Chapter 29
Josephine
Rubbing the hem of the jersey between my fingers, I adjust it again, tugging it down my torso as if stretching it out might make me more comfortable somehow.
I fiddle with my camera settings, but my heart’s not in it tonight.
Crossing one leg over the other, I stash it back in the bag and give up on taking pictures for now.
“Jo.”
Beside me, Kylian’s watching the field, so I inspect his profile: The scowl of concentration hidden behind his thick, square-framed glasses. The sharp angle of his freshly shaven jaw. His game-day headset and dual devices in place and ready to go.
He looks locked in on the field and nothing else.
Except as I scrutinize him, his words from earlier in the kitchen replay in my mind. Despite his intense focus on preparing for the game, he’s undeniably aware of my every move.
“I know you’re uncomfortable, but you’re going to have to scoot down the damn bench if you squirm like that through the whole game.”
“I’m not uncomfortable,” I snap back too quickly.
He doesn’t turn to face me, but he calls bullshit with a simple quirk of a brow.
“Do you think it’s a bad idea?” I hedge.
This time, he does glance my way. Just long enough for me to see the trepidation in his eyes. Then he’s homed in on the field again.
“You’re literally wearing the jersey for the quarterback of the South Chapel Sharks whilst sitting on the Lake Chapel Crusaders’ bench.
” He drops his chin slightly and taps the screen of one of his tablets.
“Decker has been shooting daggers our way since the second he came out of the tunnel. You already know the answer to that question.”
I huff, feeling more insecure with each passing second as the captains and refs come together for the coin toss.
“Why didn’t you say something earlier?”
Kylian and I rode to the game together like usual.
Well, not exactly “as usual” since he insisted on taking the Sherp and navigating the marshes to get us to the mainland.
But it was low tide, and he swore he’d have to make the trip this weekend anyway so he could perform routine maintenance before returning it to the garage.
Kylian squints at the field, sitting stone-still, then exhales a long sigh when the Sharks win the coin toss and defer.
Tapping away on the device on his right leg, he bounces his left knee.
He spends another ten seconds or so inputting data and analyzing the recalculations before he gives me his attention again.
“You’re a strong, independent woman. You most certainly don’t need me telling you what to do. ”
Reaching over, he hooks a finger through one of the belt loops of my ripped boyfriend jeans and tugs until I get the hint and scoot over so we’re sitting hip to hip.
“Besides,” he murmurs, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear and lowering the microphone of his headset. “Who am I to stop you if you want to be a bad girl tonight?”
My cheeks heat at the callout. They warm even more when Greedy rushes to the sideline, the smuggest smirk plastered on his face when he sees me sitting on the bench wearing number two. He spits out his mouth guard, grins lewdly, and hollers in our direction.
“Hot damn, Joze. I was not prepared for just how good you’d look sitting in a sea of Crusaders red wearing my number.”
Without waiting for a response, he sprints toward one of the players’ benches, an energizer bunny brimming with excitement. He does some sort of side shuffle, jumping up and pumping his fist to get the Crusaders’ attention.
“You boys seeing this?” he taunts. “Taylor. Lockewood. Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” He throws his head back and cackles, then runs back toward me, pointing wildly. “Who am I kidding? How could you not?”
Greedy’s right. How could anyone not notice me?
In a sea of crimson, I’m a homing beacon of bright aquamarine.
I duck my head and shrink back in my seat, wishing it was more than just Kylian and me on this entire bench so I’d have someone else to hide behind.
Greedy sprints past us, hollering over his shoulder as he passes.
“I’ll be back for you, Joze. I’ll sign that jersey just as soon as I beat these boys on their home field.”
Cocky son of a bitch.
Have we grown closer over the last week? Yes. Do I trust him implicitly? Also yes. Did he help me immensely, in the most significant and selfless ways over the last week? Yes, yes, yes.
Did I allow the care and generosity of his time to overshadow the bigger picture? The one where he’s the quarterback of my team’s biggest rival, and by default, the arch nemesis of the four men I desperately want to win this game?
Also yes.
I fight back a grimace and silently scold myself for not anticipating how this would play out.
Greedy’s jersey was meant to be armor—an extra layer of protection between me and any asshat Sharks who may have heard about last weekend’s prank.
