Above our heads, the clouds have cleared, taking the muggy heat with it, and I shiver as I force myself to stand. Dylan moves too, but he keeps my hand in his, fingers entwined. Held tight. Before we leave, he turns to me, tilting my chin and lightly brushing his lips to mine. “Thank you for tonight.” His voice is low, vibrating through my body along with the electric charge from his touch. The need for him—for his hands on my skin, his lips, to feel him inside me—is a physical ache. An exquisite pain.
Dylan pulls me close as we follow the crowd toward the parking lot, weaving through the stragglers and those waiting to greet the competitors. Dylan holds on to me like I’m something he wants to keep. And that scares the hell out of me. Because when I start to trust something is forever, it’s usually whenit falls apart. Like Hooper. Like running Bill’s ranch. Like Oakwood? It feels too soon to believe this is forever, but I’m too far gone to imagine leaving. These thoughts make my heart stammer and my head spin as we reach a bottleneck in the crowd.
Dylan pulls his hand away, throwing his arm around me. He moves his lips to my ear like he’s going to say something and already my body is tingling. But before he can speak, there’s a shout, high-pitched and childlike. Filled with the fever-pitch excitement that reminds me of Madison on Christmas morning. Heads turn and the crowd parts to show a little boy, no older than Mad, jumping up and down, a finger pointed straight at Dylan.
“Dylan Sullivan. You’re Dylan Sullivan!” The boy’s face is bright red, his grin wide, as he breaks away from where he’s standing and all but throws himself at Dylan, barely managing to skid to a stop in front of us. “You played tight end for the Stormhawks. You had over five thousand career receiving yards! And forty-two touchdowns.”
“Hi,” Dylan says with a smile, crouching down to greet the boy. “What’s your name, son?”
“I’m Dylan too,” he says proudly, his smile so wide I think his face might split in two. “But I was named after my grandpa, not you. I’ve watched all your highlights on YouTube. My favorite is the one where you caught the one-handed pass in the snow playing against the Desertraptors. That was so cool!”
Dylan laughs, warm and easy. “That was a good game.”
“Can I have your autograph, please?” he asks breathlessly, thrusting out a pen and his rodeo program.
“Sure.”
Little Dylan’s eyes pop, and I stand back, watching the interaction. Watching this little boy have the best day of his life. Watching Dylan smile in a way I’ve never seen before and it’s themost natural smile in the world. An uneasy feeling twists in my gut. It’s hard not to think that this is where Dylan belongs. In a world of football and fans. Not stuck on a ranch day after day with only me and the horses.
A man approaches us and places a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He’s tall with short, mussed hair and an open face. “Wow. Not every day you get to meet an NFL legend.” Then his eyes land on me. “Hi, I’m Harrison, Dylan’s uncle.”
“Hi. I don’t have anything to do with the NFL,” I reply.
The man laughs. “With those arms, I think you’re missing a trick.” He smiles and it’s nice, but it’s also more.
“Are you coming back this season?” Little Dylan asks.
Dylan’s smile falters for the smallest second, but he covers it quickly as he moves to stand, giving the boy a pat on the shoulder. “I won’t be on the field this season, but I’ll always be part of the Stormhawks family,” he says smoothly.
“So,” Harrison says, turning back to me. “If you’re not part of the NFL, what do you do?”
“Ranching,” I say.
“No way. I work in sales for Big Sky Feeds. I bet I could offer you a great deal on premium grain and custom-blended supplements.” He pulls out a business card from the back pocket of his jeans and slips it into my hand. “Give me a call sometime. We could talk discounts over dinner.”
I open my mouth to reply, but Dylan gets there first. He throws his arm around me. “Sorry, Harrison. This one belongs to me.”
Belongs?Deep down I know Dylan didn’t mean it that way, but my gut tightens anyway. I’ve belonged to someone before—I gave them my heart and lost myself in the process.
“Can’t blame a man for trying.” Harrison grins before disappearing with the little boy into the crowd.
Dylan’s arm is still around me as he moves us out of the arena and into the parking lot. The second we’re outside, I step out of Dylan’s touch, needing space. A prickling anger needles at my skin, my body. Away from the floodlights, stars litter the sky. A perfect night.
It was a perfect night. Until just now. Thoughts rush at me, Dylan’s voice echoing in my head.
I’ll always be part of the Stormhawks family.
This one belongs to me.
And suddenly I’m furious, my anger burning as I stride across the lot.
“Izzy…” Dylan’s voice calls after me. A second later he’s by my side.
I whirl around so fast he almost knocks into me.
“I don’t belong to you.”
Dylan’s expression morphs from surprised to baffled. “That’s not what I meant.” There’s a playful smile on his lips that only fuels my irritation.
