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“Yes, you are.” He grins. “Take care of our boy’s heart, Maven. He’s been waiting for someone like you for years. He’s always been happy, but now he’s…” Maverick shrugs and adjusts the green stem on his head. “Now he’s on top of the world.”
When Dallas gets back on his knees and June tugs on his antlers, his gaze cuts over to me. His face lights up, and his smile is the brightest and widest of the night. It hits me square in the chest, a scary thing that takes my breath away, and I know I’m on top of the world, too.
THIRTY-EIGHT
MAVEN
The November windwhips through UPS Field, and I shiver on the sidelines.
I never thought I’d miss late summer and its thick humidity, but with the freezing rain pelting my face, I’d give anything to be warm. I stopped feeling my toes two quarters ago, and my hands are like icicles.
“This fucking sucks,” Cassidy says from beside me, and I nod in agreement.
“Miami sounds nice, doesn’t it? This four seasons weather is bullshit,” I answer, and my teeth chatter.
I can’t believe the fans have stuck around, but with the Titans down three with one minute to go, I think they’re hoping to catch a miraculous comeback. The defense huddles together on the field, and Dallas stands off to the side, stretching his leg. It’s fourth down, right on the twenty-yard line, and he’ll be kicking a field goal after the timeout.
I distract myself from the uncomfortable playing conditions and hold up my camera. I click the shutter button, snapping a photo of the guys with their arms draped over each other and making last-minute play calls.
I shift the lens to the right and take half a dozen pictures of Dallas rotating his hips. A smile dances over my mouth as I watch him in his own little world, and there’s not an ounce of strain on his face.
If anyone got a hold of my laptop, our relationship would be a dead giveaway. There are hundreds of photos of him—in his uniform, warming up with a goofy grin on his face as he interacts with the fans of the game. After a win in the tunnel to the locker room, his head tipped back and his helmet lifted in the air. Mid-jog onto the field, looking at me and catching me in a stare just as I catch him staring at me too.
It's hard to believe Dallas and I have only been together a month because it feels like it’s been years. I care about him so much, and if this is how I feel after only such a short amount of time together, it’s terrifying to wonder what it’ll be like in six months or a year.
The refs blow the whistle to resume the game, and the sharp sound shakes me from my daydreams of June, Dallas and I in a house outside the city, with a big yard and maybe a dog too.
The players break from their huddles and line up on the line of scrimmage. Their breaths come up in wisps of white, and a hush falls over the crowd. Dallas swings his right leg forward then back five times. He lifts his arm and checks the wind before closing one eye and lining up with his target.
His pre-kick routine has been the exact same in every game over the last eight years. Looking my way and tapping his hidden necklace is a new addition this season, though, and it’s my favorite.
The ball gets snapped, and Justin Rodgers barely catches it. Dallas pulls back and kicks just as the defense leaps off the ground. A player from the opposing team lifts his arms and bats the ball out of the air. The tips of his fingers knock it onto the field, and there’s a mad scramble of white and black jerseys.
Everyone slips and slides across the damp field. Mud sticks to legs and arms, and grass goes flying in every direction. I should be taking photos, but I’m too busy holding my breath and watching the play unfold, the live ball still without an owner.
Amidst the confusion, Dallas is the one to scoop it up. There’s panic in his movements as he looks left then right. I see the moment he spots a teammate downfield, and he pulls his arm back to heave a Hail Mary toward the end zone.
I can’t wait to give him shit for his spiral when we get home.
As soon as the ball leaves his hands, a Wildcats player charges toward him from the side. Dallas doesn’t see him—maybe because of the rain, or maybe because he’s not paying attention—and before anyone can warn him, he’s being leveled on the ground in one of the worst hits I’ve ever seen.
A gasp goes through the stadium. It’s so quiet, you can hear a pin drop. Dallas lays on his back, his arms and legs out to the sides like a starfish, but he’s not moving. I can’t even see if he’s breathing.
“Medic,” someone screams, and I think it might be a Wildcats player. “We need a medic.”
The atmosphere shifts, and we go from zero to one hundred in less than a second. Chaos unfolds around me, and a fight breaks out on the field when Justin lunges for the player that hit his teammate. Shawn sprints from the sidelines and his assistant coaches trail behind him. Still, Dallas doesn’t move, and my world starts to come crashing down.
“Maven,” Cassidy says, quick and sharp, and she shakes my shoulders. “Where is June?”
“What?” I ask, and I watch the injury cart roll out from the tunnel. “She’s in the nursery.”
“You have to go and get her.”
“No,” I say firmly, and I shake my head. I can’t imagine leaving Dallas, even if I’m just here on the sidelines.
“You have to get her,” she says again, gentler this time. “They’re probably going to take him to the hospital for a concussion or a—” she trails off and doesn’t finish the sentence. “She needs to be with you.”
Hospital.