I assumed that, at best, I’d go unnoticed.
At worst? Anyone from South Chapel who tried to run their mouth would be confused and beguiled by my choice of attire.
I hadn’t considered its effect on anyone but the second and third string South Chapel players.
Hopefully my guys are secure enough in our dynamic to not let something so minuscule rile them.
Surely the indisputable ire radiating off Decker Crusade has everything to do with football and tonight’s game, and nothing to do with me.
This can’t be happening.
Maybe it’s a coincidence.
Or maybe it’s because of the bye week.
Decker’s concussion protocol and lack of practice could be contributing factors.
Or maybe the Sharks are just the better team.
For the first time all season, the Crusaders are losing.
Not only are they losing, but they’re not playing well.
At all.
I’m still a novice when it comes to football, but I’ve been on the bench during every game this season, and not once have things gone so poorly.
The guys keep fumbling, both literally and figuratively. There’s a flag on almost every drive, and the refs are calling penalties left and right. There’s no rhythm or finesse on the field. They haven’t picked up any of their usual momentum.
Three sacks for Decker and two plays resulting in negative yardage. This is not the Crusaders way.
As the offense comes off the field and special teams takes their place on the line of scrimmage, I blow out a long exhale and scan the sideline to keep an eye out for my guys.
Kylian curses, calling my attention back to the field. “Why the hell is he kicking end-over-end?” he mutters, tapping against his device at an impossible speed.
The punter’s kick comes down just shy of the thirty-five yard line. The Sharks make it all the way to midfield before the Crusaders can take down the kick returner.
“At least that wasn’t my fault,” I mutter under my breath.
Kylian glowers at me. “If you think any of this isn’t related to what you’re wearing and how it’s affecting our guys, and in turn, the entire team, you’re sorely mistaken.”
“Seriously?” I snap, reeling back.
“Jo.”
“Kylian,” I mock.
The one person I consider my safe place is calling me out, and that’s got my hackles rising and a heavy weight sinking in my stomach.
Gulping past the trepidation clogging my throat, I bury my face in my hands.
Regret and shame wash over me because, though I’m loath to admit it, this was a bad idea. A very, very bad idea.
Conceptually, it was solid. Greedy’s reasoning made sense.
And even though deep down I knew it would piss off Decker, I didn’t put enough thought into it to really consider the consequences of showing up in his rival’s jersey.
Pissing off Decker is what I do. I push. He pushes back. Then I push harder. It’s never affected him like this before, and eventually, he cracks. We recalibrate. And the whole song and dance begins again.
Except this? What’s happening right now, during this game, on the field, because of me?
This is something entirely new and wholly unexpected.
Maybe it’s because of how our dynamic has changed and changed again over the last two weeks. From his concussion and the out-of-state trip to the hospital, to the quiet moments we’ve stolen, the ones brimming with emotion and potential.
Maybe it was his dedication to finding me—the confession that he hadn’t eaten, hadn’t slept, could barely function until he knew I was safe.
Could it have been what went down on the boat? His horrific attempt at helping me, the one fueled by his deep desire to heal me and banish my anxiety and pain? It was awfully executed, but his intentions were pure. Then there was the way he opened up about his mom…
Or maybe it’s that he finally knows. He finally knows who I am, who I was, what I’ve survived, and instead of pushing him away like I originally feared, it only makes him want to protect me more.
“Do you really think they’re losing because of me?” I whisper.
“Undoubtedly.” Kylian doesn’t even hesitate.
There’s not an ounce of sugar coating his explanation.
“You couldn’t have picked a more perfect way to get under Decker’s skin and throw him off his game.
You donning Garrett Reed Ferguson the Third’s South Chapel Sharks jersey is the equivalent of a total knockout for Cap.
I know it. He knows it. Greedy knows it.
You pretending not to know it only makes it worse. ”
Shit on a crumbling cracker.
“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” I hiss. Suddenly, the bright teal polyester covering my shoulders and torso is too hot, too sticky, too itchy to endure. I scrape my nails against my upper arms, but it does nothing to alleviate the discomfort.
The neckline is too tight. The fabric is stifling. I don’t have anything on under the jersey besides a cropped bralette, so I can’t just take the damn thing off.
