What if ... We Hurt Each Other? The Series Book Two

Fifty-five thousand fans. A sold-out stadium. This was something different entirely, and Jamie felt the pressure pressing down on him, leaving him with no air to breath.

The tunnel was an echo chamber of concrete. Loud, cramped, and suffocating. Around him, armor clashed as players slammed their shoulders against the walls, the vibration traveling straight into Jamie’s teeth. Smoke machines choked the air. The bass from the booming music vibrated in his cleats.

He wouldn’t be here tonight.

He wouldn’t sit in the stands, cheering for him.

No one would.

Not his high school friends.

Not his family.

They were thousands of miles away watching him on a screen.

They had tried to keep in touch, but the six-hour time difference was ruthless. Either one of them was working or sleeping. This was not how Jamie thought things would go.

He had gotten a text, at least. Shortly before the game.

Good luck, Captain.

He had hoped for more, but lately Louis had been keeping his distance, only curtly replying to Jamie’s countless pathetic messages.

One person would be there, though.

One person would stand in the selected area reserved for family and friends.

Waiting for him to stop by before the game for some motivation and an encouraging kiss.

The music hit its peak. Their cue. The gates opened. The players stormed the stadium.

A sea of burgundy red and silver flooded the field. This was his debut. He couldn’t fuck it up. He just couldn’t. The extreme speed shock of Division-I was hitting him all at once.

He would lead them to victory.

He had no doubt.

He might suck at life, but he was good at football.

The crowd erupted.

The stadium lights relentlessly beat down on the turf, blinding against the matte silver helmets. Here he was. Burgundy poster boards blurred in the stands. His number seven was everywhere—plastered on student chests, painted on cheeks. They didn’t know him. They just knew the recruitment stats Coach Evans had sold to the press.

Sterling had insisted on Jamie keeping the number seven. He already had a brand with this number from high school. He would write history with it; of this, the staff around Evans was sure.

Jamie began his warmup drills. He felt the cameras aiming at him, tracking his throwing hand, and wondered what the commentator said about him.

Jamie Montgomery, the cowardly little faggot who was too much of a pussy to stand up for the man he loves.

Loves.

Yes.

Jamie did love Louis.

As tears threatened to blur his vision, he pushed the thoughts aside and walked with his teammates toward the stands.

“Hey gorgeous,” a soft, by now familiar voice said.

The girl put a gentle hand on Jamie’s face. “I truly believe in you. You will so rock this. Are you doing okay?”

Jamie nodded wearily, then shook his head. “No. But it is okay. Thank you for being here tonight.”

“Of course, silly. Where else would I be if not here by your side?”

She pressed a soft kiss to his lips. He always tasted so clean. She wondered how he pulled it off—no matter what time of day, he smelled like he had just stepped from a steaming shower and stuffed his mouth with freshly cut peppermint leaves.

She didn’t like boys.

She never had.

But Jamie was safe, and she liked Jamie.

The new feeling of a dumped-out basket full of butterflies in her stomach whenever he was close startled her, the sudden turmoil catching her off guard.

Especially when he looked this fragile. He was always dressed when they met. She hadn’t even once seen him shirtless. He respected the promise he had given her that cold October evening of last year.

“I got to go. I’ll see you after the game?” he asked, gripping his helmet.

“I will be here.”

She kissed him one last time.

She had to.

It was for the show.

Their public cover.

Their reputation.

But was it really?

She considered for a split second letting her tongue softly part Jamie’s lips to see what he felt and tasted like on the inside of his mouth. But she decided differently. It would break their oath and destroy his trust. And probably not lead to victory, but to defeat. They spent a lot of time together. She easily managed to look behind his facade. She had seen how easily he could get thrown off.

“Taylor, let the man go. He has to win a game,” Coach Evans said, slapping Jamie encouragingly on his shoulder pad. “Afterwards he will be all yours, right son?”

“Yes, sir. Of course,” Jamie replied politely, adjusting his wristband play-card.

He nodded, turned his back on the crowd, and headed straight into the center of the field, his eyes already scanning the sideline to lock onto Coach Reynolds’ opening offensive signals.

“And leading the Spartans offense today... making his Division-One collegiate debut... true freshman, number seven... JAMIE MONTGOMERY!”

Jamie cringed as his name echoed through the stadium, the massive Jumbotron screens freezing on a giant, close-up live feed of his face. Fifty-five thousand people were staring directly at him. There was no time to blink, flinch, or show the panic clawing at his throat without the entire stadium seeing it.

