Chapter 24
Demi leans closer, and I feel her body sink into me. Giving up all that control she so fiercely holds onto all the time.
“Fuck,” I moan as she pulls away slowly.
Her fingers touch her lips as soon as we part. She’s breathing slowly, keeping her eyes trained on me as she lets out a slow breath through puckered lips.
Both of her hands frame her face as she moves to the side, closer to the door.
“I should really go.” Demi reaches down to the floor, grabbing her phone and keys. “Thank you.” She perks up—almost sounding shrill. “For the food and the conversation.”
When she turns to leave, I reach for her hand and gently catch her wrist.
“For the record—you could never be just a moment, Dem.”
Her shoulder falls, and I release her wrist, letting it slowly fall to her side as she stares at me for a moment.
I watch as she swallows through a soft smile, moving her attention back to the door, and I stuff both hands in my pockets. I glance around the empty roof with only a few streetlights keeping it lit.
She opens the door, but I call out to her before she’s all the way through.
“Hey, Dem.” She stops and turns back to me. Her plush red lips are so fucking teasing I already want more. “Delete the dating app.”
I turn away before she does and begin cleaning up the blankets with a giant fucking smile on my face.
The last week has flown by with minimal Demi sightings—aside from seeing her on the sidelines at the game.
I saw her face after we kissed. The panic. The realization. The way she wanted to deny it being fucking magical.
Yeah. Magical. When the hell have I ever used that word to describe a kiss?
I don’t really know where we go from here, but I do know I’m about to see her for the next few hours as she’s covering our game today. I’ll even get some extra moments with her since I’m being mic’d up for today’s matchup. An opportunity I jumped at when Coach mentioned volunteers.
The weather is brutal today as I step out of my truck.
There’s a breeze, sure. But the strength of the sun is enough to make any logical person reconsider leaving their air conditioning.
I’d bet the UV index is easily a nine or ten right now.
Whatever it feels like in the stands or even on this sidewalk, it’s ten times hotter on the field.
I feel my phone vibrate in the pocket of my pants and I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder before reaching to grab it. The social media team will be perched and ready to get a clip for content of whatever I’m wearing for our game, and lucky for them—I never disappoint.
Today, it’s a burgundy suit and a crisp white T-shirt, complete with all-white sneakers, and paired with my usual watch and my grandfather’s ring.
I keep my sunglasses on as I walk toward the facility and peek at my phone to see who the text is from—thankful I did. Because my eyes roll in a dramatic Demi-fashion as I read the text preview on my screen.
Dad
I’ll be at the game in a couple weeks with your brother. Was thinking we could…
I don’t have the energy to open it right now—it’s the last thing I need to see before getting ready to compete, so I lock my phone and stuff it into the side pocket of the bag. I’ll deal with whatever that says later.
“Let’s go to work, boys!” I make contact with every guy around me in the huddle—handshakes, a little rough housing—whatever it takes to get fired up.
Spotting Demi on the sidelines is easy. If she’s within sight range, I’ll find her. She’s holding a mic and talking into the camera, likely doing some pregame reporting and any kind of injury update.
Her hair is up in a high ponytail with two curled pieces framing her face. But it’s the dress she’s wearing that stops me in my tracks. Black, sleeveless, with white detailing on the bottom. I know nothing about women’s clothes, but I know that dress was made for her.
“God, she’s beautiful.” My hands land on my hips, and I do the only thing I can do right now—stare.
“You’re mic’d up, man.” Nate nudges my elbow with a shake of his head.
“I hope they heard me. Raise the volume.” I laugh lightly, taking a step back toward the sideline. “Look at her.”
There’s a groaning sound coming from where Nate’s standing, but I ignore him as I smile and finally pull my gaze from her.
The guys gather for a huddle, and I lock in the moment I’m surrounded by my teammates.
It’s a feeling like no other, the rush, the adrenaline.
You just can’t describe this to someone who hasn’t played the game at this level.
It’s one of those rare “you had to be there” kind of moments, and I soak in every goddamn second I’m in this league, because I know how quickly it can change.
“Same energy as last week, my man.” I slap Ford’s shoulder before knocking helmets with Nate, ready to get this game going.
Except, as time goes by, this game is actually turning out to be frustrating as fuck.
Fourth down for the third time in a row, and I’ve yet to see past the forty-yard line. Today hasn’t been our day yet, but I’m determined to turn it around. Our defense is taking the field again, and I give Chase a look before he leaves the sidelines.
“Hold ’em,” I grumble, and he nods before he runs to the field.
We feel Graham’s absence on the line; there’s no way around that fact. I’m excited for the new guys and have faith that they’ll only improve as the season goes on, but right now I’m getting fucking laid out on this grass.
“That’s on me.” Cribley, our new center, comes up in front of me as I’m sitting on the ice bench. “Ninety snuck by too many times. Sorry, man.”
