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“He’s doing it,” I cheer, and I sprint to the section of the end zone he’s heading for. My finger never moves from the shutter button, capturing picture after picture of his game winning score.
His teammates flood him as soon as the refs signal the touchdown. They form a line, sitting on the ground for their celebration as Sam Wagner, the tight end, sprints up. He pretends to lock them into a roller coaster car. They lean forward then backward, their arms waving chaotically as the rest of the Titans surround them.
“I love that celebration the most,” Cassidy laughs, and I nod.
“Same. Their best work this season, to be honest.”
“Look at them. They’re like little kids in the candy store.”
“I’m going to head to the tunnel so I can get some shots of them after their post-game interviews,” I say, and she waves.
“Sounds good. I’m going to hang out here and snap a few solo photos of Jett.”
“Of course you are,” I tease, and she sticks out her tongue. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
I jog to the tunnel, dodging reporters and security personnel. I want to snag a good spot before the media tries to flood the area, and I know it’s going to be jam packed in here in a matter of minutes. I find a spot tucked away from the main path where I can lean against a wall and catch my breath, waiting for the team to make their way inside.
The coaches come in first like always, and Shawn gives me a high five before he heads to the locker room. The players who dressed out but didn’t play follow him.
The defense comes after, helmets in their hands and relief on their faces—it’s obvious they’re glad they didn’t have to take the field again. There’s a break in the action, then the rest of the guys file in. I look up from my camera as Dallas walks into the tunnel.
It’s like time stops when I see him.
His gaze meets mine, and he ignores his teammates. My heart pounds in my chest as he makes his way over to me.
“Great game,” I blurt out, even though he hardly played. Three extra points and no field goals makes for a boring day on the sidelines for him. Still, he’s happy, the euphoria of victory written in his scrunched nose and lazy, easy stride. “Your leg looked great out there.”
“Are you watching me, Maven?” he asks.
He props his elbow against the wall above my head. His other arm hangs by his side and his helmet almost presses into my leg, but he still seems too far away.
I know he’s lighter and leaner than some of the guys on the team, but he’s not small. He takes up too much space, an intimidating, overwhelming presence that makes it difficult to think straight.
I can smell the sweat and grass clinging to his jersey. I can see the smudges of his eye black on his cheeks. I can feel himinch closer to me, and the toes of his cleats knock against my sneakers.
To anyone walking past us, we’re just two people talking. Shooting the shit as I congratulate him on another victory. There’s nothing wrong with what we’re doing, but blood still pounds in my ears. I can’t look away from him, and his attention never wavers from me, either.
“Always,” I answer, and he gives me a wicked, dual-dimple smile that makes my heart skip a beat.
Dallas fumbles with something under the collar of his jersey. There’s a flash of gold and I watch as he pulls out a necklace—mynecklace. The one I thought I lost two months ago and gave up trying to find.
He’s wearing it without a care in the world, and something about his smug confidence tells me he’s had it in his possession for a very long time.
“Seems like I have a good luck charm with me,” he says, rough and low. He holds up the M and keeps his eyes on me as he kisses the letter then runs his tongue over the chain. It feels like he’s running his tongue overmeand the places of my body I desperately want him to touch. “I think I’m going to wear it every game.”
Holy shit.
I reach out and graze my fingers over the jewelry. I give it a soft yank and he careens forward, nearly stumbling into me with a breathy laugh I feel deep in my stomach. His eyes gleam with delight as he stares at where my fingers press into the hollow of his throat.
“It looks better on you than it does on me,” I tease.
“Impossible. You look good in everything.”
“Yeah, but you—” I snap my mouth shut.
You look like the man of my dreams.
“Are you going to finish that sentence?” he asks, and I bite my bottom lip. His eyes drop to my mouth and hold, a flash of heat sparking across the brown of his irises.
