“Nothing. Just focused on the game.”
“Bullshit.” His grin widens. “This is about the pretty PR lady, isn’t it?”
My jaw tightens. “Drop it, Thunder.”
“Oh, it’s definitely about her.” He laughs, loud enough that a few guys glance over. “I knew it. That night in your office when the lights came back on, you two looked like you’d been caught with your hands in the cookie jar.”
“We were reviewing talking points.”
“In the dark. Standing real close.” He makes a kissing sound. “Sure, man. Totally professional.”
I turn to face him fully. “Derek. Drop. It.”
Something in my tone must register because his smile fades slightly. “Shit, you’re serious about her.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” He shakes his head, voice dropping lower. “Be careful, Storm. I know Olivia’s hot and smart and all that, but Mark’s watching. The press is watching. One wrong move and they’ll crucify both of you.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” He stands, grabbing his helmet. “Because you’re looking at her like she hung the moon, and she’s looking at you the same way. And everyone’s going to notice.”
He walks away before I can respond, leaving me there with the truth of his words settling heavy in my chest.
Coach Fitzgerald’s voice booms across the locker room. “All right, listen up!”
The music cuts. Everyone turns.
“Today, we play the Chicago Engines. They’re three and two. We’re four and one. They want to prove they belong in the top tier. We’re going to prove they don’t.” His gaze sweeps the room, landing on me. “Storm, you’re our leader out there. Show them why.”
“Yes, coach.”
“Defense, we need you fast and mean. Offense, execute. Special teams, no mistakes. And remember—” He pauses, letting the tension build. “This game isn’t just about today. It’s about showing the league who we are. Now let’s go take what’s ours!”
The room erupts. Bodies surge toward the tunnel, helmets banging together, voices rising in a unified roar.
I grab my helmet and follow, letting the energy carry me forward.
But as we burst onto the field and the crowd’s thunder washes over us, my eyes find the press box.
And I know, I just know, Olivia’s watching.
The first half is brutal.
Chicago came to play. Their defense is aggressive, their quarterback mobile and smart. We trade touchdowns, field goals, three-and-outs. By halftime, we’re tied at seventeen.
In the locker room, Coach Fitzgerald tears into us. “That’s not championship football! That’s sloppy, lazy, undisciplined football. You want to win? You want to prove you’re the best? Then play like it!”
He singles out players, calling out missed blocks, blown coverages, stupid penalties. I sit quietly, letting his words wash over me, replaying my throws in my head. Two good. One nearly intercepted. One I should’ve hit Derek in the end zone but overthrew by inches.
Not good enough.
When Coach finishes, the room is silent, tension thick enough to cut.
“Second half,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “We execute. We dominate. We win. Understood?”
A chorus of “Yes, coach!” echoes back.
