The noise fades, and suddenly, I’m very aware of how still he is in all that motion, how his eyes hold mine like everything else is background noise.
He starts walking. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just steady and sure, like he’s made a decision and there was never another option.
Something in my chest loosens, then tightens all over again. My feet move without thinking, just a few steps forward, as if my body refuses to let him come the whole way. I don’t think about the cameras or the crowd or the fact that my hands are still shaking from the match. I just… move toward him.
The field is still a riot of celebration, but none of it touches us. It feels like we’re walking toward the same point from opposite ends of the universe, and the space between us keeps shrinking, drawn together by something I stopped trying to deny a long time ago.
Reporters call his name, cameras turn toward him, hands reach, and he doesn’t look at any of them. His eyes stay on mine the entire time, steady and sure, and my heart aches with every step he takes.
When he reaches me, he doesn’t speak right away. His gaze drops to my jersey, to his number right over my heart, and when he looks back up, there’s something soft and certain in his eyes that almost undoes me.
His hand, warm and gentle, brushes a strand of hair behind my ear like he has all the time in the world and no one watching matters. His fingers graze my cheek, and I lean into his touch because I cannot pretend anymore.
“Catalina,” he says, quiet and sure.
I smile, my heart settling in a place it’s been circling for weeks. “You can call me kitten if you want,” I whisper.
Something shifts in his expression—relief, affection, wonder—and then his hands slide to my lower back, steady and warm as he draws me closer. The stadium is still roaring, cameras flashing, the world spinning hard around us, but all I feel is him.
And then he kisses me.
Not rushed. Not for show. Soft at first, asking for permission. Then real, true, and certain, like he’s finally home.
I curl my hands into his chest, holding on like he’s the only solid thing in a world still shaking from the win, and I kiss him back without hesitation, without fear, without anything left to hide.
The field, the noise, the lights, all of it fades until it’s just us—finally, fully us—and for the first time in days, I can breathe again.
“Rogue, I swear I won’t be able to walk today.” I laugh as he hooks a hand around my ankle and tugs me toward him.
He’s standing at the edge of the bed, gloriously naked, every single one of his muscles on display. He’s sin and Sunday worship rolled into one, and frankly, I’m in spiritual danger.
“It’s all right, kitten,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and smug satisfaction. “I’ll do all the work.”
His hands slide up my legs, slow and deliberate, and he leans in to press warm, open-mouthed kisses along my ribs, my stomach, my hips. Goosebumps scatter everywhere. I might actually ascend.
We came home from Portland three days ago, and we haven’t really…left. Not the bed, not each other. We’ve talked, laughed, ordered food, napped tangled together. And yes—we’ve made up for lost time. Thoroughly. Repeatedly. With stamina thatshould honestly come with a warning label and maybe a sports medicine team.
I’m not complaining. At all.
My alarm goes off, sharp and rude, and I dissolve into a laugh as I stretch to grab the phone from the nightstand. I’ve been awake for two hours. Rogue’s idea of a morning greeting includes his face between my thighs and making me see stars with just his mouth. It’s a glorious way of waking up.
He crawls over me, all warm skin and heavy limbs and that irresistible Irish smirk, plucks the phone from my hands, and kisses me with zero intention of letting me get up.
“Baby,” I manage between breaths, “I love this. I really, really do. But it’s a big day for me.”
“It’s a big day for me too, lass,” he says, smiling against my neck, like I’m being extremely dramatic about professionalism while he is being extremely dramatic about kissing me.
“Rogue, the moment I step into that stadium, I’m going to have to explain to Emily why a picture of us is on every sports page instead of the team celebrating. I need my brain on straight.”
He pauses, hovering above me, eyes bright. “We’re both part of the team. We earned that moment.”
God help me, the pride in his voice nearly turns my bones to pudding.
“That’s not how media relations works,” I say, trying and failing to sound stern while he keeps distracting me with those wandering lips.
“If Emily gives you trouble, I’ll tell her to piss off,” he says, perfectly serious.
I snort. “Yes, that’s exactly what I need. My brand-new relationshipandmy employment contract tanked before breakfast.”
