Dylan’s spiral arced high and clean, dropping perfectly into Rocky’s hands in the end zone. Touchdown.
The crowd roared again.
He barely registered the chest bump from a teammate, the thud of shoulder pads, or the camera trailing him down the sideline. He was locked in.
Second quarter, and they were already up by two TDs.
But even as the game surged forward—another first down, another brutal hit he danced around—his mind kept tugging toward the suite.
At halftime, he jogged toward the tunnel, his jaw clenched, his body on fire in all the right ways.
“Don’t let up,” Coach barked as they passed. “You’re not done yet.”
Dylan didn’t intend to be.
The Tritons took the win.
Final score: 34–17.
He shook hands at midfield, traded words with the opposing QB, then found himself surrounded by flashing cameras and booming voices.
“Mac!” a reporter called. “Incredible season opener. How does it feel to come out this strong in front of a home crowd?”
Dylan ran a towel over his face, catching his breath. “It feels good,” he said, grinning. “The team came out hungry. We’ve been building chemistry all off-season, and today was just a taste of what we can do.”
Another question flew at him, something about new offensive strategies, but his eyes caught on movement behind the reporter.
Kallie.
And just behind her—Ali.
He blinked. And then his whole body stuttered.
The shoes.
Her legs were bare, tan, and toned in that navy and teal dress he hadn’t seen yet. But it was thesandals—thosesandals—that stopped his heartbeat.
His lips twitched upward even as he tried to stay focused.
“You good?” the reporter asked.
Dylan cleared his throat. “Yeah—uh—just spotted my lucky charm,” he said smoothly, nodding toward the sideline.
Kallie smirked behind her sunglasses. She knew exactly what she was doing.
And Ali?
She waved. And blushed. And he couldn’t wait to get to her.
The house was still, the kind of post-game quiet that settled deep in his bones.
Ali’s suitcase stood by the door with the other girls’ bags. They had to get back to Georgia. They all had work in the morning.
Ali stood by the kitchen island, sipping water from one of his protein shaker bottles and wearing his navy Tritons hoodie over her dress. The heels—thoseheels—were now abandoned beside the stool where she’d slid them off with a groan and a muttered, “Dylan better appreciate my sacrifice.”
He leaned against the doorframe, just watching her. “I more than appreciate it babe. I would thank you properly, but you have to leave. I’ll be sure to make it up to you on the phone when you get home tonight.”
Soft, flushed, windblown from the day. Hair clipped back now, mascara just slightly smudged, cheeks still pink.
