xy. Pads and helmets obscure a lot. But the pants? Shining red Lycra lovingly covers Gray's tight a.s.s, which is now currently displayed on the multiple flat screens along the suite wall as the cameras zoom in on his team's huddle. I have to smile; if Gray were here, he'd be making tight-end jokes.

He looks focused now. They have plenty of time, but I know Gray won't be complacent. He'll push and fight for every inch gained. Always will. His confidence on the field borders on c.o.c.ky. Only he never shows off, he simply plays with his whole heart.

Anna comes back with my soda, and I take a grateful sip. The ginger ale is ice cold and fizzy. But it doesn't shake off the growing nausea. If this keeps up, I'm going to give up a good chunk of this game to the porcelain G.o.ddess. Grimacing, I run a hand along my aching neck.

Oppressive heat swarms up my body. Saliva coats my mouth and sends my stomach churning. Setting aside my soda, I stand up. My lower belly feels heavy, as if a bowling ball is rolling around in the small s.p.a.ce between my hips. Queasiness rises within. The heaviness turns into clenching, and I rest a hand on my middle.

Faintly, I hear people talking. Someone is calling my name. But my innards are writhing too much to pay attention. The room swims in and out of focus, and my heart begins to pound. I need to get to the bathroom. The thought barely pa.s.ses my mind when a violent cramp wrenches through me, knocking the air from my lungs. I double over, and a gush of slick, hot wetness flows between my legs.

"Ivy?" Anna's voice comes at a distance, buzzing and indistinct.

Tears blur my eyes as I try to speak. Something is running down my legs. Blood. I lift my head, find Fi reaching for me.

"It's bad," I say through cold lips.

The room is spinning. Dad is suddenly at my side. "What the h.e.l.l is wrong with her?"

Fi is whispering in his ear. He turns pale and glances down at my lap. He winces.

They're moving me back, making a circle around me. The room fills with murmurs, gawking faces.

"Daddy," I say. "I'm sorry." I want to tell him I'm pregnant, but I don't think I am anymore.

Someone calls for a doctor, and all I can say is, "Don't tell Gray. Not now. Promise not to tell him yet."

Fi's hand is strong and warm on my icy one. "It's okay, Ivy. It will all be okay."

But I know it's a lie.

Thirty-Three.

Gray

Fourth quarter, third-and-ten with a minute on the clock, and my blood is pumping. There is a sharp, metallic scent in my nose. The crowded stadium buzzes around me, a dull hum at this point compared to the ringing in my ears. Every inch of me hurts, my bones aching, my joints throbbing. I've a gash on my knee that stings. Sweat runs into my eyes. And I wouldn't change it. My entire body is alive and working to accomplish one thing: win this f.u.c.king game. One touchdown and we have it.

I head back to the huddle, and a defensive lineman shoulder-checks me as he pa.s.ses, taking the moment to taunt, "Gonna bring you down, p.u.s.s.y boy."

"I do love p.u.s.s.y," I say, facing him while walking backward, my arms wide. "But yours smells a little off. Better get that checked."

Mr. No Humor points at me. "You're going down."

"Gotta catch me first. So far you've been tasting my cleats." At that I jog off and join my guys, ignoring whatever else the dumba.s.s has to say.

"Please tell me I get to smoke Ninety-Two's a.s.s," I say to Cal as we gather at the forty.

Behind the grill of his face-mask, Cal grins wide. "Funny you should say that, Grayson. Time to become the Gray Ghost."

Gray Ghost. Because stopping me is as impossible as catching a ghost. Which is both apt and awesome. "Gray Ghost it is then, Frost," I tell Cal, giving him a nickname, as well. Because d.a.m.n if he didn't earn one today.

He simply nods. "Let's put this game to bed, boys."

Cal gives us the play, and I smile with teeth. For me, it's a simple hook play, with a lot of intricate subterfuge on my teammates' part to throw the defense off the scent. My body hums with antic.i.p.ation.

At the line Mr. No Humor is glaring. "You ready for me, Blondie?"

I put my toe on the line, hunkering down low enough to let him think that I'll charge him at the snap. "Now, I'm gonna block your a.s.s," I tell him nice and conversational-like. "But that don't mean I want your p.u.s.s.y, 'kay?"

The dumb ones fall the hardest. It's almost too easy. He practically vibrates with fury. "Gonna run right over your pretty face."

I blow him a kiss, pretending I'm paying attention to him, when really I'm breathing hard and deep, drawing in more oxygen to enrich my blood, moving my weight to the b.a.l.l.s of my feet so I can take off. My body draws tight, like a crossbow about to be launched.

Cal's voice rings out. "Hut!"

The world explodes into motion. Thinking I'm going to block, the lineman steps left, roaring with aggression. I step right. He blows right past me as I sprint down the open lane my guys have made for me. Blood rushes through my veins; everything is m.u.f.fled grunts, bodies smashing into each other, and my pounding feet. Ten yards out, I cut right, pivot, body angled toward Cal, and the ball sails into my waiting hands.

That's all I need. Another burst of energy surges. Spinning, I sprint down the field, a lineman on my a.s.s. In my periphery, a safety is barreling toward me. They don't know what I know. Now it's all about physics. Velocity, ma.s.s, momentum.

