His laugh warms my heart, but it has nothing on the heat that hits me when I finish climbing the stairs. The crowd is on their feet, their anger not just visible on their faces. They’re fuming mad. I’d even go as far as saying steamingly angry. The heat bouncing off them on is so stifling, I can feel my face paint sagging off my cheeks.
“E!” I shout when I see him in the middle of the field.
I move to the very end of the bleachers before waving my arms in the air. “E!”
My shouts are overpowered by the boisterous boo of the crowd when Elvis’s throw is intercepted by the opposition. At this rate, he’ll never hear me. Recalling how shouted words can be as good as they are bad, I try a new tactic.
“Come on, Elvis! Show them why you’re the king!” My words barely float three feet away from me, but they are heard by the spectators surrounding me. “You’ve got this! You’re the number one quarterback in the country for a reason! Bring the magic! Show them why you’re the king!”
“Yeah, come on, Elvis. Show us the magic!” a 69er fan on my left joins in.
His words of encouragement are closely followed by another on my left. “We can still win this. We’re the 69ers. We don’t go down without a fight.”
Excitement slicks my skin when each roar is enhanced by another, and another, and another. By the time my eyes are close to breaking the damn welling in them, every spectator in my section is mimicking my chants. Our roars of encouragement not only gain us the attention of the defensive half of Elvis’s team, it gains us the watchful eye of the jumbo screen cameraman.
My eardrums are nearly blasted from the hive of activity around me, but I swear I hear Elvis whisper, “Willow?” when he spots me on the jumbo screen.
When he spins in a circle, looking for me, I wave my hands in the air like I’m landing a jumbo jet. I can tell the exact moment he spots me as the most blistering smile stretches across his face. It’s so large, not even his helmet can conceal it.
Coach James manically signals for time when Elvis starts to race off the field. His panicked demand is granted by the referee a mere second before Elvis crosses the sideline. He races my way, his helmet discarded at the halfway mark. The roars of the crowd dull to barely a hum when he climbs up the railing like King Kong climbed the Empire State Building. They’re as shocked by his arrival as me.
The delicious scent of sweat-slicked skin with a hint of grass hits me when Elvis stops to stand in front of me. He’s dangling a good twelve or so feet from the ground, and the strain from his climb is visible on his face.
“Hey.”
Who knew one stupid word could cause an avalanche of emotions? I guess if you add his greeting to the excitement in his eyes, it can be easily excused.
“Hey.”
What?You aren’t dealing with what I am right now. I’m impressed I managed to get out a single word.
As the crowd hovers to eavesdrop on our conversation, Elvis’s eyes dance between mine like he’s convinced I’m going to disappear at any moment. When I don’t, he asks, “What are you doing here, Willow? I thought you had your dance recital?”
“This was more important.” Realizing my error, I correct, “Youare more important.”
His eyes flare with relief as the most gorgeous smile spreads across his face. I swear to god it makes my knees weak and has several ladies behind me collapsing into their seats.
“But right now, we’ve got more urgent matters to take care of.” Pretending I can’t feel a million eyes on me, I yank my cell phone out of my pocket. “Your competitors aren’t one step ahead of you. They know your plays.”
As I log into the videos on my phone, I blurt out everything I just witnessed. Delilah’s scheme, how they added stuff into his contract after he signed it, and that Mason purposely goaded him with the hope of getting him benched, before closing with how Lillian secured the playbook from Coach Salter before every game.
The only thing I don’t mention is Lillian’s plan to play him for an idiot. He’s been hurt enough by her, and I refuse to subject him to any more.
“Jesus.” There are a thousand words in Elvis’s eyes, but he went for the easiest one.
“It’s okay,” I assure him when I see the bewilderment in his eyes shift to indecisiveness. He wants to update Coach James on what is happening before making his competitors pay for their underhandedness, but he doesn’t want me to think he is picking football over me. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right there when you’re done.” I point to my seat three bleachers over.
“Are you sure?”
I nod without hesitation. “I’m sure.” I seal my hand over his before giving it a squeeze. “Now go and show them why you’re the king!”
While silently praying he has the agility of a cat, I place my phone in his hand before giving him a gentle nudge. He lands on his feet, but they remain planted on the ground.
“Go!” I gesture to Coach James who is seconds from bursting an artery. “Coach is about to bench you.”
Elvis’s grin does stupid things to my insides. “I’m willing to take the risk.”
My already brisk heart rate speeds up when he climbs up toward me. His pace is so fast this time around, a gust of air hits my face a mere second before I’m engulfed by the most delicious set of lips I’ve ever tasted in my life. Even with the cheer of the crowd strong enough to collapse the grandstand, he holds nothing back. He kisses the living hell out of me. Tongue, lips, teeth, you name it, it’s included in our kiss.
