CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Dublin
The stadium is deafening.
The crowd roars, echoing in the walls of the suite. Music pounds through the speakers between plays. The energy in the building feels electric and unstable. I’ve no doubt one spark could send the whole place into chaos.
It’s fucking incredible.
This win will clinch a berth in the playoffs. Something the Lone Star Rebels’ owner promised the NFL they’d do by the end of its second year if they got the expansion team.
It’s the second year and they’re on the cusp of doing what some thought was impossible.
And despite the fact that there are roughly seventy thousand people in this stadium, their stomping and yelling a constant vibration in my chest, all I can see is Cole.
Not the scoreboard.
Not the commentators on the television overhead dissecting every throw.
Not the occasional flashes of his face on the massive jumbotron at the far end of the stadium.
Just him. Number eleven. Standing on the line of scrimmage, hands on his hips, while the offense resets.
Willa nudges me with her elbow. “If you stare any longer, Dub, you’ll burn a hole through the poor guy.”
I glance her way and roll my eyes. “I’m watching the game.”
Malachi snorts from behind us. “Such bullshit.”
Jaxon laughs into his beer. “So that’s why you get up on your tiptoes and look at him on the sidelines when the defense is marching down the field?”
“Jaxon’s just telling it as it is, Buggie,” my dad says. Of course, my mom laughs at that. Cole Valor’s newest and most dedicated fans on and off the field.
“Sorry, Dublin,” Brian says as he wraps his arm around Willa’s shoulder and grins. “You haven’t blinked since kickoff.”
I raise both hands and lift my middle fingers to them with a saccharine-sweet smile.
They all laugh but honestly, they’re right. I’m not telling them though. The only person I want to watch on the field is Cole.
I can hear the commentators droning on and on via the television in the back of the suite. Playoff scenarios and redemption arcs. How remarkable Cole has recovered from a scandal that had nearly derailed his season.
I barely hear any of it because I’m busy watching his hands. When he adjusts his gloves. When he flexes his fingers. Every time pressure builds before a snap.
I hate knowing what to watch for, but the two times I’ve seen what might be a tremor, he’s somehow pulled it together and not let it affect him.
Just because he confronted his father doesn’t mean the tremors are over. He knows that. I know that. But it hopefully means he’s on the road to healing and feeling even more confident.
“That was a hard fucking hit he just took,” Malachi mutters.
“He’s okay,” I say out loud and then on repeat in my head as Cole rolls his shoulders and appears to glare at the defensive lineman who hit him.
“Third and long,” Jaxon mutters as I glance at the scoreboard, wishing the score had changed and we’d broken the tie. Wishful thinking. “C’mon, brother. Let’s fucking go.”
The crowd rises to its feet as Cole jogs toward the line. My stomach churns, knowing this is roughly when the tremor has come in the past—fourth quarter, game on the line, the pressure mounting.
I glance over to the television, appreciating the close-up so I can see what’s happening with him. To him.
The camera zooms in and I stop breathing as his hand flexes once, the slightest of trembles on his fingers as he steps back from the huddle.
Not again. Please. Not after he’s tried to battle his demons. Let him have this one win to prove to him all the hard work to get here was worth it.
Cole steps into position. Calm. Focused. “Set.”
The ball snaps and the pocket collapses around him immediately. The entire stadium screams as if they can stop it from happening.
Cole sidesteps one defender, rolls to his right and keeps the play alive.
“You’ve got this,” I murmur just as I see it. It’s a split second—his hesitation—and the sight of it has me reaching over and digging my fingers into Willa’s arm. “No, no, no.”
I don’t know if I say the words out loud or in my head, but I can’t stop thinking that hesitation means—
He plants his feet and launches the ball downfield. You can hear the crowd suck in a breath as the ball spirals through the air and into the hands of Camden Wolfe.
Touchdown.
The entire stadium, including our suite, explodes in a deafening roar.
Jaxon leaps over a row of seats and fist pumps. Malachi throws his beer in the air. Willa screams so hard her voice breaks.
But I can’t move.
I can only stare at the man on the field, the man I love more than anything, and feel so impossibly proud of him. My chest physically aches with it.
And as if on cue, when he jogs off the field and pulls his helmet off—grin wide while teammates clap him on the shoulders—he looks toward the suite.
Toward me.
Then gives the slightest shake of his head like he already knows exactly what I was thinking.
See? I did it.
Emotion climbs hard and fast up my throat because the tremor happened. I saw it. The hesitation too. But this time? He didn’t let it distract him.
He didn’t spiral or panic. He didn’t lose himself inside the pressure.
He trusted in himself.
And that feels so much bigger than football. It feels more significant than this game and the playoffs—although it is pretty freaking cool.
I’m not waiting for him to break.
The realization steals the breath from my lungs.
Beside me Willa screams, “Playoffs here we come, baby,” while Malachi replenishes the beer he just spilled. The crowd all but riots around us but the noise fades beneath the pounding of my heart.
Because down on the field, Cole glances toward me one more time before pulling his helmet back on.
And suddenly I know.
Whatever happens next? It’s one hundred percent his to own.