Intercepted (New Hope #1)

PROLOGUE

Mason

The sound of over eighty thousand fans pierces through my helmet, but it does nothing to drown out the pounding of my own pulse in my ears. The arena's lights beat down onto the crisp blades of grass on the field. They crunch under my cleats as I pivot, digging my spikes into the mud.

We're playing at MetLife Stadium in New Jersey. The February breeze cuts through the polyester arm guards under my uniform. It would be cold if I hadn't just sprinted the last twenty yards, which is one of the reasons the crowd has worked itself into a frenzy.

The other reason is that there are a handful of seconds left on the clock, and we're one touchdown away from winning another Super Bowl. This'll be my third championship ring, but my second consecutive with Dallas.

The center hikes the ball into my waiting hands. A battle erupts, helmets and pads clanging as my offensive linemen do their jobs. I'm light on my feet, hopping backward to scan the left side of the field for my wide receiver. I feign a pass to the running back, who proceeds to launch himself into the flurry, his arms cradling the nonexistent ball.

One of their linebackers breaks through, giving me less than two seconds to bring my arm back and snap, sending the ball sailing through the air and into the endzone. The last thing I see is the receiver jumping to make the catch, planting two feet in our endzone. Then, the linebacker throws his entire body into mine.

I'm a big guy, but not compared to these men.

My spine bends, and I hear a crack like a gunshot. I don't feel any pain, but I'm lying flat on my back, the crowd no longer muffled by my helmet. It must've ripped from my head with the force of contact.

I blink twice before my mind slips into unconsciousness.

The first thing I see when I close my eyes... is her.

She's younger, so it must be a memory. She's sitting on the hardwood floor of a ballet studio, tying the silk ribbons on her pointe shoes. When she hears my approach, she looks up, her permanent pout breaking into a wide grin. That smile is far too big for her angelic face, but I find it adorable. It's the first thing I noticed about her.

Soon after, I noted her long, white-blonde hair and cinnamon-colored eyes, which were framed with dark lashes and even darker brows. She could dance like a damn gazelle, far more graceful than me and my clunky, overgrown frame. She glided across centerstage like the laws of physics didn't pertain to her, like the music matched the beat of her heart. It's possible Tchaikovsky had a woman like her in mind while he composed Swan Lake.

I've just won the Super Bowl, but I'm obviously hurt. Most likely, I have another concussion. I don't have to question why I'm thinking of her at a time like this. She's never far from my mind.

Mallory Robinson is my biggest regret, my greatest downfall.

And me?

Well, I'm just the asshole who got her pregnant at fifteen.

***

Mallory

Everyone is gathered in town hall, a giant projector at the front of the room recieving a live feed of the Super Bowl. What was once a celebratory gathering has come to an abrupt end. It's quiet enough to hear a pin drop, which is exactly what old Mrs. Mayweather does when she glances up from her knitting, squinting at the screen. She can't see through her foggy glasses, but we all hear the announcers.

"Mason Reeves is still down after throwing the winning pass here at MetLife Stadium. It's Dallas's second consecutive Super Bowl championship, but we don't see anyone celebrating on the field."

I've stopped breathing, my fingers clenched around the beer in my hand. We're not supposed to drink in public areas, but even the mayor is breaking rules tonight. As I said, this is supposed to be a party. New Hope, Pennsylvania isn't known for much, but Mason Reeves is one of its accomplishments. He spent most of his childhood in Philadelphia until he was given a free ride to attend the private high school down the road, in exchange for playing on the football team.

"Medics have taken the field," the announcer continues, his voice strained with worry. "This will be Reeves's eleventh year with the NFL. He was drafted straight out of college in Georgia, played with Seattle for a few years, then moved to Dallas. At thirty-two, he's already solidified himself into the Hall of Fame..."

I shake my head, a wave of nausea slithering around my belly.

"Get up, Mase," I whisper, lips trembling over his name.

He's not getting up.

They lay a stretcher beside his body. Through a slew of trainers and medical staff, I see flashes of his face. His eyes are closed, his light brown hair plastered to his forehead. His sharp cheekbones are red from exertion, in contrast with the pale skin at his strong jawline. His Adam's apple bobs, and a collective sigh of relief flies through town hall.

The villagers of New Hope are clutching each other. Elderly women are dabbing at their watery eyes. Men are seated, hands clasped over stern mouths, their gazes fixed on the screen.

My mom takes the pint from my loose grasp, setting it on a table. She's staring at me, but I can't take my eyes off the projector. Apart from the swallow, Mason still hasn't moved.

A paramedic van drives onto the field, cutting across the fifty-yard line. Reporters, coaches, and athletes scramble out of the way, the seriousness of this situation written on their faces.

"Get up, Mase."

It's not until I taste salt that I realize I'm crying. Silent tears roll down my cheeks, past my lips, and onto the floor. My chest is frozen, my vision swaying. I can't tell if I'm breathing yet.

"Momma?"

And with that, my priorities align themselves. I suck in a lungful of oxygen, resurrecting my brain and heart. When I turn around, my eldest son is standing behind me, but he's looking at the screen over my shoulder. His cheeks are missing their usual rosiness. He adjusts the football under his arm, his expression riddled with concern.

I pull him into my embrace. He's almost as tall as his dad, which means he's a giant compared to me. I miss the days when he would fall asleep on my chest, his little toes burrowing under my cardigan for warmth. Of course, he had to fight his twin sister for position.

"He's gonna be okay," I reassure him.

Aidan wraps his arms around me. Grace appears a few yards away, disentangling herself from a group of friends. She places one ankle over the other, twisting her legs nervously.

"How do you know?" she asks, the light from the projector dancing in her dark brown irises.

Both of my fifteen-year-olds look like their father with light brown hair, chocolate eyes, fair skin, and bone structures that would make a sculptor weep. Fortunately, that's as far as the resemblance goes. On the inside, they're all me. Their personality, their quirks, their values. I take full responsibility for the little people they've become.

"He's gonna be okay," I repeat, looking over my shoulder at the screen.

He still hasn't moved on his own, but the paramedics have placed his giant, six-foot-six frame onto the stretcher, his neck braced. The announcers prattle on about his passing rate and conversion percentage, but it's drowned out by the villagers that have gathered around my family, comforting us.

I take a deep breath, crossing my fingers. "Your dad will be fine."