Chicago scrambles, but our defense shuts them down. The clock hits zero. Game over.
We win.
The locker room is chaos. Music blaring. Champagne spraying. Bodies crashing into each other in celebration.
I let myself get swept up in it for a moment, grinning as Derek pours water over my head and Marcus shouts something incomprehensible about the play-calling being brilliant.
But beneath it all, there’s only one thought:
I need to see her.
After the media interviews, where I give the standard answers about execution, teamwork, and taking it one game at a time, I shower and dress quickly.
My phone lights up.
Olivia:Great game. You were incredible out there.
Me:Thanks. Where are you?
Olivia:Heading to my car. Media wants a statement on the altercation in the third quarter.
There’d been a scuffle after a late hit. Nothing major, but the kind of thing that makes headlines if we don’t get ahead of it.
Me:Can I see you? Just for a minute.
Three dots. Then:
Olivia:Carter, we talked about this. We have to be careful.
Me:I know. Please. Just one minute.
A long pause. Then:
Olivia:North parking garage. Level three. Five minutes.
I’m out the door before anyone can stop me.
The parking garage is nearly empty. Most of the crowd’s already left, the post-game rush thinning to a trickle. I take the stairs two at a time, heart pounding in a way that has nothing to do with exertion.
Level three. I scan the rows of cars and spot her immediately.
Olivia leans against her car, arms crossed, tablet tucked under one elbow. She’s wearing dark jeans and a Dragons pullover, hair pulled back in a ponytail. Professional. Untouchable.
Except for the way her eyes soften when she sees me.
“Hey,” I say, stopping a few feet away. Keeping distance. Being careful.
“Hey.” She shifts, uncrossing her arms. “That was a hell of a game.”
“Thanks.”
“The audible in the fourth quarter—gutsy.”
“Or stupid, depending on who you ask.”
A small smile. “It worked.”
“Yeah.”
