Even from this distance, I can see how Tristan’s pretty blue eyes grow wide, and his lips tick up at the edges. “You’re asking for it,” he shouts.
A thrill runs through my veins, muffling out the laughter in the crowd. Tristan stalks up the steps with his eyes fixed on me. When he makes it to our section, everyone around us scoots out of the way—including Danae. He walks over to me and picks up the jersey in front of me.
Like he did in the coffee shop, he sticks it over my head like a collar. He crosses his arms over his chest and stares down at me. “Don’t get me in trouble with my coach by making me wait.”
I raise my chin. “You’re getting yourself in trouble.”
His grin grows as he crouches down beside me and grabs the jersey. “Do you want me to kiss you in front of thousands of people, little one? I’ll do whatever it takes to show them you’re mine.”
My surprise must be all over my face because Tristan laughs. I grab the jersey and frantically pull it down my body. When I’m finally able to look at Tristan, his eyes are dark and possessive.
He moves as if to stand up, but then he quickly turns back and grabs my face. He kisses me hard and quick. Cheers break out around us as he stands up and walks back to the stairs. Before descending the steps, he turns back to me. “Good girl.”
My face must be on fire, but I’m not as embarrassed as I ought to be.
I must be vain, because his stupid public spectacle set my belly on fire.
Danae scoots back next to me and sets her hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “Good girl, huh? Sounds like you two have a lot of fun outside of the competition.”
I shut my eyes for a moment. I can’t blame Danae for making assumptions. Of course she would think Tristan and I are sleeping together.
He’s singling me out in a way he never has with any woman before me. Not even Harper.
The next few hours pass by in a blur. I’m so in my head that I can’t concentrate on the game. Not that I have any idea what the fuck is going on, anyway.
One thing I can pay attention to out there on the field is Tristan. He’s so intense when he plays, his muscular body moving with grace and purpose. I’ll never forget that conversation when he told me how much football means to him. How it’s like writing for me. He said it was like his body became the whole game.
I can see it. Even when I don’t understand the game, I can see how he knows it intimately. How every move he makes is a complicated calculation based on every moving piece on the chessboard.
No wonder he’s so good at playing games with me.
A moment later, Tristan comes running to the sidelines, approaching his coach. He takes his helmet off and glances up into the stands, his piercing blue eyes meeting mine. His eyes stay locked on mine for a moment before glancing down to the number on my chest, and a smile spreads over his face. When he lifts his eyes again, he winks and mouths, “Good girl.” Laughter breaks out around us.
“Keep moving, Wolfe!” I shout, and the laughter gets louder.
We’re nearing the end of the game, and the anticipation in the air is electric as the final seconds tick down. I can’t tear my eyes away from Tristan. Even with that helmet on, I can almost see the intense concentration in his eyes. I can almost feel it emanating from his body.
It’s the same intensity I feel when we’re alone together. Like he’s trying to figure me out.
A moment later, the crowd roars, and the announcer says something about Tristan. The only words I understand are “once again” and “Wolfe.”
He did it. Pacific Crest won.
A strange pride unfurls in my belly. I don’t care about football. I don’t care about Tristan. So what is the strange possessiveness sizzling through my veins? I’m grinning as Tristan celebrates with his teammates on the field.
As the celebration begins to wind down, Tristan’s gaze scans the crowd until it lands on me. His eyes flash, and he starts moving toward the sidelines with purpose, brushing past teammates.
“Go get her, Wolfe!” someone yells, and my cheeks grow hot.
When he reaches the edge of the field, he raises his arm high in the air and flicks his fingers. Something about that simple gesture makes heat fill my belly. He’s domming me. There’s no other way to describe it.
I’ve never practiced BDSM in real life, but I’ve written about it plenty.
Maybe the whirlwind of the last few weeks will fuel my writing. It’s been tumultuous for my emotions, but I’m finally out in the world.
I’m living, instead of escaping into my private fanfic world where I have complete control.
The consequence of living is pain, but I can deal with it. I’m proving to myself that I’m strong. That I’m not hiding away from the possibility of rejection like I’ve been doing in the years since my friendship with Harper dissolved.
