I take a breath, push my way through the chaos, and try not to trip over a flattened soda cup or some kid’s abandoned backpack.
The entire field is illuminated, with stadium lights piercing through the night.
I see Lola first, waving wildly from halfway up the stands, two hot pink scrunchies in her hair and a slushie that looks like nuclear waste in her hand.Liz is next to her, already mid-eye roll, but she’s laughing anyway.God, I’m going to miss her.
I drag myself up the stairs, shoulder past a couple making out like it’s foreplay for the halftime show, and drop into the space Lola saved between her and Liz.
Drums pound behind the cheerleaders, brass screaming from the band section, and every third kid yells something that makes zero sense.
I look over at the field.
The team’s on the sidelines, jerseys clinging, all of them buzzing with that pre-game fire.
Reece Wilson.
Number twenty-seven.
Helmet in hand.That dark, messy hair is matted down from warm-up drills.Pacing the edge of the field like a caged animal.And suddenly, I’m not sure I remember how to breathe.
The announcer shouts the team name, and the guys rush out onto the field.The crowd’s noise is loud enough to shake the metal bleachers beneath my feet.My chest pounds in sync with the racket, adrenaline rushing straight up my spine.
I briefly look away from the chaos when something catches my attention.
Nicole.
Tia’s right next to her, both of them squeezed into cheer skirts that barely count as clothing, with smiles that are too tight and eyes full of tension.They’re standing so close I’m surprised no one’s drawn blood yet.
Tia throws a high kick that narrowly misses Nicole’s face.On purpose.Of course.
Nicole yanks Tia’s ponytail, fingers clenched.“Do that again and I’ll break your ankle.”
Tia laughs.“Please.You couldn’t even break your calorie count.”
Behind me, Lola snorts so loudly I feel it vibrate through the row.“Tell me you saw that.”
“Tia’s gonna choke her out before halftime,” says Liz, already losing it, shoulders shaking, laughter spilling out.
I shake my head, eyes flicking back to the field where the boys are lining up, hearts pounding, bodies ready.Between the football, the cheerleader showdown, and the way my pulse keeps spiking for one cocky asshole in pads, this night is already a fucking lot.
Lola leans forward and digs into her bag, pulling out a sleeve of Sour Patch Kids.That girl could survive an apocalypse on snacks alone.She opens it and holds it out between us.I grab a handful.Liz does, too, sugar already dusting her fingers as the whistle screams and the game begins.
My eyes lock onto number twenty-seven.
Reece is crouched low, muscles tense, helmet tilted forward, every inch of him coiled and ready.Defense.His stance.His territory.As soon as the ball snaps, he erupts off the line and crashes into the guy opposite him so forcefully that the impact echoes through the crowd.
Fuck.
“Damn,” Liz mutters.“He’s out for blood.”
Play after play, he’s relentless.He tears through their line, shoulders leading, knocking back bodies with a brutal precision that feels personal.He gets to the quarterback once.Then again.The poor guy barely has time to breathe before Reece is there, full of force and fury, dragging him down onto the turf.
He’s quick, angry, and in control.
And he’s fucking beautiful.
My heart stutters every time he collides with someone and immediately gets back up.Every time he rolls his shoulders, resets, and lines up again as if pain is just a suggestion.Sweat darkens his jersey, clings, and outlines everything I shouldn’t be staring at in public.
And then he looks toward the stands.
