The next few plays didn’t go much better. I caught one, dropped another, and nearly ran into Jace when she started dancing with the cheer squad. Every move she made felt like it was meant for me.
“She’s your girlfriend,” Jace said during a time-out, shaking his head. “Not the North Star. You can blink.”
“I’ll just remind you that you sprinted off the field and chased Riley up the stands in front of everyone.”
Jace smirked. “Yeah, but I scoredbeforethat. It’s the key to the whole thing; you’re supposed to scorebeforethe public humiliation.”
“Working on it,” I muttered, tugging my helmet back on.
We hit a time-out with two minutes left in the quarter. The offense jogged to the sideline, huddling near the heaters while Coach barked at the line. My lungs burned, steam curling from my mouth in the cold.
Movement caught my eye across the field—bright orange fur and confidence she only displayed when she was in the tiger suit.
Ophelia jogged out to midfield, tail swaying behind her, flag tucked under one arm. She slid into place at the edge of the cheer formation, the white and orange of her costume gleaming under the floodlights as the drum line thundered to life.
She started to dance.
Not the usual mascot flailing, either—this was sharp, confident, choreographed.
Step back. Hip pop. Spin.
Flag sweep that shimmered under the lights.
A quick twirl, then a drop to her knees, finishing with a playful flick of her tail that sent the crowd into a frenzy.
Cheers thundered from the stands, the band echoing the beat as she popped back up and bowed dramatically.
Parker groaned beside me, pulling off his helmet. “You’re drooling, Adler. That’s not what I want to see right now.”
I wiped my mouth with the back of my glove. “Shut up and throw me the ball,” I muttered, eyes still locked on her.
I actually knew that dance. She’d shown me the routine in my bedroom this week, and I’d been so turned on I’d pushed her against the wall and fucked her.
I grinned under my face mask. That was a good day. But they all had been good days since I met her.
The next drive started at our own thirty.
“Alright, loverboy. Time to focus. You want redemption or ESPN bloopers?” Parker quipped.
“Just get me the ball, QB,” I said. “Let’s go.”
He laughed. “There’s my guy.”
The snap came. I ran my route like my life depended on it. Cut. Pivot. Acceleration biting against the turf. The defender stuck to me for five yards, then I broke clean. The ball spiraled through the cold night air, perfect rotation, perfect arc and…I caught it on the run, tucked it tight, and burst forward down the field.
When I crossed into the end zone, the crowd went wild…as they should, obviously. Teammates slammed into me, helmets clanging, shouting my name, but I barely heard them. Because all I could see was her—standing at the sideline, paws covering her mouth like she couldn’t believe it.
I took a step back, dropped my shoulders, and grinned.
Then I started to move.
Step back. Hip pop. Spin.
Flag sweep—well, imaginary flag.
Drop to my knees, flick my imaginary tail, and finish with my hands on my hips.
The stadium lost its mind.
