CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Dublin
I shouldn’t be here.
It feels arrogant. Tone deaf. Like I’m daring the universe to make this worse.
The thought settles in the second the door to the small, private suite at the Rebel’s Stadium clicks shut behind me.
It’s in my contract. It’s my suite. The guys are usually up there, but I’d like it if you’d be there today too.
“I’m here,” I murmur into the silence of the suite and step forward some so I can see the entirety of the field.
The green of the turf seems so much more vibrant up here.
And if I stay on this top level where the food and drinks are rather than move down into the seats, it seems that neither fans nor the broadcast cameras will be able to see me or know that I’m here.
I’ll be here for Cole, but no one else will know.
I go to set my purse down and stop when I see his jersey folded on the counter like it’s been waiting for me—placed there intentionally.
My fingers hover over it for a second before I let myself touch it. I trace the number “11” and then move to do the same with VALOR across its shoulders.
That’s when I see the corner of the envelope sticking out from the neck of it. I pull it out and see my name written across the top. I open it, already knowing whatever it says is going to matter.
Ready to walk through fire with me?
-Cole
I stare at the note, rereading it over and over. Logical, structure-driven Dublin would say he’s crazy and the answer would be no. She’d walk away.
There should be a thousand rational reasons why this is reckless and career-ending and the kind of situation I’d judge if it were someone else.
Instead—
A knock sounds at the door and two seconds later it pushes open. Three men walk in. They’re large, athletic, loud in presence alone, and given who they are, my stomach tightens.
His best friends.
Not teammates in the abstract. Not names on reports or peripheral people in his life. Not names attached to the cursory checks I did on them because my job required it that are now file names in my computer.
These are his people.
This is akin to me standing in Cole Valor’s kitchen wearing nothing but his T-shirt while the men who matter most to him walk in his front door unannounced and immediately take stock of me.
Awareness prickles down my spine instantly.
I’m not naive. They know who I am because of what’s out there on social media, but what did Cole say to them about me?
A horrifying amount of judgment flashes through my head in the span of two seconds. They’re going to think I’m irresponsible. Unprofessional. That I’m a complication he doesn’t need when his life is currently already full of them.
They’ll be protective of him. Bros before hos and all that ludicrous male bullshit.
And yet . . . some small, traitorous piece of me wants them to like me regardless.
He playfully warned me about them in numerous ways—that they’d razz the shit out of me, that they’d dare me to do shots, that they only want the best for him—so I guess it’s time to see exactly what that looks like.
“Well, shit,” the one in front says, eyes sweeping the room before landing on me. “He wasn’t kidding about you being here.” He smiles and steps forward. “You must be Dublin.”
“Last I checked,” I say, swallowing over my nerves.
His grin widens as he offers his hand. “Malachi.”
We shake. “Nice to finally meet you.”
“Jaxon,” the one behind him says, shaking my hand and then dropping into a chair like he’s been here a hundred times.
“Tristan,” the third one says as he shakes my hand, his gaze lingering on mine a fraction longer than normal.
Definitely the observant one of the bunch.
“You ready for this?” Malachi asks, lifting his chin toward the field.
“I didn’t realize I had a choice.”
Jaxon snorts. “You don’t.”
“Cole warned us not to scare you off,” Tristan says and grins. “We’ll be on our best behavior.”
“I’m not that easy to scare off.”
“Good,” Tristan says, “because this?”—he gestures to the field beyond as people continue to file into the stadium—“this gets loud.”
Like I don’t know that, but I don’t say it because this isn’t my world. Not really. I glance at the jersey on the table as I turn Cole’s note over in my hand.
Not yet anyway.
“I’m going to”—I grab the jersey from the table and hold it up—“change.”
The three of them all exchange a glance that I could interpret several ways—surprise, doubt, or curiosity—and I’m not sure which one I’d prefer it to be. I head out of the suite and before the door closes hear—
“First she moves in—”
“And now he leaves her a jersey?”
“She could’ve bought it.”
“Nah. He left it for her. That’s a no doubter.”
“Is Valor feeling okay or—”
“Whipped. Has to be. Valor has never—”
“Done shit like that.”
