Chapter 27
LEO
The buzzer sounds and the gym explodes.
Blue and gold confetti rains from overhead, the crowd roaring, stomping, a wave of pure chaos. My chest heaves, sweat stinging my eyes, hands braced on my knees as the truth sinks in—
State champions.
The guys swarm me—shouts, backslaps, bodies colliding in celebration—but my gaze cuts straight through it all to the stands.
There she is.
Jade’s on her feet, hands pressed to her mouth, eyes shining with tears she’d never admit to. She’s in my hoodie, sleeves pushed up, leggings hugging her legs, hair in a messy ponytail, cheeks flushed from screaming my name. Our eyes meet, and she doesn’t cheer louder.
She just smiles—that quiet, heart-stopping smile.
And everything else fades.
She’s been at every home game. Front row or right behind the bench. No demands. No spotlight. Just present. Steady.
After the ceremony, the photos, the madness dies down, she slips through the crowd to the tunnel. No dramatic leap into my arms. She just reaches up, adjusts my crooked championship cap, and kisses me—soft, quick, real.
“Proud of you,” she whispers.
Two words. Everything.
Winter doesn’t dim us.
She’s deep into her indoor travel team—brutal practices, endless drives, turf that reeks of rubber and effort. I’m there whenever I can. Sometimes Dad tags along, hands buried in his coat, watching quietly.
One night, as she flies through sprint drills, he mutters, “I played. Competitively. Before the knee gave out.”
I stare at him like he’s grown a second head.
Turns out soccer runs in the family deeper than I knew.
Jade’s eyes light up when he tells her. She asks questions, really listens. She has this gift—drawing people out, making them feel seen without forcing it.
She’s different now. Brighter. Not performative. Just… rooted. Like she finally trusts the ground beneath her.
Valentine’s Day isn’t fireworks.
No grand gestures.
I open the door and she’s there—red dress hugging her curves simply, elegantly. The jade necklace glinting at her throat. Matching earrings, ring, bracelet. The set I gave her, worn like it belongs.
She holds out flowers.
“For you,” she says, then another bouquet. “These are for your mom.”
I can’t speak.
She tilts her head. “What?”
I shake my head, laughing softly. “Come in.”
Mom’s smile when she sees Jade—genuine, warm—is a memory I lock away forever.
Later, Jade grabs my hand. “I’m stealing you tonight.”
“Should I be worried?”
Her grin is mischief. “Definitely.”
She drives us to a tiny Asian fusion spot in Middletown—hidden gem, plastic menus, no pretense. “Our place now,” she declares. “Secret’s safe with you.”
We devour everything. Laugh until our sides ache. She steals from my plate without apology.
Then open mic night—terrible poetry, one decent singer, a comedian who bombs. She laughs anyway, head on my shoulder.
Finally, she hands the driver an address.
We pull up to a boutique hotel—warm brick, glowing windows.
“Jade?” I ask as we check in.
She leans close, breath warm against my ear. “Shh. I’ve got money now.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Social media’s paying off. NIL deals. Under Armour wants me for spring gear.” She snatches the key card. “Tonight, I’m spoiling my champion.”
“I could get used to that.”
She glances back, eyes dark with promise. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”
The suite is pure indulgence.
Four-poster bed draped in silver sheets. Rose petals scattered like secrets. Fireplace crackling. And the jacuzzi—massive, steaming, jets humming softly, big enough for two.
She drops her bag.
“Mrrrow.”
Pickles pokes his head out, blinking innocently.
“I couldn’t leave him,” she says, scooping him up. “He missed his Leo, too.”
I laugh until I’m breathless, pulling her into my arms.
The night melts into warmth—champagne fizzing, chocolate melting on our tongues, bare feet on cool stone. We talk about Boston, summer dreams, everything and nothing.
Eventually, she tugs me toward the jacuzzi. “Come on.”
We slip out of our clothes slowly, eyes locked, no rush. The water envelops us—hot, bubbling, wrapping around bare skin like silk. She settles between my legs, back against my chest, her head resting on my shoulder. I wrap my arms around her waist, lips brushing the curve of her neck.
The jets pulse gently, sending ripples across us. Her skin is flushed, slick with water and heat. My hands glide over her—slow, reverent—tracing the lines of her body I’ve memorized in dreams. She sighs, arching into my touch, her fingers lacing through mine.
“I love this,” she murmurs. “I love us.”
The words hit me deep, raw and true. “I love us too,” I whisper against her ear. “So damn much.”
She turns in my arms, water sloshing softly, straddling me.
Our foreheads touch. The kiss starts tender—champagne-sweet, lingering—then deepens, hungry but unhurried.
Her hands slide up my chest, nails grazing lightly; mine cup her face, then drift lower, pulling her closer until there’s no space left.
The water buoys us, making every movement effortless, weightless.
She sinks down slowly, taking me in, her breath catching as we join—perfect, intimate, overwhelming.
We move together in a gentle rhythm, the bubbles teasing our skin, jets massaging away every last tension.
Her eyes never leave mine, open and trusting, filled with everything we’ve built.
It’s soft, intense—whispers of my name, her fingers tangled in my hair, the quiet gasp when pleasure crests. We come undone together, clinging, trembling in the warm embrace of water and each other.
After, she curls against me, head on my chest, Pickles somehow asleep on a towel nearby. The fire pops softly. Steam rises around us.
I trace lazy circles on her back and realize it fully, completely:
I don’t have to chase her anymore.
She’s here.
She chose this.
She stayed.