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I laugh despite myself. Shucking off my cap, I nudge hers out the way, unobstructed as my lips graze her cheek. “Thank you for coming.”
Sunday shifts to face me, so close I can see the individual flecks of green in her eyes, can feel her warm breath against my mouth. “You’re welcome.”
“I appreciate it.” I kiss her again, right on the corner of her mouth. “Maybe later I’ll show you how much.”
“Cass,” she warns quietly even as her cheeks flush and she shifts in her seat.
“I’m talking about cooking dinner.” I feign innocence, sneaking an arm around her shoulders and burying my fingers in the soft waves cascading over them. “What were you thinking?”
“Guys.”
Sunday jerks back slightly. I eye August over her shoulder. “We’re not kissing, buddy.”
“Not yet,” he grunts, nodding at something across the field. Frowning, I follow his line of sight and… fuck.
The kiss cam. We’re on it. Me and Sunday.
“Holy fuck,” someone behind me says. “That’s Cass Morgan.”
I bristle as recognition settles, cursing myself for wanting it as I slink a protective arm around Sunday’s shoulders, gripping the one of August’s closest to me. I know no one is my biggest fan lately—if Ryan didn’t incessantly remind me, I could easily come to that conclusion by myself, what with threatening the Wolves’ chance at success and all—so I’m prepared for at least some vitriol.
I’m not prepared at all for an excited, steady chant of my name to begin. For a voice on a loudspeaker to echo around the stadium, welcoming me home. For the players on the field to stop preparing for the end of halftime and holler my name too.
For thousands of people to knock their knuckles against their cheeks before pointing at me and screaming‘knock ‘em out,’replicating the ritual that was just mine and Amelia’s before it morphed into something more.
I don’t have to check the jumbotron to know my expression is one of awe, my eyes wide as they roam the stadium, my mouth more slack-jawed than smiling.
When I glance at Sunday, the smile on her face, the tears in her eyes, all but liquify my insides. I turn back to the screen, staring at the image of us filling it, at the huge letters spelling KISS while too many voices chant the same word.
Fuck it.
Reaching around Sunday, I plop my cap on August’s head, dragging the brim low so my promise of never kissing his mother in front of him can remain intact, and then, I do just that. I kiss Sunday. Far gentler and sweeter than I’d prefer, but I’m trying to remain scandal-free and I made a promise to an eleven-year-old, so public debauchery is off the table, and with Sunday, a brush of my lips against hers is all it takes.
All I need yet simultaneously not enough.
Sunday blushes and shrinks back in her seat, hands hiding her face but her smile still peaks through. August grimaces but there’s something performative about it, awe softening his face as he gazes around the rowdy stadium. I sit tall for the first time today, proud as I wave and wink at the camera, relishing in what I’ve missed so damn much.
But the chants of my name? Not nearly as loud or as gratifying as the quiet laughter coming from the woman beside me.
* * *
“Sorry.” I smile politely at the fifth man with a notepad and a haughty air of superiority to approach me in as many minutes. “No interviews today.”
He frowns like the ones before him did, eyeing Sunday and August like it’s their fault I’m not in the mood to chat. August’s shoulders tense beneath my palms, his mother coughs awkwardly, and I mentally catalog the reporter’s face, filing it away in my‘do not give the time of day’folder for future reference.
“You don’t have to keep doing that,” Sunday murmurs as I steer them further down the hallway towards the locker room where my teammates are waiting. “We don’t mind.”
“I do.” Because I know exactly what they’re gonna ask me, and I have no interest in discussing the precarious state of my career. “I’m not in the mood.”
Fingers curl around my bicep, squeezing gently. “We can skip the other stuff too.”
August whines a noise of protest and I stifle a laugh, giving him a shake. “It’s okay,” I assure Sunday. No way am I gonna deprive August of meeting the Wolves, whether the thought of seeing them makes me slightly nauseous or not.
Either way, it’s too late to turn back; the broad, salt-and-pepper-haired, cross-armed man guarding a locker room door has already spotted us. “Morgan.” The deep voice I’ve become so familiar with over the years greets me, only my seasoned ear able to distinguish the affection behind the bark. “‘Bout time.”
“Coach Delgado.” I take the hand he stretches out towards me, prepared for the knuckle-breaking shake he bestows. “It’s good to see you.”
“I’m sure it is.” Delgado hums like he knows that isn’t quite the truth. Weathered eyes flick to Sunday and August, and the man who all but shaped me into the one I am today softens. “These must be the famous Lanes.”