“Baby,” Kylian murmurs. “I would never tell you what to wear or hold you back from what you want to do. Unless we’re in my bed”—a flash of heat sparks in his eyes, but it’s gone as quickly as it came as he focuses on the game again—“you’re the boss.”
While using his left hand to keep up with his tablets and keeping his attention on the field, he works one hand under the itchy fabric of the jersey and grazes my right hip before he rests his hand on the small of my back.
The skin-to-skin contact soothes me in a way that only Kylian’s touch can.
What I wouldn’t give to rip off this stupid jersey and ask him to hold me right now, football game and stands full of angry fans be damned.
“Besides,” he says, turning from the data on his screens. “I no longer prioritize Decker’s opinion above all others. He’s not my number one, Jo. You are.”
He squeezes my hip once more before turning back to his devices just as the star running back for the Lake Chapel Crusaders jogs over to our bench.
“Get up,” Kendrick demands, his chest heaving as he hovers over me and spits out his mouth guard.
“Why?” I snap. I’m already drowning in vulnerability and regret. I know I fucked up. I don’t need Kendrick Taylor pulling out his grumpy big dick energy to—
“Because I need you to hear me when I say this, Jojo. And I need to physically block you from Cap’s view so we don’t piss him off even more.”
Oh.
A glance at Kylian confirms he has eyes on us. That small comfort galvanizes me to rise from the bench and square up against number 24.
Kendrick is massive in his street clothes. Add in his pads and helmet, and his presence is colossal.
Sweat streams down his face as he scowls at me from behind his face mask.
He’s so close the warm musk and vanilla of his cologne mixed with the scent of fresh sweat, grass, and upturned earth overwhelms my senses.
It’s a supremely masculine smell, entrancing enough I could get lost in his aura if I don’t keep my head on straight.
With my feet firmly planted, I rest my hands on my hips and lift my gaze. The position is so reminiscent of when he laid into me during the last home game—pissed off and raging that Kyl called a time-out because I knew something was wrong with Decker.
That first time, I was right.
I already know I’m wrong this time around.
Fueled by the memories of the hatred he shoveled my way for weeks, I tip my chin defiantly.
“Say what you need to say, K.”
Fire erupts behind his eyes.
“Goddamn, this mouth.” He catches my chin with two fingers, tipping it up with the gentlest touch.
“I’m gonna fuck the sass right out of it and teach you some southern manners one day soon.
” He bows his head, his words heavy and guttural.
“You’re gonna suck down every drop I give you and say ‘thank you, Kendrick, can I have some more please?’ when I’m done. ”
I squeak in surprise while simultaneously being hit with a wave of hot desire. Forcing my spine ramrod straight, I choke back the response and try to quell my reaction.
The threat—more like a promise—was not what I was expecting. I sink my teeth into my bottom lip as he grips my chin tighter.
“You’re fucking with him big time, Mama.”
He doesn’t actually need to say the words. I see that clearly now, but I remain silent, letting him get it out.
“He can’t keep his head in the game. Out of all our years playing together, I’ve never seen him like this.”
I ignore the little thrill that rises in my chest.
“I don’t think it was your intention to make us lose, but intention doesn’t mean shit on game day. It’s about action. Choices. You did this. You made a bad fucking choice. The damage is done, but the damage isn’t irreparable. Not yet. Fix it, Jojo. Fucking fix it right now.”
He’s right. But I can’t help myself from pushing back and resisting his request.
He shakes his head like he’s snapping himself out of it, then drops my chin, turns, and jogs three steps before I can call after him.
“What’s in it for me, K?”
He spins around and freezes, then smirks.
God, he’s so fucking hot. Larger than life. Enigmatic, passionate, and sensual. Now that he’s not constantly scowling and hiding his true nature from me, it’s so blatant it’s like a smack in the face every time he turns his attention to me.
His eyes are full of a mix of playfulness and blazing intensity. He knows I’ll make this right. Just like I know he’s about to say something that’ll make me have to squeeze my knees together.
“Fix it, and I’ll give you all the southern hospitality lessons you want.” He gives me a long once-over, virility and masculinity rolling off him in waves. “So many lessons, Mama. I’ll make it so good for you. I may even throw in some extra credit.”
Done.