The women in the box lean closer together, buzzing with low voices and champagne bubbles.
“She’s really here for him.”
“They’re actually adorable.”
“Are they married?”
I focus on the field, but the words slip under my skin anyway.
“He looks at her like—” someone starts, then trails off, like they don’t want to finish the thought out loud.
The truth is complicated.
Cam catches a short pass and drives forward, shrugging off a defender like it’s nothing. The stadium shakes with sound.
Third quarter.
Red zone.
The play unfolds fast. He cuts inside, hands up, eyes locked. The ball hits his chest and he secures it, twisting as he crosses the line.
Touchdown.
The roar is instant and violent and glorious.
I’m on my feet before I realize it, heart slamming against my ribs like it wants out.
Cam slows, chest heaving, and looks up.
Not scanning the stands.
Looking.
At me.
The connection snaps tight and sudden, like a wire pulled too fast.
I lift my fingers in a small wave before I can stop myself. Just a flicker. Private.
He smiles.
Not the polished kind. Not the one for cameras or endorsements.
This one is quick. Unconscious. Beautiful.
It steals the air from my lungs.
I drop my hand and look away, pulse racing, pretending to be fascinated by the scoreboard.
The final drive is chaos.
When the clock hits zero and the win locks in, the sound turns to crazy levels. Joy without manners.
One moment I’m standing next to the glass. The next, someone from staff is at my elbow, smiling too brightly.
“This way, Lila.”
I barely have time to nod before I’m being guided out of the box, down a narrow stairwell, into the underbelly of the stadium where everything smells like sweat and victory and urgency.
