I groaned and slouched back into the seat. “Fine. I’m excited, okay? Which is stupid, because this is all a ruse, but…I like being around him.”
She smiled like she’d been waiting for me to admit that. “That’s not stupid, El.”
“It’s dangerous,” I murmured, tipping the glass in my hand so the ice clinked against the sides. “Getting too close. Forgetting where the lines are.”
“Does it feel fake?”
On paper, yes. We weren’t dating. This wasn’t forever. It was a strategy, a patch-up job for both our public images. He wasn’t mine. I wasn’t his.
But then, I’d think about how Sawyer didn’t make me feel like I had to shrink to fit the way Harold always did.
“I’ll let you know when I figure that out,” I muttered.
We both turned as the lights shifted, and the crowd cheered.
The players ran out onto the field, and there he was: Sawyer leading the charge, helmet in one hand, that trademark grin stretched across his face. My breath caught before I could stop it. That stupid twist in my chest came again, equally hopeful and terrifying.
“Well,” Rachel said, nudging me with her elbow, “I’ll let you finish eye-fucking your boyfriend. I have to pee. Need anything?”
I smirked. “No, I’m good. Thanks.”
She laughed as she stood.
“What?” I asked.
“You didn’t deny he’s your boyfriend.”
“Ugh, shush.”
“Love you,” she sing-songed, strutting away.
I was grateful for the time alone—to watch him without trying to act casual or unaffected, even though Rachel knew the truth more than anyone.
He didn’t see me. Of course, he didn’t. He was one of fifty-something players under the lights, with thousands of fans in every direction. Still, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was warming up with the rest of the team, tossing the ball backand forth, running drills, stretching—completely locked in and focused.
I’d seen him flirt, joke, and charm everyone in a ten-foot radius, but this was Sawyer in his element. He had all the confidence he typically carried, but he moved like someone who belonged exactly where he was. Tall, powerful, all sharp lines and fluid motion.
He was bigger than most of the guys around him. Broader. Stronger. There was a kind of grace to the way he moved, as if the game wasn’t something he played—it was something he understood at a cellular level.
And watching him like this?
Yeah. It did something to me.
Ugh, why couldn’t I have decided to have a pretend relationship with someone I would never be interested in?
Rachel came back eventually but sank into her seat, eyes glued to her phone. “Need to catch up on emails real quick.”
Fine by me. I was too far gone in my own world anyway.
A sharp whistle cut through the air, signaling the end of warmups. The announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers, echoing across the stadium as the players gathered on their respective sidelines. I leaned forward without thinking, my drink completely forgotten. Rachel glanced over and smiled—just a little smug.
The lights dimmed. The music hit with heavy beats, pulsing bass loud enough that the floor shook under my feet. Spotlights danced across the field as the starting lineup was announced. The whole stadium became one giant, electric performance.
I was used to stages and hearing my name screamed by crowds, but nothing compared to this. This was his stage, and I was in the audience.
And God help me, I didn’t want to look away.
Halfway through the game, the Rebels were on fire. They were up by fourteen, and the momentum was all theirs. I was on my feet cheering, the stadium doing the same alongside me.