The lens finally drifted away, releasing him from the display. Jamie pulled his helmet down, the dark visor snapping into place to hide his eyes from the stands. He joined the offensive unit as they broke the sideline huddle, trotting out across the white yard lines together.

Jamie stood in the shotgun formation. His fingers locked onto the leather laces. The noise from the stands was a deafening weight, drowning out everything until the stadium’s roar beat in perfect synchronization with his own pulse.

“Blue eighty! Blue eighty! Set... hut!”

The snap flew into his palm, crisp and clean.

Jamie took a rapid five-step drop. Instantly, the pocket collapsed. Silas Thorne missed his block at Left Tackle, and the New York Empire’s star edge rusher tore through the gap. Before Jamie could even track the route downfield, a sudden, violent impact struck him from the blindside.

He hit the ground hard. The air left his lungs in a violent gasp, his chest tightening as the turf burned his bare forearm.

I do not like brutal American game with ball like egg. Is like car crash, yes? With bulldozer! Non, stupid brutal car crash game.

Jamie closed his eyes.

He saw Louis standing over him, looking down in a highly disapproving way with his arms crossed. The French boy raised an eyebrow.

Must I always worry?

Welcome to Division-I, Jamie thought.

By the end of the first quarter, the scoreboard read 10-0. The home stadium was a pressure cooker of tension.

On the sideline, Coach Evans stood with his arms crossed, his gaze unyielding as he watched his freshman player sit in silence on the bench.

“Look at me,” Gavin Mercer commanded, stepping in front of Jamie in the huddle as the second quarter began.

The senior Left Guard grabbed Jamie’s shoulder pads, anchoring him to the grass.

“The line holds now. Trust the shield, Seven. Throw the ball.”

Gideon Cross barked the adjustments at the line of scrimmage. When the ball snapped, Gavin Mercer delivered a fierce, crushing block that leveled the oncoming defensive tackle.

The pocket stayed clean. Jamie stepped up. His throat was dry, but his arm acted on pure instinct. He fired a rapid, biting slant route over the middle. Jude Brooks snatched it out of the air in open space, picking up eight yards and moving the chains. The rhythm clicked. Three plays later, Rowan Miller pounded the ball downhill into the end zone.

By halftime, the Spartans closed the gap to 17-14.

The real test struck with exactly 1:45 left in the fourth quarter.

The Spartans trailed 24-21.

No timeouts.

Jamie was drenched in sweat as he looked to the sideline. Coach Evans and Coach Reynolds signaled the play frantically, their arms cutting through the air.

He stood under center. Time slowed down around him. The noise vanished. He scanned the Empire secondary. He noticed the safety creeping down into a tight man-to-man coverage look. It was a gamble, a stark invitation to test the deep field. Jamie audited the play at the line, shouting the audible over the roar of the crowd.

He took the snap. Dropped back. The right side of the offensive line buckled under a fierce blitz, but Jamie stepped directly into the chaos of the pocket. He brought the ball back, his mechanics clean, and launched a beautiful, unwavering deep ball down the right sideline.

Tristan Hayes triggered his lightning speed, burning his cornerback by two steps. The ball tracked perfectly over his shoulder. Hayes hauled it in at the goal line.

The stadium exploded.

The final whistle blew: Sterling Spartans 28, New York Empire 24.

Jamie was swarmed by his teammates. It all went so fast he had no time to process what was happening.

They had won.

They had secured victory in the opening game...

... and there was no one to share it with.

He had never liked the victory bonfires at the desolate Santa Barbara beach much—but now he would die to be there.

Celebrate with his friends. His sister. Louis.

What Jamie didn’t know was that his parents and Hetty were popping the champagne at home, waiting to call and congratulate him on his successful first game.

He didn’t know Louis was sitting alone in his dark Paris home, staring at a stuttering international stream so he wouldn’t miss a single snap, saving every broadcast to a hard drive. He was with him for every single step.

Jamie didn’t know that Lea had already texted him either, thanking him for the opportunity he had given her and mentioning she planned to visit soon.

For now, there was only the cold turf, the shouting fans, his new life, and his official girlfriend.

Coach Marcus Evans strode straight across the field through the media swarm. Flashing lenses blinded him. Microphones shoved straight toward his chin, reporters shouting questions he didn’t know how to answer.

The noise was suffocating.

Evans placed a hand on Jamie’s bruised shoulder pad, giving a single, intense nod.

The decision was validated.

The starting spot belonged to number seven.