Chapter 49
Chapter Forty-Nine
Camille
Sitting in the backseat of Killion’s parents’ car is the kind of awkward no one prepares you for. There’s no etiquette manual for sharing a confined space with the people whose house you . . . well. . . defiled. Let’s just say I haven’t seen them since Christmas, and I’m not exactly itching to bring up the memory.
In my defense, Kill and I weren’ t trying to traumatize anyone. His room is allegedly soundproofed, and I was, uh, too preoccupied at the time to worry about acoustics. Still, every time his dad, Mathieu, flashes me a smile in the rearview mirror, that tiny, panicked voice in my head whispers, What if they know?
“You’re quiet, Camille,” Mathieu says, his tone warm and teasing, like he doesn’t suspect I’m spiraling. “Nervous about the game?”
I plaster on a smile and fidget with the strap of my purse. “A little, I guess. It’s a big deal, right?”
“Big deal doesn’t even cover it,” John pipes up from the passenger seat, his tone brimming with pride. Honestly, you’d think he was the one gunning for his third championship ring. “This is legacy stuff. Killion was born for moments like this.”
“Born for them,” I repeat, nodding along like a good future daughter-in-law who definitely doesn’t break their son’s headboard during visits.
This isn’t my first rodeo—or time I attend a game, technically. Back in January, I went to his final regular season game in Vegas. We even toyed with the idea of eloping while we were there, but we didn’t. Neither of us is ready for that step just yet. Kill is laser-focused on winning the championship, and I’ve got my hands full opening my practice next month. One major life milestone at a time, right?
When we pull up to the stadium, the energy hits me like a freight train. Fans are everywhere, decked out in Gladiators gear, waving signs, and chanting at top volume. The air smells like hot dogs and ambition, and I swear I can feel my stomach auditioning for Cirque du Soleil.
Kill texted me this morning—a simple, cocky “Can’t wait to see you after we win.” The confidence practically jumped off the screen. It’s one of the many things I admire about him. He’s so sure of himself, his team, and their ability to win. Meanwhile, I’ve spent most of my life overthinking whether I should text someone back in five minutes or twenty. That level of certainty? Equal parts inspiring and mildly terrifying.
Inside the VIP box, I’m immediately shown to the table with drinks, canapes, and snacks. I’m surrounded by a swarm of Killion’s family and friends. His brothers are already in heated debates about stats, their voices climbing over each other like this is their game to win. Lucian is betting against him, but I’m pretty sure it’s because his team lost last week and they’re out for the season.
Scottie shoves a plate of hors d’oeuvres into my hands. “This is ours. We’re not sharing with anyone. Today is amazing. Finally, I have two sisters and don’t have to deal with the boys on my own.”
Val, who I’ve only met twice but have decided is an angel, laughs. Before she can respond, Kade pulls her close and kisses her deeply.
Scottie groans. “Ugh, please. Can you guys at least wait until you go home?”
Before she can roast them further, the room erupts into cheers. The Gladiators are taking the field, and every nerve in my body flips into overdrive. My eyes immediately find Kill. He glances toward the VIP box, and for a second, I swear he locks eyes with me. Then he gives the tiniest nod—at least, I think he does.
Scottie leans in, smirking like the chaos gremlin she is. “You’re blushing.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, though the grin on my face completely betrays me.
Because she’s right—I’m absolutely blushing. And damn it, I’m too proud to care.
As the game begins, the tension in the air is palpable. The Gladiators start strong, their offense slicing through the defense like a hot knife through butter. Every time Kill throws the ball, the crowd roars, and I find myself clapping along, my heart racing with every play.
By halftime, the score is tied, and the box is buzzing with anticipation. I excuse myself to grab some air.
“You okay?” Scottie’s voice startles me, and I turn to see her leaning casually against the railing.
“I’m fine,” I say, though my hands grip the railing a little tighter than necessary. “Just . . . it’s a lot.”
Scottie studies me for a moment before smirking. “You’re nervous for him.”
“Of course I am,” I admit. “This is huge for him, and if they lose?—”
“They’re not going to lose,” she interrupts firmly. “ Trust me, I’ve seen him in moments like this. He thrives under pressure.”
I nod, wanting to believe her.
“And for the record,” she adds, her tone softer, “he’s lucky to have you here. He knows it too.”
The second half is a rollercoaster. The Gladiators pull ahead, only for the opposing team to come roaring back. By the final two minutes, the score is tied again, and my nails are practically embedded in the seat armrest.
When Kill takes the snap for what could be the game-winning drive, the entire stadium holds its breath. He drops back, scanning the field, then launches a perfect spiral down the sideline. His receiver catches it just inches from the end zone, and the crowd explodes.
One more play.
The tension is suffocating as the team lines up for what could be the final snap of the game. Kill takes the ball, fakes a handoff, and rolls to his right. The defense collapses on him, but at the last second, he scrambles, diving into the end zone himself.
Touchdown.
The noise is deafening. Fans are screaming, players are piling onto Kill in celebration, and I’m on my feet, cheering so loud my throat hurts.
Scottie grabs my arm, jumping up and down. “He did it.”
Tears prick my eyes as I watch him on the field, grinning ear to ear, his teammates lifting him onto their shoulders. He looks up toward the box, his gaze finding mine again, and this time, the nod is accompanied by the kind of smile that makes me forget anyone else exists.