“Ever.”
The door finally closes, and I exhale the breath I was holding. I guess that’s a good thing, right? That I’m the first? Either that or it’s his guilt speaking but . . . I just don’t think so.
I’m grateful the suite bathrooms are individual with locking doors because someone might question the woman standing in front of the mirror for way too long as she contemplates the Cole Valor jersey in her hands.
They’d think it’s just fabric.
But it’s not. It’s more than that. Putting this jersey on isn’t just clothing. It’s a choice. It’s a statement I can’t take back.
A statement about so many parts of my life that puts them all on display and says I’m no longer standing outside of this looking objectively.
It says I care about him. About what happens to him. About what happens to . . . us.
Christ. That’s why I hesitate, because that scares the shit out of me.
I exhale slowly and pull the jersey over my head. It falls to mid-thigh, the fabric swallowing me in a way that feels warm and closer to him in some weird way. Warmth spreads through my chest—dangerous and comforting all at once.
Because this doesn’t feel like just a jersey. It feels like I’m stepping into his world.
Like I’m letting myself belong here for the first time.
Pride swells unexpectedly. It feels foreign and new and exciting and I hold tight to it.
The voices hit me the second I open the door.
“. . . told you.”
“There’s no way he’d actually—”
“The man doesn’t do anything halfway.”
It’s like listening to a bunch of brothers finish each other’s sentences and thoughts—a clear indication of how close these guys are and how long they’ve known each other. There’s a history there that no one could ever deny.
I shouldn’t do it, but I pause just outside the frame, unseen for a beat, listening to them. It’s an occupational habit. It’s how I understand people best, through what they say when they don’t think they’re being watched.
“—you see the way he handled that restaurant paparazzi shit?” Jaxon asks. “Man went full scorched earth in the parking lot.”
“Yeah.” Malachi shakes his head. “For her.”
Tristan goes to speak but I step in.
“I didn’t ask him to, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I say.
All three of them jump and turn to face me. I expect expressions etched with regret but am met with three pairs of honest eyes.
“We weren’t saying anything we haven’t already said to his face,” Tristan states.
“I wasn’t offended. You’re just watching out for him. I get it.” I hold my hands up. “For what it’s worth, I pushed him away. He’s stubborn and wouldn’t listen.”
“We know that better than anyone,” Malachi says and then smiles as he takes in the jersey. “Nice.”
Jaxon emits a low whistle.
“Subtle,” I deadpan.
“Nah. Subtle’s never been his thing,” Jaxon says.
“That’s becoming painfully obvious,” I say, and they laugh.
“C’mon,” Tristan says, motioning to the front row closest to the field. “Front row’s all yours.”
I hesitate because stepping forward means stepping fully into this. Into visibility and public scrutiny. And right now, that still feels terrifying.
“I’m fine back here,” I say automatically.
“Cole’s orders. He said you needed to be up front,” Malachi says.
I blow out a breath. “Of course he did.”
“We’re about to do a shot, if that’ll help,” Tristan says.
“Game day tradition,” Jaxon says.
“C’mon, Dublin. It’ll help you not give a fuck what they think,” Malachi adds.
I shake my head, but a smile crawls over my lips. What could it hurt? Besides, when did I last enjoy a football game when I wasn’t working?
“Fine. Twist my arm,” I say, and my response is met with cheers.
· · ·
The tequila goes down smooth. Too smooth.
I’m not sure how many I’ve had—the guys have this system with when and how according to the game—and I just go along with it. Clearly it’s been established for a long time.
I’ve gotta hand it to them, they were right.
The shots definitely help in the not giving a fuck department, because I’m at the edge of the box after the first quarter, acting like every other fan here—well, except for the fact that I’m sleeping with the quarterback and currently embroiled in a scandal with him, but who’s counting?
Not me. And I’m definitely not counting the number of shots either.
The stadium’s loud as I grip the railing so I can get a better look at the field stretched out beneath us. The lights are bright, the chaos is controlled, and the Rebels are currently winning.
