A week later,I still have no idea what the hell is going on with Grayson.The resort happened, but then we came home and… nothing.
Not bad nothing. Not awkward nothing. Not him pulling away in some dramatic, cold, punishing way.Justnormal.
That might honestly be worse.
He’s still Grayson at work, still focused, terse, and distractingly competent. Still Gray at home in these small, quiet ways that feel somehow even more dangerous now — coffee waiting for me in the morning, a hand at the small of my back when he slips past me in the kitchen, looks that linger too long and then disappear before I can figure out what they mean.
But there's no kissing, no late-night slipping into each other’s rooms.Nothing that gives me any clue where I stand.
So naturally, when he asks if I want to come with him and Maddox to the CU-CSU rivalry game in Fort Collins while Penelope is with Halsey for the night, I say yes like I'd been waiting days for something.
I made the mistake of assuming it would be a normal, composed, watch-the-game-politely kind of outing.That assumption lasts maybe ten minutes.
The VIP box is ridiculous. Warm, private, catered, with leather seats and glass windows overlooking the field like we’re football royalty. Maddox acts like this is normal. Grayson acts like this is normal. I try to act like this is normal while absolutely not losing my mind over the fact that the Buffs are literallyright thereand I can see the entire field so clearly I could call a foul.
But on top of that, Ilovefootball.I grew up in Boulder. I went to CU. Buffalo blood runs in my veins.
By the end of the first quarter, I’m two drinks in, standing every time something exciting happens, and yelling at nineteen-year-olds through a pane of glass like they can hear me.
“Are you kidding me?” I shout as one of the Buffs misses a catch he absolutely should have made. “That hit both your hands!”
Maddox starts laughing into his beer.
I point at the field like the receiver personally betrayed me. “That was embarrassing.”
Beside me, Grayson leans back in his seat, whiskey in hand, watching me with the most annoyingly entertained look I have ever seen on a human face.
“What?” I demand.
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. You’re smirking.”
“I’m not smirking.”
“He’s definitely smirking,” Maddox chimes in.
Grayson ignores him. “Didn’t realize you had this in you.”
I cross my arms. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
He takes a slow sip of his drink. “You’re a little feral.”
I mock gasp. “I ampassionate.”
“Same thing,” Maddox says.
I flip him off without heat and turn back toward the field just in time to see CU force a turnover, and promptly lose my mind.
I’m shouting. I’m clapping. I might be cursing a little. At some point, Grayson's standing with me, and I grab his forearm without thinking when a play gets too close for comfort. He looks down at my hand like it’s the most interesting thing in the room.
By halftime, I’m fully gone.
Not drunk-drunk, just loose and loud enough that I’m starting to suspect I may, in fact, be embarrassing myself in front of two former NFL players and whoever else is in the neighboring boxes.
The thought hits hardest when I bark, “Oh, come on!” at a ref and then realize both Maddox and Grayson are looking at me.
I sink back into my seat. “I’m being obnoxious, aren’t I?”