The lineman hooks his arms around me, intent on dragging me to the ground. But I'm bigger, stronger. Holding the ball low and tight, I hunker down, dropping my center of gravity. I drag him with me, the bulk of his body colliding into mine actually increasing my momentum. And when the safety hits us, he's useless because he's coming at the combined weight of me and the lineman. It's too much ma.s.s for a guy his size to handle.

Their dead weight works against them, dragging them down my moving body. I break free. One, two, three tip-toe steps along the edge of the sideline, then I'm off again, maximum velocity toward the end zone. Footsteps pound behind me. Hot breath on my neck.

f.u.c.k that noise. I run full out. My lungs burn, my muscles scream, but I don't stop. Another safety comes at me from the left.

Still running, I reach back and strong-arm him, my hand at his collar. We're barreling down the field, almost at the end zone. He falls in front of me, and I leap, my foot clipping his helmet.

I'm tumbling, ball clenched tight, my body flipping head over a.s.s. Don't lose sight of that little orange cone, though. It's right there. Just get the ball over.

With a grunt, I twist, fall toward it, body extended and arm outstretched, my hand holding on tight to the ball. Bodies slam into mine with explosions of pain and deep grunts.

We crash into the turf with bone-shaking force. I see stars. But I've done it. Touchdown. Whistles blow, refs' arms in the air. And the roar of the crowd rushes over the field.

Winning a huge game is like nothing on earth. The noise of the crowd is deafening. A roar that vibrates my bones and rings in my ears. Confetti flies, and the energy of eighty-thousand shouting spectators surges across the field on a wave that gives me a hard-on. I'm so high on it that I'm literally bouncing, screaming and whooping as I go.

My team is bouncing with me. Hard slaps of victory hit my back, my pads, my head. I thrust my fist toward the sky. We f.u.c.king did it. We f.u.c.king won. We're going to the National Championship. My skin p.r.i.c.kles with pride.

Pandemonium is the name of the game now. I barely remember giving interviews. I know I said the standard lines, of being grateful for my team, of being happy to win, and the need to buckle down for the championship game. It's all true, but my attention is diverted.

Around me, my teammates, coaches, and staff are celebrating. Confetti sticks to my hair, a big chunk of it tickling my neck where it's stuck under my collar. I move past friends and well-wishers. Ivy. Where is Ivy? I need to see her like I need my next breath.

Through the sea of faces, I spy Drew making his way toward me. I let out another whoop and run to him. "f.u.c.king h.e.l.l, man," I shout happily when I reach him. "We did it! Can you believe it?" I give him a bear hug, hauling him off his feet.

Drew chokes out a laugh, and I let him go so he can breathe. His smile is wide, but oddly forced. "You guys rocked, Gray-Gray."

He sounds off. s.h.i.t, is he upset he didn't get to play? I feel like an a.s.s. Running my hand through my damp hair, I try to think of something to say, that he'll soon be playing again. His leg will heal. But Drew steps in close, his expression suddenly tense. "Gray... s.h.i.t. Ivy's been taken to back to the hotel."

Sharp p.r.i.c.ks of dread stab my face as my body goes rock hard. "What? Taken? What does that mean?"

People b.u.mp into us. The dark shape of a TV camera is in my periphery. But I focus on Drew.

He leans close. "Ivy had a miscarriage. I'm so sorry, man."

It comes at me like a hard hit, shattering something deep in my chest. I can't make myself move. A metallic taste fills my mouth, the ground beneath me tilting. "Is she okay?" Please G.o.d. All the blood seems to be draining from my head down to my toes.

"Rakin is with her."

Rakin is one of our team physicians. I expel a breath, feeling a little better, then pin Drew with a look. "When?"

Drew just shakes his head. "Sometime during the game."

I explode. "Why didn't you f.u.c.king tell me sooner?"

"You were playing-" His fist pushes against my chest when I charge him. "And I didn't know until five minutes ago. Anna just texted me."

"Aw, yeah," shouts a voice behind me. A second later, Rolondo slams into us, sending my shoulder pads into my jaw. "That's what I'm talking about! Whoo!" His grin fades as he looks at me and Drew. "What's going on?"

Drew gives a tight shake of his head. "Ivy."

That's all he says, but it's enough. Fear surges once more. I sway, dizzy and sick to my stomach. We're surrounded now, reporters moving in. Maybe they smell blood in the water, or maybe they just want a sound bite.

Rolondo puts his hand on my shoulder. "Go to your girl. We got this." He turns, cutting the crowd off from me. "Who's got a question?"

I take off running, cutting through the crowd like a hot blade. My head is pounding by the time I reach the locker room. My gear falls where I toss it. I'm hauling up my jeans when my dad walks in. I've managed to avoid him all day, and now he shows.

Time and hard living have left my dad wrinkled and paunchy. I don't really look anything like him. He's wiry and dark-haired, his frame a good four inches shorter than mine. I look a lot like my mom-something I know p.i.s.ses him off. The only feature we share is the color of our eyes. Doesn't matter that he's responsible for giving me life; every time we're in the same room, I instantly want out.

"Gray-"

"I don't have time for this," I grind out, jamming on my sneakers. My fingers shake as I try to tie them.

Dad takes a hard step forward, his face red. "You're going to talk to me, G.o.ddammit."

"No," I snap. "I'm really not."