“Brooks,” Carter says at my side, voice full of entertainment. “Your boyfriend is being aggressive again.”
I glance at Carter. He looks annoyingly fresh for a man who’s made a living getting hit. He adjusts his gloves like he’s about to go charm a camera.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say automatically.
Carter’s grin turns wicked. “That’s what all the boyfriends say.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” He leans closer, lowering his voice like we’re sharing a secret. “But you’re about to hate Beck.”
On the far sideline, Beck is still staring at me like he can see the exact place he plans to put my body into the turf.
Jaxon, on the other hand, just…looks away from the field for a second.
Not at the cameras. Not at the crowd.
Up toward the suites.
Like he’s checking that Madison is there.
I follow his gaze, and even though I can’t see into the glass from here, I know she’s up there. I know the shape of that love. The way it anchors him.
Love makes men stupid.
Love makes men brave.
Love makes them jump off cliffs and call it faith.
Carter claps me on the shoulder hard enough to jostle my helmet. “You ready?”
I swallow. “For the game? Yeah.”
Somewhere above us, Sloane is sitting in a box suite with her friends, wearing black and gold like she belongs to the city now. She’s worried about something. She hasn’t said it out loud to me yet—hasn’t said anything at all—but I know her. I know the way she’s been rubbing the inside of her wrist when she thinks too hard. I know the way she’s looked at me this week, like she’s trying to memorize my face.
A ref’s whistle cuts through the noise.
Carter slips his helmet on. “Let’s go, Brooks.”
Across the field, Beck points at me again, likeI’m coming for you.
Jaxon bumps Beck’s shoulder, calm, almost amused.
I pull my helmet on, chin strap snapping into place.
The crowd roars.
The ball kicks off.
And the game begins.
Sloane
The suite is too warm, or maybe that’s just me. I’m sweating through every single layer I have on, and I can’t take any more off.
Jade is to my left, legs tucked under her, already mid-commentary like she’s doing play-by-play for ESPN.
Blakely is to my right, clutching a soda like it’s a weapon. “If Beck hits Logan in the knee, I’ll burn this city to the ground.”
