A roar, cheers, someone gasps.
Aunt Tina is flapping a rhinestone fan like she’s trying to take flight, screaming something I can’t even process.
I hear none of it.
All I see is Sloane.
Her chest rises and falls too fast. Her cheeks are on fire. Her eyes—bright with triumph and desire—lock onto mine.
I rip the sensors off like they’re burning me and shoot to my feet.
I don’t look at the score.
I don’t look at the crowd.
My gaze crosses Joe’s for a split second.
He’s pale. Mouth hanging open.
He looks like a kid whose favorite toy just got stolen and smashed in front of him.
I smile.
A wild, arrogant, victorious smile.
See that, asshole?
She’smine.
I stride back to Sloane, slip an arm around her waist, and drag her against me—claiming her without shame.
“You won, Angel,” I breathe against her ear, still panting.
“But tonight? We’re evening the score.”
She looks up at me, and her smile—God, that smile—is the best damn thing I’ve ever seen.
We won the challenge.
But it feels like I just won something a hell of a lot bigger.
Group Chat: LAKEWOOD LOCKER ROOM ???? (Minus One)
Turbo (Tayler):CALL A DOCTOR. OR AN EXORCIST. OR A PRIEST.
Turbo (Tayler):172 BPM?! Becker, were you running a Champions League final or sitting in a chair?!
Doc (Harrison):Technically, that’s an anaerobic high-intensity parameter. If you weren’t moving, you were having a heart attack. Or an orgasm.
Blaze (Liam):Definitely the second one. Did you see his face when she climbed on top of him? I feared for his zipper. RIP Becker’s jeans.
The Wall (Derek):Update from the battlefield: Coach is in catatonia.
Turbo (Tayler):I think he’s plotting Cohen’s murder.
Blaze (Liam):Worth it, though. Did you see Joe’s face? He looked like he swallowed a whole lemon.
Saint (Javier):Obliterated. You annihilated him. Great play, Captain.
