“Right. So, basically we’re sitting with two Shepherds,” Mari says with an amused expression. “This ought to be fun.”
I smile at Mari as I adjust the teal sequined jacket that hangs on my frame. Wearing Shepherd’s jersey had been a last-minute decision. One that still makes my stomach flutter with nerves. When Shepherd handed it to me before he left for the stadium, I’d stared at it like it might bite me.
“I’d be honored if you wore it,” he had said, his eyes twinkling with hope and something else I couldn’t quite decipher. It’s one thing to wear Shepherd’s hoodie in private, but his jersey in public? With his name emblazoned across my back? I know nobody can see it under the ultra-sparkly jacket Shepherd bought me from the thrift store months ago, but I know it’s there. And that’s all that matters.
Maybe it is.
And I suppose after all this time…after all Shepherd Haynes has done for me, a formal declaration is perfectly okay.
“Over here,” Bishop calls, guiding us to seats that are much closer to the field than I expected. Front row. Right behind the home team bench.
“Are we supposed to be this close?” I whisper to Mari.
She shrugs, but I don’t miss the mischievous look she shares with Shepherd’s brothers.
“Who cares? It’s a perfect view,” she says, settling into her seat.
“Is this all Shepherd’s doing?” I ask, eyeing the incredible seats with suspicion.
“Who else would pull these kinds of strings?” Killian drops into the seat next to me, stretching out his long legs. “My brother is nothing if not extra when it comes to you.”
I feel heat rush to my cheeks. “I don’t need special treatment.”
“Too late,” Bishop says, settling in on Killian’s other side. “Pretty sure special treatment is the Haynes family specialty where you’re concerned.”
The stadium is filling quickly around us, a sea of Portland Rush jerseys and excited faces. There’s an energy here that’s infectious, anticipation and joy buzzing through the air like electricity. I try to focus on that feeling rather than the occasional anxious glance I still cast over my shoulder.
“He’s not here,” Killian says quietly, following my gaze. “And he never will be again. You’re safe.”
I nod, grateful for his reassurance even if a small part of me will always be looking over my shoulder. “I know. Logically, I know that.”
“Logic has nothing to do with trauma,” Bishop adds, surprising me with his insight. It’s strange having these men—Shepherd’s brothers—understand parts of me that most people never see. They’ve somehow become my protective shield without me asking for it, and I’m still not entirely sure how to feel about that.
“He’s looking for you,” Mari whispers, nudging me and pointing toward the field.
My eyes immediately find Shepherd among the sea of players. He’s scanning the crowd, helmet tucked under one arm, his face serious with concentration until his gaze lands on our section. Even from this distance, I can see the moment he spots me. His entire posture changes, shoulders relaxing, face breaking into that warm smile that still makes my stomach flip.
When he sees the jersey—his jersey—coupled with the famously fashionable sequined jacket, his smile grows impossibly wider. He raises his hand slightly, a small acknowledgmentthat feels strangely intimate despite the thousands of people surrounding us.
I lift my hand in return, a shy wave that makes Killian snort beside me.
“You two are disgustingly cute,” he mutters, but I can hear the affection in his voice.
“Jealous?” I ask him, cocking a brow.
He laughs. “Maybe a little.”
“Of course he’s jealous,” Mari pipes in. “You landed the best Haynes brother.”
“Hey now!” Killian chastises. “Let’s not speak untruths here, babe.”
Before I can respond, the stadium speakers crackle to life, and the usual pre-game music shifts abruptly. The opening notes of a song I recognize immediately start playing through the massive sound system and on the field, something utterly surreal begins to unfold.
What in the…?
The entire Portland Rush team has stopped their warm-ups. They’re forming a line across the middle of the field, and at the center—looking directly at our section—is Shepherd. The music grows louder, Rachel Platten’s “Stand By You” now unmistakable as it fills the stadium.
My hand flies to my mouth as Shepherd brings an imaginary microphone to his lips and starts lip-syncing the opening lines.
