Chapter Fifteen
Fifteen
Kane
Ifly through the locker room, pulling on my gear like I’m late for war.
Pads, cleats, jersey—everything feels heavier, tighter, like it’s holding the heat of her skin.
I can still feel her breath on my neck, the way she trembled against me, the way her lips found mine like she’d been holding back for years.
Rhett glances up from his locker, eyebrows raised. “You good?”
“Better than good,” I mutter, snapping my chin strap into place. “She came.”
He grins. “Knew she would.”
I don’t answer. I’m still tasting her. Still hearing my own voice in her ear—Don’t forget, sunflower. You’re mine now. In every way that matters. I meant it. And she wore the jersey. Not just any jersey—my jersey. One of my actual game-day ones. No one else will wear it. Ever.
Coach blows the whistle from down the hall, barking orders like the stadium isn’t already vibrating with anticipation. I check the overhead clock. Five minutes until we run out on the field. I’m ready. But not because of the gear. Not because of the drills or the pressure.
I’m ready because she’s here.
Wearing my number.
Sitting in the stands.
Carrying the scent of us like a secret.
I jog out with the team, the tunnel roaring around us, the crowd swelling like a wave. But I don’t hear it. Not really. I’m scanning the bleachers—row by row, face by face—until I see her.
Blonde curls soft around her shoulders. Jersey loose on her frame. Eyes locked on mine like she never left that shadowed wall.
And just like that, the game begins.
But I already won.
The whistle blows, and the Riverhawks storm the field like they’ve been waiting their whole lives for this moment. The crowd roars, but I barely hear it. I’m locked in.
We win the toss. I call for a standard I-formation—two wideouts, tight end tucked in, fullback ready to clear the lane.
Rhett’s lined up behind me, eyes sharp. First play: Power Right.
I take the snap, hand it off clean, and watch Rhett explode through the gap between guard and tackle.
He picks up seven yards before he’s dragged down.
Second down. We shift to Trips Left, spreading the defense. I fake the handoff, drop back three steps, and fire a quick slant to our slot receiver. He snags it mid-stride and turns upfield—twelve yards, first down.
We’re moving fast. No huddle. I call Red 22 Texas, a play-action rollout with a deep post option. I sell the fake, roll right, and see our wideout breaking free over the middle. I launch it. Spiral tight. He catches it in stride, thirty yards downfield. The crowd erupts.
Inside the red zone now. I glance toward the stands. I see her. Blair. She’s watching me like I’m the only thing on the field.
I bring my glove to my nose and inhale deeply, reliving the darkened tunnel. She’s with me, and that’s all that I need.
I call Ace Spread Jet Sweep. Our fastest receiver cuts across the formation, takes the handoff, and races to the edge. He dives for the pylon—touchdown.
Defense holds strong. We’re back on the field. I call Shotgun Double Stack, looking for mismatches. On second down, I audible to Quick Out. Receiver breaks at five yards, catches it, steps out. We’re chewing clock and stacking yards.
Third quarter. We’re up by ten. I call Play-Action Bootleg Left. I fake the run, roll out, and keep it. No one’s there. I sprint down the sideline, twenty yards before I slide.
Fourth quarter. Two minutes left. We need one more first down to seal it. I call QB Sneak. I lower my shoulder, push behind the center, and feel the surge. Chains move. Game over.
I glance up one last time. She’s still there. Still watching. And I know this wasn’t just a win.
It was a promise.
The final whistle blows.
We’ve won.
I’ve got the ball in my hands—mud-slicked, sweat-stained, proof of every second we fought for this. The crowd’s roaring, teammates swarming, but I don’t wait for the celebration.
I take off.
I vault the fence like it’s nothing, cleats scraping metal, adrenaline still burning through my veins. The bleachers rise in front of me, steep and packed, but I don’t hesitate. I sprint up the steps, dodging fans, eyes locked on one thing.
Her.
Blair.
She’s standing now, eyes wide like she can’t believe what she’s seeing.
I reach her, grab her waist, and pull her into my arms.
She gasps, but I don’t give her time to speak.
I slam my lips down on hers—rough, desperate, real. The football drops to the concrete with a hollow thud, forgotten. My hands are on her hips, her back, her hair. She melts into me like she’s been waiting all her life.
The crowd’s still screaming, but it’s background noise.
Because this is the win that matters.
Her mouth on mine.
Her body in my arms.
Her heart beating against my chest.
I pull back just enough to breathe, forehead pressed to hers.
“You stayed,” I whisper.
She nods, breathless. “I couldn’t stay away.”
I smile, wide and wrecked. “Good. Because I’m never letting you go.”
The lights are blinding. Cameras everywhere. Mics shoved in my face like I’m supposed to have answers for everything.
I don’t.
But I’ve got one answer that matters.
A reporter leans in, voice sharp and eager. “Kane, incredible game tonight. You were locked in from the first snap. What was driving you out there?”
I glance toward the stands. She’s still there. Blair. Jersey loose, curls wild, eyes locked on me.
I clear my throat. “There’s someone who’s been with me the whole time. Not on the field. Not in the locker room. But in my head. In my chest.”
Another reporter jumps in. “We heard you mention a sunflower. Is that code for something?”
I smile, slow and wrecked. “It’s not code. It’s her.”
“Her?” The mic inches closer. “The girl in the stands?”
I nod. “She’s not just a girl in the stands. She’s the reason I showed up tonight. The reason I kept pushing. The reason I didn’t let the noise get to me.”
They’re scribbling now, murmuring, trying to spin it into something headline-worthy.
I don’t care.
“She wore my jersey,” I say. “Not a replica. One of mine. And that means something. To me, it means everything.”
The questions keep coming, but I’m already walking away. Toward the tunnel. Toward her.
Because the game’s over.
But the story’s just beginning.
I text her the second I’m off the field.
Me:
Tunnel. Five minutes. Don’t disappear.
Then I’m in the showers, fast and brutal. Cold water, hot skin. I scrub the game off me, but nothing touches the heat still coiled low in my gut. Not after that kiss. Not after the way she looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered.
I throw on jeans, a hoodie, and my chain. No time for the post-game breakdown. No locker room speeches. No celebration.
Rhett calls after me. “Yo, captain—where are you going?”
“Rain check,” I toss over my shoulder. “Tell Coach I’ll make it up to him.”
I find Kinsley near the exit, still in her school colors, arms crossed like she’s been waiting.
“She’s not coming home tonight,” I mention.
Kinsley raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”
I nod. “Yeah. I’ve got her.”
I start to turn, but Kinsley steps in front of me, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
“You better,” she says.
I blink. “What?”
She doesn’t flinch. “I’m serious, Kane. If you’re not in this for real, leave her alone.”
I stare at her, stunned. “You think I’m messing around?”
“I think you’re intense,” she says. “I think you get tunnel vision. And I think Blair’s the kind of girl who’ll give you everything if you ask for it, but she won’t survive it if you take it and walk away.”
Her words hit harder than any tackle I’ve taken all season.
“She’s not just some girl in the stands,” Kinsley continues. “She’s my best friend. She’s been through hell. And if you break her, I swear to God, I’ll make you regret it.”
I nod slowly, jaw tight. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good,” she starts. “Then prove it.”
I glance toward the tunnel, where Blair’s waiting. Her hair shimmers in the light, and her lavender eyes are locked on mine like she already knows what Kinsley just said.
“I will,” I promise.
Kinsley steps aside, but her gaze stays on me. Watching. Measuring.
And I know this isn’t just about love.
It’s about legacy.
And I’m not about to fuck it up.