Yeah, he did it. And somehow, I feel like I did too.
The sound of celebration hits me before I’ve even stepped into Killion’s penthouse. I’m beginning to realize that not living next door to him anymore is a royal pain in my ass. Moving to a small studio in Brooklyn seemed like a good idea at the time—until I realized I’d practically relocated all my stuff to his place anyway. The only thing I haven’t moved in permanently is Ben, my cat, who occasionally graces Kill with his disapproving presence.
As I unlock the door and step inside, the laughter and clinking glasses intensify. His family has clearly made themselves at home, and I brace myself for the chaos.
And then I see him.
Killion stands in the middle of the living room, now dressed down in a plain T-shirt and jeans. His hair is slightly tousled—like he’s been raking his hands through it—and it’s maddeningly, unfairly attractive. The second his eyes land on me, his whole face lights up, like I’m the only person in the room.
“There she is,” he says, his voice carrying over the chatter as he strides toward me with the kind of confidence that could probably cure my anxiety if it were bottled up and sold.
Before I can so much as squeak a greeting, he sweeps me into his arms, lifting me clear off the ground like I’m some sort of championship trophy he’s just snagged.
“Kill,” I squeal, laughing as I swat at his shoulder. “You’re squeezing all the air out of my lungs—and people are watching.”
“Let them watch,” he says with a laugh, his grip loosening just enough to set me down gently, though his hands linger on my waist like they’ve forgotten they’re supposed to let go. “Missed you, baby.”
His tone is soft, but there’s an edge of possessiveness in it that sends a shiver down my spine.
“You were incredible out there,” I say, looking up at him, and I mean it. Watching him on the field, so in control, so focused—God, it was awe-inspiring. And not just in the wow-he’s-great-at-football way. More like the strip-me-down-and-call-me-helpless kind of way.
His lips quirk into a crooked grin, and he leans in just a fraction, enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. “Incredible, huh? Careful, baby, you’re gonna give me an even bigger ego.”
I roll my eyes, trying to play it cool even though my body is very much not cooperating. “Oh, please. Like your ego needs any help. It’s already at max capacity. ”
His grin widens, all cocky charm, and he dips his head to murmur in my ear, “Speaking of max capacity . . . should I let everyone clear out so we can test your theory?”
My face heats faster than I can stop it, and I shove at his chest with a laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“But you love me anyway,” he states.
He’s not wrong. And judging by the way his hands tighten ever so slightly on my waist, neither of us wants me anywhere else. “That I do,” I agree.
His grin softens into something more intimate, his thumbs brushing lightly over my sides, sending a shiver down my spine. “Thanks to you,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick with sincerity. “Knowing you were watching? That was all the motivation I needed.”
I blink up at him, torn between swooning and teasing him. “Oh, so you’re saying all those plays weren’t for the championship, the team, or the fans? Just for me?”
“Exactly,” he replies without hesitation, his grin morphing into that devilish smirk that makes my knees weak. “Though if you hadn’t shown up, I might’ve thrown the game. Guess we’ll never know.”
I laugh, rolling my eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet, you love me for it,” he fires back, his tone so cocky that I almost want to smack him—except his hands are still on me, and I don’t really want him to stop.
His parents’ voices in the kitchen pull me back to reality. I glance over to see Mathieu and John toasting with champagne while nibbling on appetizers. Lucian is sprawled on the couch, arguing with Leif over who deserves more credit for the win. Meanwhile, Greyson stands by the window, nursing a drink and looking unusually relaxed.
Mathieu spots me from across the room and raises his glass in my direction. “Camille, you’ve done wonders for our boy. Don’t let him forget it.”
Heat floods my cheeks, and I try to laugh it off. “I don’t think I’ve done anything.”
John turns from the kitchen with a warm smile. “He’s happy, and that’s everything.”
“My fathers are right,” Killion says, his voice steady and serious for once, drawing my attention back to him. His hands leave my waist, but only so he can take one of mine in his, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in that soft, deliberate way that always makes my heart race.
The room around us seems to fade, the buzz of conversation dimming as he sinks to one knee right there in the middle of the living room.
“Killion,” I whisper, my breath catching.
“Camille,” he begins, his gaze locked on mine, unflinching and so full of love that I think I might actually combust. “You’ve been my biggest supporter, my biggest challenge, and the reason I wake up every day wanting to be better. I don’t just want you in my life—I need you. Forever. ”
He pulls a small box from his pocket, opening it to reveal a stunning ring that catches the light just right, sparkling like it’s as smug about this moment as he is.
“Marry me, baby. Be my partner, my teammate, my reason for every win from here on out.”
The world tilts, and I realize the room has gone completely silent. All eyes are on us, but I don’t care.
“Yes,” I blurt out, the word tumbling out before I’ve even had a chance to think it through. Not that I need to—this has always been the easiest decision of my life.
His grin spreads wide as he slips the ring onto my finger, standing to pull me into his arms. “You just made me the luckiest man alive.”
“And you’re stuck with me now,” I tease, my voice breathless but light. “Hope you’re ready.”
“Oh, I’ve been ready,” he says, leaning in to kiss me like we’re the only two people in the room. And for the moment, that’s exactly how it feels.