And it doesn’t matter how buzzed I am, I can’t seem to turn my head off from the things I do out of habit. Scanning the crowd. Looking for patterns. Watching people and movement and behavior. It’s simply ingrained in me.
There are thousands of people in the stands. Fans with their phones out, screens glowing as their fingers tap or scroll.
Somewhere in that magical place between being buzzed and overstimulated, my mind starts calculating automatically. During this timeout for a broadcast commercial break, how many of them down there are tracking stats? How many are making last-minute wagers or probability bets?
It would be impossible to isolate and unreasonable to think one could track it.
I turn around and look at Cole’s friends in the suite behind me. Malachi. Tristan. Jaxon. All three of them are on their phones too, joking back and forth as they tap away.
Nothing about this looks suspicious—them and the thousands of others on their phones—and that’s exactly the problem.
And it’s all completely normal, so much so that no one would question what they’re doing. No doubt it’s the same with the employees who work in the stadium and the team staff as they wait the game out.
“Ohhhhhh, he’s about to have one!” Malachi yells, standing and pointing to the field.
I turn just in time to see Cole drop back. It feels like everything slows down as he moves—fluid and controlled. But then I see it. The hesitation. The split-second where his body pauses just long enough to matter.
That fleeting moment shouldn’t matter, but it does, because I know what it means. What might be coming in the next few plays.
My stomach tightens and I don’t even realize I yell, “You’ve got this, Valor!”
“C’mon,” Tristan mutters as he steps up beside me.
Cole adjusts, throws, and it lands squarely in the waiting arms of the receiver in the end zone.
Our suite erupts right along with everyone else in the stadium. The roar is deafening.
“Let’s go!” Jaxon yells, holding his hand up.
I stare at it for half a second, then slap it because apparently this is my life now—high-fiving his best friends like I belong here.
“That was perfect—” Jaxon says.
“Not perfect, but he recovered quick enough—” Malachi says.
“And that’s seven.” Tristan fist-pumps when the extra point is kicked.
“I need another shot,” Jaxon says as he moves up to the hospitality area of the suite.
“Hey, Malachi?” I say without thinking. “How did you know that?”
He glances my way. “Know what?”
“That Cole was going to have one.”
He shrugs and accepts the shot Jaxon hands down to him. “Watch someone long enough, you know when they’re on and when they’re off. Know them personally? You don’t even have to watch that hard to know.”
He holds his shot up as Tristan thrusts one into my hand and says, “Cheers! We’re winning this game.”
“There’s still lots left to play,” Jaxon says.
And there is. Especially when Cole’s issues have been starting in the second half. But I don’t say that. I don’t become a Debbie Downer. Instead, I let the game own me.
I lean forward with every play.
I hold my breath with every throw.
I laugh when Jaxon screams like Cole can hear him.
I yell in pained protest every time Cole’s tackled roughly.
And somewhere in the middle of me falling in love with a game I’ve only ever allowed myself to analyze, the realization hits. Hard.
How is this happening?
A month ago I was buried in data. I was detached and objective and safe. A state I thrived being in. And now I’m here, in his world, wearing his name across my back, my life unraveling in ways I can’t control, and somehow . . . somehow it doesn’t feel like I’m losing.
Halftime comes and goes in a blur of noise and movement.
The third quarter flies by, we’re still up by seven, and when the commercial timeout hits between quarters, I finally take a seat, realizing how exhausting this emotional roller coaster is when you’re invested personally with someone playing the game.
The crowd cheers at a replay shown on the scoreboard. As I turn to look, my gaze sweeps over the field and my breath catches when I see Cole. He’s standing on the sideline, helmet in one hand, bottle of water in another, when he looks up and somehow finds me.
It shouldn’t be possible.
There are too many people. Too far a distance. Too many boxes. Too many distractions . . . and yet his gaze locks on mine like he knew he’d find me here. Like he felt me here.
Everything else fades. The noise and the chaos. All of it just disappears until it’s just him and that crooked, shy smile he offers that I can see all the way up here.
Yeah, there’s definitely something special about Cole Valor . . . and for one reckless, impossible moment, he feels like mine.