Page 37

“Mm-hmm,” Jasmine Lee says from beside me without even looking up. “Called that before they broke huddle. They’re desperate. Expect another on third.”

Sure enough, the rush comes screaming off the edge, but Kingston shifts, digs his cleats in, and catches the rookie like he was waiting for him. It’s surgical—two quick steps, a shove, and the kid hits the turf while the quarterback dances untouched.

“Clean,” Olivia Frost whispers reverently, snapping a photo with her camera. “That’s art. That’s—” she exhales, “—a textbook pancake.”

I’m already grinning. “He made it look easy.”

“Everything looks easy when you’re built like a freight train and move like a ballerina,” Deja adds, raising her drink in Kingston’s direction. “King of the blind side.”

Another snap. Another play. This time, it’s a slant route across the middle, and Cruz takes the hit like he’s got bricks for ribs, dragging defenders behind him as he crosses into first-down territory. The crowd explodes.

There’s something about watching live—something visceral, unfiltered. The sweat, the power, the chaos held in check by sheer will and timing. It’s ballet meets battlefield. And up close, you see everything. The flex of tape-strapped hands. The grit in the turf when someone goes down. The micro-adjustments, the flickers of chemistry and control that no camera angle can fully capture.

“Kingston’s on fire tonight,” Heather says over her shoulder. “He read that defensive shift like a damn novel.”

“Cover-two shell gave it away,” I reply automatically. “Middle linebacker bit too early. Told on himself.”

Layla laughs. “Mya, if you ever decide to leave your job, the Giants need you in the booth.”

I don’t answer. Just smile, then glance back at the field.

Third and goal. Tie game. Second half winding down. The kind of moment that breaks teams or makes legends.

They line up fast—no huddle. The Panthers aren’t ready. I can see it. They’re scrambling.

“Motion left. Watch the pull,” I mutter under my breath.

Sure enough—snap.

The pocket forms, tight and flawless. Kingston pulls, swings wide, and throws himself into the lane with surgical precision. JJ Ross cuts inside, slips a tackle, and dives across the line. Touchdown.

The stadium detonates.

In the box, women are screaming. Popcorn is flying. Candice jumps up, spinning in a circle with both arms in the air. Layla is halfway in Jasmine’s lap. Deja is doing what can only be described as a happy shimmy.

And I just sit back, heartbeat thunderous, one hand pressed to my chest.

On the field, as the team jogs off, Kingston glances up.

Not at the cameras. Not at the crowd.

At me.

He taps his chest once. A gesture so quick and quiet I almost miss it.

But I don’t.

I see you.

And I swear—for one breathless second—I think he’s saying the same thing back.

Then he vanishes into the huddle of helmets and pads, and I’m left clutching the edge of my seat, pulse racing like the two-minute drill is happening in my chest.

The third quarter starts, and it’s a brutal tug-of-war. Every play feels like a gamble, every snap a heartbeat. The Panthers aren’t just holding their ground—they’re biting into ours, yard by yard, inch by inch. Kingston holds the line like a goddamn leviathan, but even titans bleed.

There’s a hit on third and long where I physically flinch. Kingston gets bowled over in a scramble, his knee buckling for a blink too long before he’s back on his feet, barking out signals like his body isn’t screaming at him. My heart thunders with the crack of shoulder pads and the grunts of war echoing across the turf.

When J.J. takes a pitch and sprints down the sideline, the whole stadium stands. Thirty yards. Forty. Fifty. My throat burns from screaming, hands clenched to my chest like prayer could push him those final twenty. But the Panthers’ safety clips his ankle at the 8-yard line. The air wheezes out of me. So close. So goddamn close.