I’m exhausted. My body is broken. Every muscle aches, and I’ve already got big, angry bruises appearing all over my body.

None of that matters though, because we fucking did it. We won the Super Bowl, and I’ve got the ring to prove it. Rigley puts another jug of beer on the table and fills my glass.

“You played the best game of your life, Matthews,” he laughs, clapping me on the back. “We couldn’t have won without you.”

“We’re a team,” I reply modestly, but his compliment makes me smile. I did play the game of my life. It was like everything flowed perfectly—every pass, every play, everything we did just worked.

It also helped that Elijah fell apart in the second quarter. I guess losing your fiancée and then being down by a couple touchdowns will do that to a person. I could see him staring at me from across the field. His face was angrier than I’d ever seen it, but it only spurred me on.

And then we won.

No, we didn’t just win. We demolished them.

Jordan claps me on the shoulder and I smile. He nods to a group of women standing at the bar. They’re staring at me and smiling. A blonde one gives me a little wave with the tips of her fingers. She stares at me and bats her long, fake eyelashes.

“Looks like you’ve got some new fans,” he grins. “Want me to play wingman?”

The woman is beautiful, for sure. A few months ago, she’d have been exactly my type. But now? All I can picture is Farrah. I shake my head. “Nah. Not tonight.”

His eyebrows shoot up, but he says nothing. I clink my glass against his and we start rehashing the game for the millionth time, play by play, second by second. We re-live our victory over and over until the bar’s lights come on and it’s time to go home.

The whole team is still celebrating when we fly back to Boston. I look at the ring on my finger and smile. It might make me a terrible person, but I’m glad Elijah crumpled under the pressure. I’m glad Farrah left him, and I hope she leaves him for good.

There’s a little sliver of hope in my heart, and I try to extinguish it. She just left him, but that doesn’t mean she’s any closer to being with me. She lives in a different city, for fuck’s sake! I need to nip this in the bud. Maybe I should have hooked up with that chick at the bar, after all.

I fiddle with my ring.

Elijah doesn’t deserve this Super Bowl ring, and he doesn’t deserve her engagement ring, either. My smarmy, arrogant brother has finally gotten what he deserved: a swift kick in the ass.

I lean back in the airplane seat and close my eyes.

He may have gotten what he deserved, but Farrah definitely didn’t. I saw the pain in her eyes when she ran away, and I can’t imagine how she must feel.

Should I call her?

As soon as the thought enters my head, I shake it away. First of all, how would I get her phone number? I could call Elijah and say, ‘Hey, sorry for your breakup and your loss yesterday, by the way can you give me your ex’s number so I can call her?’

Pfft.

Nope.

And even if I did call her, what the hell would I say?

No, this is definitely a situation that is firmly in the ‘none of my business’ category. I can just imagine Maria’s raised eyebrow and head shaking at me. She wouldn’t even approve of me thinking about it.

But still, I can’t stop thinking about Farrah. I wish I could talk to her, and comfort her. I wish I could make sure she was okay. She must be hurting now.

Fuck, I hope she doesn’t go back to him. She’s way too good for him.

It takes all my concentration to stop thinking about the scene in the stadium between my brother and Farrah. Instead, I focus on the win. When we get back to Boston, there are interviews and parties and celebrations to attend. I ignore the comments about my age and about retirement, and try to focus on how good it feels to have that Super Bowl ring on my finger. Jordan and I land an interview on the most popular morning show in the state.

“So tell us, Jesse, how did it feel to play against your brother in such a big game?” The pretty blonde morning show host smiles at me. I shift in my chair and hear it creak under my weight.

How embarrassing would it be to have a chair collapse under my weight on television?

The host is still waiting for an answer, so I flash her a smile.

“Well, Elijah and I have always been competitive. I’m not going to lie and say it didn’t feel good,” I grin. She titters, batting her lashes.

The producer makes a hand signal, and the host turns to the camera. She says something about going to commercials, and as soon as the red light goes off, she lets out a big sigh.

“You should do more TV, Jesse,” she says. “You’re a natural.”

“Nothing about this feels natural,” I laugh. “But thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Congratulations again on the big win. You doing anything to celebrate?” She stands up and closes the distance between us, running her manicured hand up my bicep. She gives me a coy smile, and I know she wants me to invite her out. I can tell by the way she’s giving me the come-fuck-me eyes and I do my best to keep my face neutral.

I shrug. “Might just take it easy. It’s been pretty hectic since we got back.” Her smile falls the tiniest bit, and I push myself off the creaking chair. “Thanks for everything.”

When I’m back in the dressing room, Jordan punches my arm.

“What the fuck, dude! She totally wanted to get with you.”

“I know. Not my type.”

Jordan laughs. “She’s exactly your type. How long have I known you? What’s wrong with you? You should be drowning in pussy right now! You’re the quarterback who just won the fucking Super Bowl!”

I just laugh and grab my jacket.

“Come on. Danny’s waiting for us in the car.” Our PR manager has a full schedule of interview for us today. Jordan and I seem to be the poster boys for the victory.

I don’t mind. Being on TV is a nice change of pace, and it stops me from obsession over her. Maybe Jordan’s right—maybe I should be drowning in pussy. But when women like the host come on to me, or women at bars we go to, my cock doesn’t even move. It’s like a switch inside me has flipped, and I don’t know what to do to turn it back on.