. . .
Ihaven’t been able to shake the feeling since last night.
How her breath stuttered against my chest, or how her voice broke when she asked me to hold her. Since I wrapped myself around her and felt her relax into me, as if I were home.
I’m fucking spiraling, and not even the blinding sun or the roar of the crowd lined up against the fences can shake it off me.
It’s the first open practice of the season, and I’m supposed to be focused on getting into drills, impressing the sponsors, and staying in the game.
But all I can fucking think about is the way her fingers clutched the bedsheets in her sleep, the soft little sound she made when I whispered,“Night, dollface.”
I’m so fucked.
Coach Mike yells out instructions with his clipboard in hand, like he’s ready to start throwing it at people. I jog onto the field, cleats biting into the turf, pads heavy on my shoulders, and sweat is already building at the base of my neck.
A blur of dark green and white passes my periphery as Ihit the line of scrimmage, and I’m scanning the crowd like an absolute fool.
My eyes look through the crowd of hungry fans who have been eagerly waiting for football season, but none of that fucking matters because the one person I’m looking for isn’t here.
Until I spot her in the crowd.
She’s far back behind the press, her tattooed arms crossed over her chest. She looks stunning as ever, of course. She could walk around in a trash bag, and she’d be the most beautiful woman on the planet.
Holy shit.
She’s wearing my jersey, tied at her waist with torn black jeans, and her effortlessly messy hair cascading in long waves past her shoulders.
My chest seizes at the sight of her in the bleachers, watching me at my first practice of the season.
I can’t fucking help it, call it stupid, but I don’t care. I raise my hands and form a heart over my chest.
The crowd loses it.
A wave of phones shoots up, their cameras clicking shutters throughout the stadium.
She shuffles down the bleachers and walks onto the field next to Coach Mike, away from the crazed woman losing their mind over the fact that I’m off the market.
“Jesus Christ,” Marcus mutters, jogging up beside me with a smirk. “You’ve gone soft. What’s next, matching tattoos?”
“Don’t tempt me,” I mutter, eyes still glued to her.
He whistles. “Fuck, she’s hot, but damn, man. All those tattoos? Looks tacky, don’t you think?”
My body tenses.
I turn slowly toward him, heat blazing in my stare.
“Watch it, shitbag.” I snap.
He holds up his hands. “Alright, alright. No disrespect. When the fuck did you even get married, bro?”
“None of your fucking business.”
Marcus snorts and runs back to the field, getting ready for formation.
I follow him, jogging back onto the field, getting ready to put on a show for my girl.
“Alright, Mustangs!” Coach hollers from the sideline. “You’re mic’d, and you’re being filmed. Don’t fuck it up.”
