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“Hey,” I answer. “Is this allowed?”
“Fuck if I care. I dare them to fine me. Why are you worried?” he asks, and he pulls on my pigtail.
His voice is softer now, the same reverent tone it takes when it’s early in the morning and I’m in his arms, half-awake under the rising sun.
Late at night when he’s above me, his hands on my body and whispering words against my skin.
In the afternoon when we’re in the kitchen and he kisses me without a reason, devotion behind the press of his lips and the way he tells me he loves me every single day.
I step toward him and run my palms up his chest, letting them settle around his neck. “Because you might win a Super Bowl,” I say. “And that makes me so happy for you.”
Shawn leans close, and his eyes are as bright as a clear summer’s day. “I don’t care about the win,” he says, and it sounds like a secret he’s not supposed to tell me. He touches my cheek and dances his fingers down my jaw. “I already won by having you here with me.”
I roll my eyes, but my heart cinches tight in my chest. It always does when he tells me how much I mean to him. “It’s a bummer they don’t hand out extra points for the cheesiest lines. You’d certainly win, and this game would be long over.”
“It’s true. You know why? In fifteen years, I might not be coaching anymore, but I’ll have you. I get to have you for the rest of my life,” he says, and he rests his forehead against mine.
“Are you sure about that? Dallas tried to ask me out to dinner in the tunnel and—”
Shawn pinches my hip, and a laugh tumbles out of me. “Whose jersey are you wearing today?” he asks.
“Yours.”
“Whose jersey are you going to wear thirty years from now?”
“Yours,” I say. “It’s always going to be yours. I love you, Shawn, and I’m so damn proud of you. Win or lose, you’re incredible.”
“I love you too, Lacey girl,” he murmurs.
He kisses me soft and slow, just like he does every night before bed. Just like he does when he brings me coffee and tells me he’s the luckiest guy in the world. Just like he does after we argue over silly things, after we fuck, after we split a piece of toast while we wait for our eggs to cook.
I kiss him back, my palms moving to his cheeks and my heart in his hands. My feet come off the ground, and I think I might be flying. It’s the only explanation for why I still get butterflies when he’s near, a thousand wings taking flight right behind my ribs.
I don’t think I’ll ever tire of that feeling.
I hear applause. There’s a whistle and catcalls. The wedding march plays over the loud speaker and I pull away from him.
“What is it with you and kissing me in front of a bunch of football fans?” I ask. “Is this going to be a tradition of ours?”
“I’m obsessed with you,” he says. “Can’t keep my hands to myself.”
“You should try, because the guys are already back on the line of scrimmage. You have a game to close out.”
“Look at you knowing your football.” He grins and pulls down on my bottom lip with his thumb. “Want to get married in Vegas tonight?” he asks, and I almost fall onto the field.
“What?”
“Want to get married in Vegas tonight?” he asks again, and I stare at him.
“You—me—us—here?”
Shawn shrugs, and a grin tugs up the left corner of his mouth. “Why not?”
“Because you haven’t proposed to me?” I say, half a question, half a statement, and he slaps his forehead.
“Oh, I haven’t? Shit.” He glances at the field, then back to me. “Hold on to that thought.” He kisses my cheek and jumps down onto the turf. He waves and jogs back to his team with long legs and tattooed arms, and I watch him go.
“What did he say?” Maggie asks, and my shoulders shake.
