“Pips,” I say sternly. “I didn’t notice anything.”
She raises a brow. “Liar.” She tilts her head back and laughs. “You were practically purring like a cat when he was looking at you.”
I roll my eyes, but my cheeks are already flushing. “I was not.”
“You absolutely were,” she says, smiling. “But don’t worry, I’m not judging. If Oliver Bradshaw looked at me the way he looks atyou, shit, I’d be purring too.”
I want to argue with her, but I don’t know what to say without lying. Luckily, Brennan heads down the wing with the ball, and the entire stadium leans forward in anticipation, so her eyes and mine go back to the game.
There’sless than ten minutes left. Rockford is winning 1-0, but the opposing team is putting on pressure, desperate to claw back into the game and snatch a point. Our keeper, Harry, is on the verge of a clean sheet, and Rockford is doing everything in its power to hold the line for him, but also go after a second goal to seal the match.
The tension in the stadium is thick, and my body feels like it’s vibrating alongside the chanting.
And then Oliver gets the ball.
He’s just outside the box. Two defenders close in on him, and I brace for him to pass the ball up to Sebastian, but he doesn’t. He shifts his weight, pulls his left foot back, and strikes it.
The ball rockets off his foot like a missile, curling in the air. The keeper dives, but it’s hopeless. The ball is unstoppable. It slams into the top corner of the net, and the stadium erupts in a chant, all for him.
Heeey, hey O-li-ver!
Ooh, aah! I wanna knooow-oh-oh…
How’d you score that goal?!
Something about the chant just hits me. It’s electric. These fans love this team. They love him. They believe in him. Oliver doesn’t celebrate like Sebastian does. He doesn’t kick the corner flags. He doesn’t slide on his knees, arms wide open like he’s some kind of football god. He just stands there, breathing hard as each of his teammates pile on him.
I’m chanting along without even realizing it.
And then he looks up.
Past thefans. Past the noise. Straight at me, like in a crowd of thousands, I’m the only person here. Like that goal was meant for me. Like he could hear me chanting his name.
It’s only one second. Maybe even less. But it’s intense.
And hot.
Maybe it’s twenty thousand people chanting his name. Maybe it’s the way his dark brown hair sticks to the sweat on his forehead. Maybe it’s the way his chest rises and falls beneath the number 8 on his kit. Whatever it is, I feel like I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
“Addison,” Pippa says, nudging me in the side. “You can say it’s nothing all you want, but that man just scored a goal for you.”
All it took was one look, one strike of the ball, and those rules I wrote in ink suddenly feel erasable.
23
going for goal
RISK BY GRACIE ABRAMS
The locker room is absolutely buzzing after today’s win—eight in a row and a clean sheet for Haz. Music is blaring from a portable speaker, towels are flying, and laughter echoes off the walls. It’s chaos.
I’m still coming down from it. My goal. The crowd. The way I looked up, found her, and saw her chanting my name.
Matt’s waiting down the hall for post-match interviews, so I know the locker room is private, at least for a few more minutes.
“Lads,” Brennan calls out, his voice cutting through the noise. “Anyone fancy some celebration tonight?”
“It’s gotta be low-key,” Carlos says, his towel slung around his neck. “I don’t want the crew there. Last time I couldn’t even take a sip of my drink without a mic and a ring light in my face.”
