29. Sutton
SUTTON
“You okay?” Mari nudges me as we move through the entrance gates, her voice light but her eyes sharp. She’s always watching, and she knows me better than anyone.
“Yeah,” I say automatically. It’s a lie but a softer one than it used to be.
My fingers tighten around my bag as we step into the open bowl of the stadium.
The field stretches out in front of us, bright and massive.
It’s a bit overwhelming and just for a second, I freeze because this space in front of me is Shepherd’s world and worlds like this haven’t been safe for me for… a long time.
“Sutton.” Mari’s voice pulls me back. “You can leave,” she says quietly. “No one’s making you stay.”
I swallow and look out at the field again. At the players warming up. At the space that used to feel so far removed from me…and now feels tied to everything.
“I don’t want to leave,” I say. That part isn’t a lie.
I want to be here for Shepherd. And although Shepherd told me about Micah and how he’s not allowed anywhere near the stadium for the rest of his life, I think a small part of me will always be looking over my shoulder now that I know he’s in Portland.
“I’m good. Plus, we’re with Killian and Bishop. ”
“Right. So, basically we’re sitting with two Shepherds,” Mari says with an amused expression. “This ought to be fun.”
I smile at Mari as I adjust the teal sequined jacket that hangs on my frame. Wearing Shepherd’s jersey had been a last-minute decision. One that still makes my stomach flutter with nerves. When Shepherd handed it to me before he left for the stadium, I’d stared at it like it might bite me.
“I’d be honored if you wore it,” he had said, his eyes twinkling with hope and something else I couldn’t quite decipher.
It’s one thing to wear Shepherd’s hoodie in private, but his jersey in public?
With his name emblazoned across my back?
I know nobody can see it under the ultra-sparkly jacket Shepherd bought me from the thrift store months ago, but I know it’s there. And that’s all that matters.
Maybe it is.
And I suppose after all this time…after all Shepherd Haynes has done for me, a formal declaration is perfectly okay.
“Over here,” Bishop calls, guiding us to seats that are much closer to the field than I expected. Front row. Right behind the home team bench.
“Are we supposed to be this close?” I whisper to Mari.
She shrugs, but I don’t miss the mischievous look she shares with Shepherd’s brothers.
“Who cares? It’s a perfect view,” she says, settling into her seat.
“Is this all Shepherd’s doing?” I ask, eyeing the incredible seats with suspicion.
“Who else would pull these kinds of strings?” Killian drops into the seat next to me, stretching out his long legs. “My brother is nothing if not extra when it comes to you.”
I feel heat rush to my cheeks. “I don’t need special treatment.”
“Too late,” Bishop says, settling in on Killian’s other side. “Pretty sure special treatment is the Haynes family specialty where you’re concerned.”
The stadium is filling quickly around us, a sea of Portland Rush jerseys and excited faces.
There’s an energy here that’s infectious, anticipation and joy buzzing through the air like electricity.
I try to focus on that feeling rather than the occasional anxious glance I still cast over my shoulder.
“He’s not here,” Killian says quietly, following my gaze. “And he never will be again. You’re safe.”
I nod, grateful for his reassurance even if a small part of me will always be looking over my shoulder. “I know. Logically, I know that.”
“Logic has nothing to do with trauma,” Bishop adds, surprising me with his insight.
It’s strange having these men—Shepherd’s brothers—understand parts of me that most people never see.
They’ve somehow become my protective shield without me asking for it, and I’m still not entirely sure how to feel about that.
“He’s looking for you,” Mari whispers, nudging me and pointing toward the field.
My eyes immediately find Shepherd among the sea of players.
He’s scanning the crowd, helmet tucked under one arm, his face serious with concentration until his gaze lands on our section.
Even from this distance, I can see the moment he spots me.
His entire posture changes, shoulders relaxing, face breaking into that warm smile that still makes my stomach flip.
When he sees the jersey—his jersey—coupled with the famously fashionable sequined jacket, his smile grows impossibly wider. He raises his hand slightly, a small acknowledgment that feels strangely intimate despite the thousands of people surrounding us.
I lift my hand in return, a shy wave that makes Killian snort beside me.
“You two are disgustingly cute,” he mutters, but I can hear the affection in his voice.
“Jealous?” I ask him, cocking a brow.
He laughs. “Maybe a little.”
