Chapter 32
Josephine
They won. They won! The Crusaders fucking won.
Decker ran in the touchdown, then Lake Chapel got the extra point.
For all of twelve seconds, the South Chapel Sharks had possession of the ball. Then Greedy fumbled, and the game was ours.
Decker took a knee a few times, the cacophony of cheers escalating with each kneel.
Leave it to football to be the one game where the crowd goes wild when the players snap the ball and literally do nothing.
I’m still standing on the bench, screaming my head off. By my side, Kylian is muttering to himself about outliers and standard deviation while he keeps one arm wrapped around my legs, supporting me.
The crowd is chaos behind us, and my phone is blowing up with texts in my back pocket, probably from Hunter. I don’t bother pulling it out to check or even turning around to take in the scene.
Right now, in this moment, I only have eyes for him.
QB1. Number five. The captain of this team. The heartbeat of our group. The only man with the power to bend me to his will and bring me to my knees.
Jogging off the field, he pulls off his helmet and gives me the most devastatingly handsome grin.
He stops in front of me, tosses his helmet to the grass, and wraps his arms around my thighs. With one quick jerk, he lifts me off the bench and spins around in circles.
“Decker!” I squeal, clasping my hands behind his head and digging my nails into the sweat-drenched hair at his nape.
That contact ignites a spark. Jubilation transforms into heat. Then heat transforms into need.
This man would never let me fall, but I wrap my legs around his torso and hold on with all my strength anyway.
“Decker,” I repeat, his name a prayer on my lips.
We’re eye to eye, contemplating each other in a way we’ve never allowed ourselves to fully embrace.
Chest still heaving, he licks his lips and lifts his chin, just slightly.
“Do it,” I demand.
“Say it,” he counters.
Grinning, I clasp his face with both hands and allow myself to get lost in his onyx irises.
To get lost, and to, in turn, be found.
“Kiss me, Decker Crusade.”
I’ve given him the order, but I don’t wait for him to comply before I dive in.
Our mutual desire arcing like an electric current between us, I pull myself closer and kiss him, inciting a cataclysmic sizzle of push and pull. Everything we are and everything we haven’t allowed ourselves to be comes together as he kisses me back, and all the stars finally align.
He tastes like sweat and mint and victory.
He won his game.
And he’s won my heart.
It’s not just about power and control between us. In the end, it comes down to compromise and transparency.
Seeing him so rattled—shaken, unhinged, unable to keep his head in the game—because I was wearing someone else’s jersey?
He showed every one of his cards tonight.
His vulnerability won’t be in vain.
Tentatively, I tease my tongue along the seam of his lips, seeking entrance. He opens for me and matches my strokes, digging his hands into my ass as our kiss grows more frantic.
Every second that passes, every moment when his mouth is on mine and his tongue worships me, solidifies just how much I want him.
In my life. By my side.
I want him with me. I want him with us. I want to be together, in whatever way that makes sense. I hope to god he wants that, too.
Breaking away on a pant, he whispers against my lips. “What are you doing to me, Siren?”
I grin, resting my forehead against his sweat-slicked skin, and loop my arms around his neck so I can kiss him again.
But a flash of the brightest light startles me so badly I jolt in Decker’s arms and scream.
It’s followed by another. And another.
It takes a moment for my brain to catch up and make sense of the source. It’s not lightning. That knowledge soothes my panic. There was no rain in the forecast. There’s not even a cloud in the sky.
Another breath. Another succession of flashes. My heart pumps faster again and dread creeps up from my stomach.
Shouts echo around us. His name is repeated over and over, from difference sources and different angles, pummeling me like physical blows.
Photographers have swarmed the field, some of them crowding so close they’re within arm’s reach. They shout their questions as they snap picture after picture.
“Put me down,” I plead, my tone urgent. The ache in my chest grows stronger by the second, threatening to steal all the breath from my lungs.
“You’re okay,” he assures me, keeping me close. He sets me on my feet and wraps one arm around my shoulders, keeping my body pressed to his. “We’re okay,” he grunts again, shouldering past the overbearing media and shielding me from view as best he can.
“I won’t be taking questions until the presser,” he informs the crowd. “And I won’t be calling on anyone out here harassing me or trying to capture a private moment,” he adds.
The reporters and photographers simmer down.
The racket around us hushes to a murmur, and the flashing ceases immediately.
Whether it’s because he’s Decker Crusade, QB1 and son of Thomas Crusade, or because of the connection between the press and his mother’s death, they give him the space he commands without argument.
“Let’s get you back to Kyl,” Decker whispers, guiding me to the sidelines with an unyielding rigidity that’s in stark juxtaposition to the fervent way he was just kissing me on the field.