CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Cole
The stadium explodes.
Confetti cannons fire overhead, showering the field in red and blue and white while seventy thousand people lose their absolute minds around us.
Playoffs. Holy shit. We actually did it.
Music pounds through the speakers loud enough to rattle my chest as teammates bump into me from every direction. Hands reach out for my helmet. Grab my jersey. Tug on my arms.
Everyone wants a piece of me when I only want one person.
People shout in my ear, but I can’t hear a goddamn thing above the roar in my own head. We really fucking did it.
Instinct has my eyes lifting toward the stands looking for a red cap behind the bench before I can stop it.
Old habit.
Years of searching crowds for one face. For his one nod. For the hope he’d look at me and it would say I’d finally done enough.
My chest tightens for half a second then eases just as quickly because, that isn’t who I want to find anymore.
My gaze shifts across the stadium instead—searching for her.
Where is she?
The opposing quarterback reaches me first. “Hell of a game,” he says, breathless as we slap hands.
“You too. Great job,” I say.
Another shoulder clap. Another congratulations. Another camera shoved in my face, but I barely register any of it because my eyes are already scanning the field.
The sidelines.
The tunnel.
The empty suite level overhead.
Where is she?
Need coils tight in my chest so fast it almost catches me off guard. Not want. Need. Like my body knows this moment isn’t complete until I see her.
A reporter starts asking me something about clinching a playoff spot after the season I had, but I don’t even hear his full question before my gaze shifts over the crowd again.
And then I feel it.
Hands on my back. Her hands on my back. I turn just in time for Dublin to launch herself at me. I catch her automatically as her legs wrap around my waist and her arms lock around my neck.
“Playoffs!” she yells breathlessly over the noise.
I laugh.
I actually laugh, and my chest hurts with it.
Her hands frame my face, and her lips meet mine in a chaste kiss.
“You did it,” she says, eyes bright and wild and emotional all at once. “You actually fucking did it.”
“We did it.”
“No.” She shakes her head hard enough for strands of her hair to fall loose. Her hands run over my cheeks, my shoulders, my arms as if she has to touch me to believe this is real. That I’m real. “You did.”
Emotion punches straight through my chest.
Around us, cameras flash nonstop. Teammates scream and celebrate nearby. Confetti sticks to the shoulders of my jersey while stadium lights burn overhead.
None of it feels as overwhelming as the way Dublin’s looking at me right now.
“You saw it?” I ask quietly.
She nods. “And you overcame it.” Her smile wrecks me. “No fear.”
“No fear,” I whisper.
Not because it’s gone but because it finally doesn’t own me anymore.
I lean my forehead against hers, closing my eyes briefly.
“I’m so proud of you,” she whispers.
Emotion clogs in my throat. “Careful, Trouble. Emotions and football fields don’t exactly mix.”
She laughs as she lowers her legs to the ground. “That might be the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said to me.”
I grin despite myself. “That’s a high bar.”
“Cole.” She gestures around us. “There are literally massive-sized grown men hiding their tears in towels right now.”
“Yeah, but those are acceptable because they’re football tears.”
A laugh bursts out of her, bright and carefree, and fuck . . . I think I’d chase that sound and this feeling for the rest of my life if she’d let me.
Around us confetti continues to drift down while reporters scramble across the field to get interviews and sound bites.
But I don’t care about any of it.
Not about the cameras, the headlines—not any of it.
All I care about is the woman who stood with me when it felt like my world was falling apart . . . and maybe winning a playoff game or three.
“You know what I think?” she asks.
“What?”
“I think you’re finally starting to believe in yourself. I believe you’re starting to own the fact that you and you alone got you to where you are right now—on this field with me loving you.”
Christ. Those words feel just as validating as the playoff clinch.
She’s right.
For so long I kept waiting for everything to fall apart, fearing that one bad throw would define me, and that one man’s words could make or break me.
But standing here with her in my arms? It doesn’t feel like that anymore.
She wiggles against my body, igniting every nerve already hyped up with adrenaline.
“Dublin.” My voice is a low warning. “What are you doing?”
She bats her lashes coyly at me. “Just thinking how this victor might want to enjoy his spoils.”
My grin is fast and fierce as I flash back to the suite. To the blind spot. To the things her mouth did to me,
Oh. Shit.
A groan grinds from my throat.
Her laugh is pure fucking trouble.
“You realize there are cameras everywhere right now,” I murmur against her ear.
“Mmm.” Her fingers toy with the front of my jersey. “Sounds like a you problem, QB1.”
I grin as I tighten my arms around her waist. “You trying to kill me out here?”
“Maybe.” Her eyes sparkle as she leans closer. “Depends on how fast you can get me out of this stadium.”
My pulse kicks hard as I lean forward and kiss her.
I’ve spent a lifetime surviving.
Now I plan on thriving and enjoying every damn minute.
“You’re trouble,” I murmur against her mouth.
Her smile curves, slow and wicked. “Yeah . . . but I’m your trouble.”
“Good.” I steal another kiss before grabbing her hand in mine and leading us toward the tunnel. “Forget leaving the stadium, there’s a box suite upstairs waiting for us.”