I extend my hand to slap his. “Hey.” I lean forward, giving him my full attention. “We’ve got time to turn this around. Don’t beat yourself up for plays that already happened. We’ll get the ball back and do what we know how to do. Let’s focus on the next drive.”
He nods and walks back over to the bench he was previously seated on while I replay the last series on the tablet in my lap.
I get a glimpse of Demi from the corner of my eye, and she quickly looks away as soon as I lift my head.
Was she staring at me? Have the tables turned? Satisfaction builds in my chest at the possibility of her replaying our kiss over and over the last few days like I have been. It has me wondering if she too has spent a few evenings alone with thoughts of me the way I have her.
Her head hesitantly stutters back my way, and I take the chance to let her know I see her. I lift my hand, waving my fingers in her direction and sporting the biggest smile I can.
And she sees me. Oh, does she see me.
She pulls her bottom lip in by her teeth—no doubt fighting back a smile as she shakes her head. Both hands full with a microphone and a stack of papers as the first half is about to end and she’ll be interviewing Coach Aarons.
As the second quarter comes to an end, I’m on my feet with the rest of the team heading into the locker room, and I take the opportunity to say hello to Demi as she’s walking toward our sideline.
“Hey, Dem,” I say in a low voice, stopping next to her.
“Twelve.” She lifts her chin, papers in hand as she waits for my coach to be free.
“You look really pretty today,” I whisper, and she jerks her head up at me. Her cheeks tint pink, her eyes widen—it’s a look of pure embarrassment. But knowing I just made her blush makes my chest pound.
She knows I’m mic’d up.
“Thank you,” she mumbles before rushing away.
And that almost-smile from her is enough to power me through the second half of this game.
The scoreboard reflects a tough-fought battle, but not a victory. And it fucking sucks. Every time we don’t win, I know there are a million things I could’ve done differently.
As the quarterback, there’s a leadership aspect to my role. I’m a captain. A veteran. Someone every single guy on this roster looks to. When we lose, it feels like I’ve let them down and the last thing I want to do is a postgame interview, but it’s my job.
There are a handful of reporters in the postgame wrap-up, and I step up to the podium, black Knights T-shirt and a backward hat. Still sweaty and banged up—but this is the way it goes.
“Liam, what’s said on the sidelines when you’re in that kind of position so late in the fourth quarter?”
I lean both hands on the wooden podium. “Yeah, we just needed to do more in the red zone today. And we didn’t.
You know, I always tell my guys to keep fighting until that clock runs out, and that’s what they did.
Our defense played lights-out football the whole game.
I missed a few throws, too many throws, I think… and yeah. There’s work to be done.”
The same reporter speaks again. “What about Alex Farr? Any word on how bad his injury is?”
Alex went down on the first play of the third quarter. Best guess is a hamstring injury and he’ll miss a handful of games, but it’s not on me to tell the reporters.
“I’m not sure.”
The head of PR points to a woman in a polka-dot blouse with big frame glasses and she begins another question.
“You guys had thirteen penalties today. That’s more than any game last season, is the offensive line still getting accustomed to new roles?”
I want to roll my eyes. I want to be able to ignore questions like this. I’ll never throw my guys under the bus—even if there were moments I was frustrated in the game.
“Yeah, listen, there have been a lot of moving parts offensively and those guys played great. There’s work to be done across the board, we’ll see that in tape.”
She dips her head to write something down, and I field two more questions from the eager group seated in front of me before heading to the locker room.
My body is banged up today. I felt every hit, every bump, every fall. Thank god tomorrow’s an off day.
Summer Kincaid has changed the name of your group chat to Liam’s Angels.
Summer Kincaid
Hello!
What’s with the name change?
Summer Kincaid
I needed an easy way to find the group text so it wouldn’t get mixed up in my texts.
You have that many people texting you that ours gets lost?
Clarky
She’s very well liked Liam. People text her.
I’m very well liked too, but I don’t need to name all my group chats.
Little Hunt
Oh don’t give me that. You named the one you’re in with the guys The Avengers.
She isn’t wrong. I did do that.
I chuckle to myself and take another sip from my coffee before placing it on my nightstand beside me.
My hand runs over my jaw, feeling the stubble that likely needs a shave at some point today.
There’s a persistent ache coming from my left side and I’m afraid to even look, wondering if there might be bruising from yesterday’s game.
The amount of hits I took felt record high. And it’s only a matter of time before there’s a follow up text—to the one I didn’t answer—from my dad letting me know I played like shit yesterday.
I send an eye roll emoji in the group text and toss my phone on the bed next to me. I have to get up. I have to move around, otherwise the stinging pain will only get worse. A dip in the ice bath sounds good, and a possible Demi run-in sounds even better.