“Reese!”
His brows are furrowed, and he looks back onto the field before jumping up onto the concrete lip of the barrier to close the gap between us.
Fans try to thrust me to the side as they push merchandise in Reese’s face. He ignores them, his focus solely on me.
“Honey? Fuck. I thought you were meeting us after?”
“I was supposed to, but I couldn’t wait. I need to see him.”
He nods frantically. “Yes, you fucking do.”
He shakes his head before jumping off the barrier and finding the nearest guard. They come over, and before I know it, the guard is there, holding his arms out for me.
I jump over the barricade, and the second my feet touch the ground, I feel relieved.
I’m so close to seeing him.
“Good luck, Honey,” Reese says. “He’s going to freak the hell out when he sees you.”
“I think I might freak out first,” I confess with a shaky laugh.
Reese grins. “Nah. That’s definitely gonna be him.”
He points to the field before he jumps back up to the barrier and starts signing things for the fans.
After checking my pass, the guard escorts me to the field. Before I know it, I can feel the springy grass under my feet. The noise is a completely different thing from down here, surrounding and enormous. This is his world, properly, the one I've been watching through glass and television screens for years while he's been in the middle of it.
“Honey!”
I turn at the sound of my name just in time to see Dax nearly trip over himself doing a double take.
“You’re here?” he says, staring at me like I’ve materialized out of thin air.
“Yeah,” I breathe out, still scanning the field for Zach.
“Surprise?” I offer weakly.
For one suspended second, he just stares. Then his entire expression changes. His eyes widen, his mouth falling open as the realization fully lands.
“Oh, Zach is going to lose his damn mind.”
A nervous laugh escapes me as I glance back toward the field.
Dax immediately points toward the players celebrating near the end zone. “Go get your man, Honey!” he shouts, jogging beside me for a few steps.
“I’m trying!”
I don't stop.
I go.
“How long have you been playing on this?” The team doctor, Craig, asks as he wraps my wrist.
Confetti is falling around us, everyone else is celebrating our first win without Coach Masters, and here I am, sitting on my ass, grumbling because I couldn’t hide my wrist injury any longer.
Kind of hard to do when my fingers are double the size they usually are.
Not that I care.
