Fuck right I’m on fire.
When the whistle blows for halftime, we’re supposed to run back into the changing room.
That’s how this goes.
That’s how this always goes.
But today?
Fuck that.
Today, I run off the pitch as if I’m heading into the changing rooms, but I veer at the last minute and head to the stands.
Right to Goldie.
She tucks her sunglasses on top of her head and leans over the barrier as I reach her. “What are you doing?” she says on a laugh.
I don’t stop.
Don’t think.
I act.
And acting means flinging her over my shoulder and lifting her out of the stands in a fireman’s carry.
Security comes running from above.
Security on the pitch stares at me open-mouthed for a second before they, too, come running.
But my team—my goddamn amazing fucking team—all have my back.
They’ve followed me and they’re surrounding us.
“What the hell, Fletch?” is the only comment I get from Holt.
Once again, I grin at him. “Back off. I need my emotional support girlfriend.”
“I’m gonna puke,” Silas mutters.
“What are you doing here?” I ask Goldie while the team shields me and we run to the tunnel.
“Got packed—early—oof—so—came home—see you,” she grunts from my back.
“Aww, that’s the best,” Crew says beside me.
We have to funnel down into a single file line, but by the time we’re heading into the changing room, security has given up on us.
I’m probably facing a fine.
Don’t care.
Worth it.
Especially when I drop Goldie to her feet and wrap her in a hug, breathing in that cupcake scent mixed with hints of pending snow. “You’re here.”
“We consolidated my schedule so I could leave a couple days early.”
“You’re here.”
