CHAPTER ONE
Nova
“MARRY ME, CLAY!”
The woman next to me in the arrivals lounge screams it loudly enough my ears ring.
For a girl who grew up in a trailer clutching a sketchpad, I love a crowd. Being part of a bigger whole—one where every person shares a common dream, breathes the same air.
That was what I expected when I drove here today: a few loyal, bleary-eyed fans camped out to receive the Denver Kodiaks basketball team at their early-morning arrival.
Instead, I’m wedged elbow to elbow with hundreds of crazed Kodashians clutching Starbucks and phones and posters at the airport.
This is less Ted Lasso and more Hunger Games.
I swallow a giggle. I’m going to laugh about this.
If I survive.
The glass doors from the arrivals area slide open with a whoosh, and the crowd waiting on this side bumps into one another like excited ping-pong balls.
"It's not them," the screamer’s friend says, nodding toward the cluster of tall guys in suits emerging.
Disappointment crashes over the lounge in a wave, manic faces falling with dejection.
The woman who had screamed her proposal lowers her matching sign.
The men are big, but they're not who everyone is here for.
The legends.
The champs.
It was supposed to be private knowledge when the team’s plane, which was delayed due to a storm, was landing after their preseason road trip, but every fan in town—possibly every adult in Colorado—is here to greet them.
I’m adjusting my plain, white ball cap, my pink hair tucked up under it, when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Brooke: You regretting this idea yet?
I lift my phone, elbows pressed to my sides by the crowd, and type back.
Nova: Ask me again if I get trampled in the next hour.
A yipping at my feet is followed by a French bulldog weaving between my legs until I'm tangled in his leash.
"Waffles! Don't make me regret bringing you," I murmur to him.
His noises lower to a whimper, but he's still vibrating with excitement.
I know how he feels. I wanted to come today not only to bring the Frenchie, whom I've been dog-sitting for the week because his regular sitter was sick, back to Miles, but to greet Clay when he sets foot back in Denver.
Clayton Wade.
All star.
MVP.
As of three weeks ago, my fiancé.
The man who taught me it’s not only possible to believe in yourself when the chips are down—it’s imperative.
I’ve loved him since the moment I laid eyes on his huge, stoic gorgeousness, and if he’s telling the truth, he fell pretty damn fast himself.
I miss the hell out of him. A few days without his growly presence, and I’m starting to feel like the grumpy one.
Brooke: If those Kodashians come at you, I'll come for them.
Nova: Don’t go down for murder on my account.
Brooke: Justifiable homicide. That’s what friends are for.
A shriek splits the arrivals lounge.
"They're here!!! For real!" The first woman bounces on her toes.
More tall men emerge from the arrivals doors, and I don't need to recognize their faces to know it's them.
The crowd surges toward the Kodiaks team, security overwhelmed trying to hold them off.
The "Marry Me, Clay!" sign was abandoned the moment the first woman caught sight of her dream guy.
Another woman is saying, “Oh my God,” over and over.
Still another is stripping off her shirt.
Oh boy.
I will not die in a pile of high-heeled boots and clutch bags.
Self-preservation kicks in. I grab Waffles and hug him to me as we're pushed toward the doors with the wave.
I catch glimpses over the crowd.
Atlas first. The tallest of the guys, with his buzzed head and Beats headphones.
Then Miles, his trademark cocky grin flashing as he says something over his shoulder to Jay, who’s laughing reluctantly.
Then I see him.
He's wearing a backward hat and gray hoodie, the black LV bag I picked out for him to match mine draped over one shoulder. My breath sticks in my chest. Not only because there’s barely enough room to breathe, but because his presence and intensity sucks the oxygen from the entire arrivals lounge.
The grumpy player I met and fell for on an airplane two years ago.
I had a panic attack on my way to my sister’s wedding, and he saved me.
I’d thought we’d never see each other again, but it turned out he was on my brother-in-law’s team.
We had to keep it a secret, but every second was thrilling. Sexy. Unbelievable.
Kind of like Clay himself.
He scans the crowd, searching for something.
Or someone.
"Clay!" I shout, but a hundred other fans are doing exactly the same.
I take a step backward, not for my own sake, but because Waffles has tiny bones and I'll never forgive myself if he gets hurt.
Clay doesn’t hear me. He frowns and continues on his way.
"Dammit," I curse. I wanted to be the first to tell him welcome home.
Mission failed, I start to type to Brooke.
Right when I'm trying to catch my breath, the crowd parts.
Then he's there.
Six feet, five inches of male, honed for destruction on the basketball court. Black tattoos emerge from under his sleeves, twining around his wrists as if even the ink can’t get enough.
His eyes lock on mine, and he stalks toward me, ignoring the meltdown of fans and clicking camera phones.
The fans scream louder, hands fumbling for phones and angling for the perfect selfie.
Clay’s easy strides eat up the distance between us. Security’s hot on his heels, but Clay doesn’t care.
A woman starts crying next to me, her hand over her mouth like she’s close to touching Mother Teresa.
If Mother Teresa had muscles for days and averaged twenty-five a game in the finals.
He stops in front of me, and it’s as if all the oxygen is sucked from the arrivals lounge.
My heart hammers as if we’ve never been this close before. As if I’ve been waiting my entire life for him to look at me like I’m the home he’s desperate for.
“You came.” His eyes crinkle at the corners.
“Surprise. I wanted to bring tequila but ran out of hands," I say, referencing how we met.
Clay reaches for my hat and tugs it off, letting my pink hair tumble down around my shoulders.
"Got all I need right here.”
He drags me up on my toes. His hard lips crush down on mine, and every thought in my mind evaporates at the feel of him.
He kisses me like he’s been counting the days, the hours, the minutes until I’m back in his arms.
The season might be barreling down on us, but none of it matters in this moment. I never feel as alive, as real, as vibrant as when I'm in his arms. As if I'm the prize he's worked every day for.
Waffles squirms in my arms, and I reluctantly pull back.
Clay leans closer, lips brushing my ear. “You tell anyone our plan?”
I shake my head, a shiver going through me. “Not a soul.”
He drops his lips to my forehead and threads his fingers in mine as we head for the doors.