“Of course he’s jealous,” Mari pipes in. “You landed the best Haynes brother.”
“Hey now!” Killian chastises. “Let’s not speak untruths here, babe.”
Before I can respond, the stadium speakers crackle to life, and the usual pre-game music shifts abruptly. The opening notes of a song I recognize immediately start playing through the massive sound system and on the field, something utterly surreal begins to unfold.
What in the…?
The entire Portland Rush team has stopped their warm-ups. They’re forming a line across the middle of the field, and at the center—looking directly at our section—is Shepherd. The music grows louder, Rachel Platten’s “Stand By You” now unmistakable as it fills the stadium.
My hand flies to my mouth as Shepherd brings an imaginary microphone to his lips and starts lip-syncing the opening lines.
“What is happening right now?” I whisper, unable to tear my eyes away.
“Just watch,” Killian says beside me, his phone already raised to record.
The entire team joins in as the chorus hits, dramatic hand gestures and all, but Shepherd is the one leading this ridiculous, beautiful spectacle. His eyes never leave mine, making it clear this entire production is for me and me alone.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can barely process what’s happening as Shepherd dramatically gestures toward me while lip-syncing, “Even if we can’t find heaven, I’ll walk through hell with you.”
The entire stadium has gone wild, people turning to see who this grand gesture is for, phones raised to capture the moment.
But I barely register any of them. All I can see is Shepherd, this man who’s somehow broken through every wall I’ve ever built, standing in the middle of a professional football field, making the most ridiculous, beautiful, public declaration I’ve ever witnessed.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “He’s dancing! He told me he doesn’t dance! Is he insane?”
“Completely,” Bishop confirms, grinning beside me.
“Certifiably.” Killian nods.
“For you,” Mari adds, squeezing my arm. “He’s completely insane for you.”
As the song builds, the team starts a choreographed dance move that they’ve clearly rehearsed.
It’s not perfect—these are football players, not dancers—but there’s an earnestness to it that makes my heart squeeze painfully in my chest. They’re all in on this.
The entire team moving together in this ridiculous display just to make me feel… what? Safe? Loved? Protected?
Jake Ward, Shepherd’s favorite receiver, does an exaggerated spin move that has the crowd roaring. The defense joins in with dramatic fist pumps on the chorus, and I can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up from my chest, a sound of pure disbelief and joy.
The coaches on the sideline look torn between amusement and horror as their entire team abandons warmups for this impromptu performance. I spot Coach Wilson with his head in his hands, but even he can’t hide the smile tugging at his lips.
“He’s going to get fined for this,” I say, my voice barely audible over the music.
“Oh, absolutely,” Killian confirms cheerfully. “Probably benched for a play or two as well.”
“Then why—”
“Because he doesn’t care,” Bishop says simply. “Look at him, Sutton. Does he look like a man who gives a single fuck about consequences right now?”
Tears spring to my eyes before I can stop them, and Mari wraps an arm around my shoulders.
“I think your quarterback is trying to tell you something,” she whispers in my ear.
As the song reaches its emotional peak, Shepherd breaks from the line, jogging toward our section of the stadium. The security guards don’t even try to stop him—they must have been warned—as he approaches the barrier separating the field from the stands.
He’s looking directly at me, his expression so open and vulnerable that it steals my breath. When he reaches the wall, he points at me, then places his hand over his heart. The gesture is so simple yet so profound that a sob catches in my throat.
“I’m gonna stand by you,” he mouths along with the song, and I know he means every word.
The stadium is going absolutely wild now, the crowd having figured out that this is some kind of statement but at this moment, it feels like there’s only Shepherd and me, connected by an invisible thread that not even a stadium full of people can break.
When the music finally fades, Shepherd grins—that boyish, slightly crooked smile that never fails to make my stomach flip—and blows me a kiss before jogging back. I don’t know what makes me do it, but I leap out of my seat, sparkly jacket and all, and shout, “HAYNES” as loud as I can.
Shepherd hears me and turns back, his eyes locked with mine. “Yeah?”
“I love you so fucking much you ridiculous bastard!”
Shepherd’s face is a picture of shock and pure joy as the words leave my mouth. Around us, the entire stadium seems to freeze for half a second before erupting into even wilder cheers.
Did I just shout that I love him across a football field with thousands of people watching?
Yes. Yes, I did.
And I don’t regret it for a single second.