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Peyton dug around in her bag to try to find her pass. Her fingers hooked on her car keys instead of the ring of the pass. God, you’d think in a clear bag the stupid thing would be easier to find. In the excitement of getting onto the field, she’d forgotten all about having her pass out.
“Sure you are, honey,” the guard said. He pointed at a group of women waiting along the railing. “So are they.”
Peyton looked over and didn’t recognize any of the women. “No, but we actually are dating players.”
“Like I said. Sure you are.”
Peyton’s fingers connected with the lanyard in the bottom of her bag, and she pulled it out victoriously just as a security guard from the field tapped their guard on the shoulder. The big man turned and looked at them, then winced. “Sorry,” he said.
“No problem,” Peyton answered. “You’re just doing your job.”
“Thanks,” he replied as he stepped aside and opened the small gate to allow them onto the field. Behind them, the group of women swarmed the guard, groaning when he closed the gate behind Kendall.
“Why do they get to go on the field?” a woman’s voice whined. Peyton didn’t wait to hear the answer. She scanned the crowd of players, staff, spouses, and media as they swarmed all around the field cheering.
Kendall grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the home team dugout. Finally, she spotted Ryan standing off to the side with a group of reporters, microphones shoved in his face. Gonzo ran up behind him and dumped the Gatorade container over the top of Ryan’s head. He jumped but the liquid soaked his head and shirt, making the jersey stick to his muscular body.
Kendall slapped her hand over her mouth and laughed. It was like Ryan could sense she was there because his head snapped up in her direction. His gaze landing on hers.
He said something to the press, then jogged toward her. The reporters all turned. Their cameras trained on him as he ran toward her. Normally she would be embarrassed that the cameras were aimed her way, but all she cared about was getting to her man. A cameraman stepped in front of her, his camera aimed at Ryan. She’d barely stepped around the man when muscular arms banded around her body, and she was picked up into the air. His wet jersey soaked into her shirt, pulling her into the celebration with him.
Ryan’s lips crashed down on hers, his tongue tangled in a hungry, adrenaline-fueled mass of teeth and lips and tongue. It was dirty and messy and the best kiss of her entire life.
The kiss broke, and she held Ryan’s face in her hands. His smile was so big she was surprised his face could contain it.
“Holy fuck, Pey,” he yelled.
The noise on the field was deafening. Even with Ryan right against her she could barely hear him. “Congrats, baby,” she yelled to be heard over the crowd.
His energy and excitement were contagious. He stared at her. His eyes heated. Her man was riding the adrenaline high and horny as hell from it.
Too bad the media had other ideas for him.
Cameras shuttered around them. Reporters called out his name. Ryan rested his forehead against hers. “I gotta talk to the press,” he groaned.
“Do your thing. I’m not going anywhere.”
Ryan gave her a quick kiss, then pressed his lips against her ear and said, “I’m counting on it. I fucking love you, Pey.”
“I fucking love you too,” she said, smiling to herself when he stared at her lips and arched a brow. It was so weird to her how much he loved when she cursed.
“I’ll be quick.”
“No rush. We’ve got all night to celebrate.”
“And I’m going to use every minute of it.” He pressed a quick kiss to her lips. “Get ready.” After setting her down, he turned toward the press.
“Ryan, tell us about that curveball,” a reported called.
It seemed fitting that Ryan had thrown a curveball to win the game. Because the man had thrown her life for a curve and she wouldn’t have it any other way.
THE END
