The crowd goes insane, the bleachers shaking from the stomping of thousands of fans.
Maverick jogs back to the huddle, but just before he turns, he looks back, just once, straight at me.
My heart skips.
He keeps going, drive after drive, pass after pass. His footwork is sharp, and his vision is lethal. He runs, dodging hits with almost arrogant precision. The first touchdown hethrows has the entire stadium stomping. People chant his name, and the announcers shout over each other in the box.
But all I can think about is how, every time he looks to the sideline, he’s looking for me.
Halftime arrives.
He rips off his helmet as he jogs toward the bench, his blonde hair soaked and messy. He’s breathing hard, jersey clinging to his muscular body, while a camera crew follows behind him, trying to catch a soundbite.
He doesn’t say anything to them as he walks to the sideline, looking for me.
Without hesitation, he lifts his hands and makes that heart again—bigger this time, slower, more cocky, as if he wants everyone to see it.
My jaw drops.
Girls next to me scream as one elbow her friend and shout, “That’s literally so romantic I could die.”
I bury my face in my hands, laughing behind my fingers. I don’t even care that people are watching. I don’t care that this whole stadium thinks I’m his, even though secretly I’m not.
For a second, just a second, I allow myself to want something, even though it isn’t real.
And God, it feels good.
A referee blows the final whistle, ending the game.
The Mustangs just won their first game of the season.
Maverick stands in the middle of the field with his teammates, beaming like he owns the damn world.
You can see his passion and love for the game in his crystal blue eyes; he lives for this, but within those eyes is something he struggles with. I notice it when reporters talk to him; he tries to be something he's not, as if he were molded to be this perfect NFL star, even though the world sees him as a fuck up, party-goer, athlete.
He briefly opened up to me at the beach, and seeing how he talked about his love for the game, but being torn about his identity and unhappiness, devastated me.
I barely get to my feet before I hear his cleats pounding across the turf toward me. Then I see him—standing taller than life, flushed with adrenaline, with his blue eyes fixed on mine.
“Amelia!” he shouts, voice hoarse from yelling plays and screaming with the boys.
Before I can react, I’m off the ground and lifted into the air. My arms fly around his neck, and he spins me once, then sets me down gently, cupping my face in those big, calloused hands.
“You were here,” he breathes, pressing his forehead against mine, grinning like a lunatic. “You actually came. I looked up and thought I was hallucinating.”
“You asked me to come,” I whisper, overwhelmed.
“I just won the first game of the season in front of my wife.” He laughs, giddy and breathless. “That’s gotta be good luck. You’re my good luck charm, dollface.”
My chest aches. How is he like this?
“Hey, Maverick! Amelia!” a voice calls.
We both turn.
A group of reporters is closing in, cameras flashing, microphones pushed forward.
“Maverick, hell of a game! You were electric tonight. How did you two meet?” one asks, tilting the mic toward us.
