Chapter 31 Callum
Vanguard locked out the front row. A one–two finish. It was bittersweet, knowing it could be that last time Marco and I celebrate that.
I barely heard the radio over the roar of the crowd—cowboy hats, flags, bodies pressed against the fencing like this was church and we were preaching.
Champagne soaked my hair, my suit, my skin, and when I turned, there my wife was—grinning, flushed, eyes bright with that wild spark that only showed up when she was happy and exhausted and high on adrenaline.
She shoved me off the podium, laughing, all adrenaline and mischief.
I caught her by the waist without thinking, hauled her back in, my hand fitting like it had always belonged there. The kiss was quick. Reckless. Entirely inappropriate for live television.
It didn’t seem to matter. The crowd went feral anyway.
“Above me, under me. Still winning both ways,” she murmured against my mouth, and I laughed, remembering when she texted me that and I about lost my goddamn mind.
Later—much later—when the noise had faded and the champagne had dried, she climbed into my lap and showed me the true meaning of winning.
Austin wasn’t just my win.
It was ours.