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Everything afterward, including Tenny professing his love for Alex, was caught on Trevor’s hot mic. The network has been mic’ing up different players with lavaliers to give live reactions to different plays—everyone except me, that is.

“It’s not as romantic as it sounds.”

I’m lying. Even a stone wall like me can admit it was incredibly romantic. The part of the whole ordeal that I can’t get out of my head was when Tenny told us that Alex was “his person.” I’d gone silent in that moment because the second my teammate said those words, Willow sprung to mind.

Which has got to be crazy, right?

We barely know each other.

Willow hums, her lips twitching like she’s holding back a smile.

“So you’re telling me you weren’t at all affected by what your teammate said?”

I don’t dignify that with an answer.

“You’re telling me that giving an extended interview with Alex Stevens at the end of that game didn’t have anything to do with what happened on the field?”

“No.”

The back of my neck heats. Even though I hate being on camera, I tried to be more charismatic than lukewarm oatmeal at the end of that game because I was worried Alex would lose her job. At least she could go out with good footage. Apparently, though, the network likes the drama of their reporter dating a player, so she’s still working with the Waves.

“Uh-huh,” Willow says, unconvinced.

“Sometimes you’ve got to talk to the press. It’s part of the job.”

“Speaking of the media, when do you want to show these off?” Willow waggles her wedding ring at me.

The sight of it on her delicate finger sends an enigmatic emotion shooting in odd directions. That is, until Willow notices that I’m not wearing mine. The way her face falls sends my stomach careening toward the building’s lobby.

“Oh.”

Willow’s single-syllable word sounds more painful than a line drive to the shins.

“Right. Why would we be wearing our rings?” Willow tugs at the multi-stoned circle, but it doesn’t budge. “Shoot. My hands are all swollen from all the air guitar,” she says, frantically pulling at the ring like it’s burning her. “It won’t—” Her voice almost cracks. “I’ll ice it. Then it will come off.”

Before Willow can hop off the counter, I step between her knees. “Don’t.”

She lets me cage her. Willow doesn’t look at me, though, just keeps twisting the ring.

“Willow, stop.”

Her hands still, but her chest continues to heave with short inefficient breaths. Willow’s look of defeat sends pain scratching down my spine. After a second of indecision, I give in, letting my thumb brush across her splotched cheek before I tilt her face up.

“I’m not wearing mine because I wanted to talk to you and get our stories straight. If we want to convince my family, I need to tell my teammates the same story we’ll eventually tell them. With rushing off to catch the plane, we didn’t get to discuss any of that. And I didn’t want to have that conversation over the phone.”

Willow doesn’t say anything, her eyes darting around my face. Her silence is more powerful than most people’s words.

Sighing, I dip my fingers beneath my black long-sleeve Henley to pull my ring out. I’d placed it on my gold chain after boarding the plane to Phoenix. I hadn’t liked the idea of it bouncing around in my duffel bag. If I’m being honest with myself, I’ve enjoyed the weight of it next to my heart.

Willow watches me free the ring from the chain and slide it on my finger.

After a few beats, she asks, “Our story?”

The relief over Willow speaking to me again feels like a deluge after being trapped in the outfield on a scorching summer day.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

“Can it be fun?” The slight twinkle in Willow’s eyes makes my entire week.