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“YES!” I said, jumping forward to get a better look. Immediately, the photographers raised their cameras and let out a machine-gun burst of shutter-snaps.
I didn’t care, because I was focused on Brody. The Stallions had just tied the game, but they still had a chance to score either the extra point or go for a two-point conversion. The wind was so bad that the coach called for the latter, and the offense lined up one more time.
The ball was hiked. Everyone bolted into action. Brody ran toward the corner of the end zone, turning to look over his shoulder. Dallas’s pass hit him perfectly. Brody took two more steps and then lunged, extending the ball with both hands as he hit the corner pylon.
The referee raised both arms to signal a score.
“They took the lead!” Isabella shouted. “Victory cheer, ladies! Four, three, two…”
Yet as we performed the routine, I couldn’t help but notice the photographers that were still focusing on me rather than the game.
The Stallions held onto their lead and won, 20 - 10. I followed the rest of the girls back into our locker room, eager to get out of the cold—and eager to reach the phone in my locker.
The notifications on the main screen confirmed my fear. Eleven missed calls, and forty-nine text messages.
I opened the first text, which was from my mom. It was a link to a TMZ article, with a photograph of Brody and me holding hands in the park.
In big, bold letters, the headline said:
TEXAS TIGHT END’S TORRID TAYLOR TRYST
