The roar that erupts from the crowd is deafening. I scream along with everyone else, because why not? This is what college is all about—being wild and feral for sports, parties, and freedom.
Our football team explodes through the banner like bulls released from a pen. It’s a sudden tsunami of navy-blue jerseys, white pants, and golden helmets. But it’s the guy leading the charge that causes my heart to stop beating.
I’ve seen football players before. Hell, I hooked up with more than a few in high school and witnessed them strutting around in the locker rooms. But none of them moved the way Jackson Monroe does.
He bursts onto the field with a grace that shouldn’t be possible for someone in full pads. Every movement is deliberate but gentle, powerful but elegant. His feet barely touch the ground as he sprints around the gridiron. And when he raises his fist to pump up the crowd, the stadium goes ballistic.
He owns the field, marking it as his with every stride. The number 18 on his jersey catches the light as he spins, arms spread wide like he’s Maria Von Trapp singing about the hills being alive.
“Holy shit,” I say, but the words get lost in the cacophony around me.
“Did you say something?” Gerard shouts in my ear.
I can’t answer. I’m too busy watching Jackson Monroe. He’s bouncing on his toes now, brimming with energy that can’t be contained. I don’t know how to explain it, but it feels as if someone reached into my chest and squeezed my heart.
I’ve never been awestruck before. Not when checking out a hot guy at a party. Not when appreciating a nice ass in the dining hall. Not even when I went to my first NHL game and saw my first hat trick live.
Jackson huddles with his teammates as the opposing team lines up on the field. It’s clear why he’s the quarterback. He’s commanding respect from guys older than him. When they break, he points at our section, and I pretend that he’s pointing at me.
I know, it’s a childish thing to imagine. He doesn’t know me. He can’t even see me. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to squeal along with everyone else because Jackson Monroe is pointing at us!
Seconds later, the game is in full swing. I try to make sense of what I’m seeing. Oliver explains the basics while Kyle corrects him with increasing irritation. Gerard keeps jumping up to cheer at completely inappropriate times, like when the other team gains yards.
Through it all, my eyes stay locked on that number 18. I’m amazed at how he reads the field before snapping the ball. I’m spellbound at how he moves in the pocket and dodges defenders as if he’s dancing with them.
And his arm. They weren’t kidding. Itisa killer. The ball spirals through the air in a perfect arc, landing exactly where it needs to every time. The farthest throw results in a touchdown that puts us ahead of the other team. By halftime, I’m hoarse from all the screaming and cheering that I’ve been doing.
“Someone’s turning into a football fan,” Gerard teases as we make our way down to the concession stand.
“It’s exciting,” I defend, putting my hands in my pockets to appear chill, when that’s far from the truth.
“Uh-huh. Nothing to do with the quarterback?”
I slap his ass. “Shut up.”
But he’s not wrong. By the time the game ends, I’ve contemplated hitting the gift shop to buy myself a jersey with Jackson’s last name on it. I love that he acknowledges the other team. That he takes hits that are as hard as the ones hockey players take and bounces up as if nothing happened. That he does this adorable dance after every touchdown, whether it’s him who crosses into the end zone or one of his teammates.
The night is still young. The other team could end up on top. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s that I’m officially a Jackson Monroe fan.
13
DREW
Present Day
Infinity Arena is empty, and that’s exactly how I want it. I’ve been here for two hours, working through my usual shooting drills until my arms burn and sweat drips down my back despite the rink’s chill. Each slap shot is harder than the last, each wrist shot more vicious. The pucks slam into the net with satisfying thuds that do absolutely nothing to quiet the noise in my head.
Two days. Two fucking days since that blog post, and people are still talking about Jackson and me as though we’re star-crossed lovers in a Nicholas Sparks novel. I wind up for another slap shot, imagining the puck is every gossiping asshole on campus.
“Larney!”
Coach Donovan’s voice booms across the ice, making me whiff the shot completely. The puck skitters harmlessly into the boards.
“Shit,” I mutter, turning to see him standing at the bench in his usual track pants and BSU hockey windbreaker. I’ve known the man long enough to understand that he’s pissed.
“My office. Now.”
It’s not a request. I gather the scattered pucks into the bucket and skate over, my legs protesting after the punishment I’ve put them through. Coach waits with his arms crossed, those hazel eyes boring into me, trying to read every thought in my head. Which, knowing him, he probably can.
