Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
FLIC
I think I might be sick. It has nothing to do with the beer Harper just pressed into my hand, or the roar of the crowd vibrating through the walls of the stadium, but from pure, unfiltered nerves. Excitement. Terror. All of it tangled together until my stomach feels like it’s doing backflips.
This is it. The Super Bowl. And the Stormhawks made it.
After years of near misses, and a season where we didn’t play our best football, and months of fear and speculation over the future of the team, and the rocky start to Grayson buying the majority share.
It feels impossible that we’re here, but it also feels earned.
The Stormhawks have given the playoffs everything, especially Chase, who’s played the best football of his career.
I close the Red Zone and shove my phone into my pocket.
I haven’t seen a single comment about Grayson today.
Every post is about this game and this moment.
Nothing has been fixed outside of it. The fans and the sponsors still want to see the commitment from Grayson and his vision for the team.
And win or lose today, the Stormhawks still have a long road ahead before they’re anywhere near financially secure.
I’ll be sad not to be by his side any longer, whispering my thoughts in his ear in meetings, but I trust Grayson and Donny.
I believe they’ll make the right calls for this team, even when they’re hard ones.
Outside the glass, the stadium is grand and alive.
Every seat is filled, a sea of color and movement stretching up and up.
The noise rolls in waves of shouts and chants.
The skybox is rammed. Shoulder to shoulder with friends, family, sponsors, and VIPs in designer outfits and perfect hair and makeup.
I somehow managed to say a coherent hello to a female country artist I’ve adored for the last decade, resisting the urge to gush and ask for an autograph.
There’s still a nagging thought that I should be behind the bar of The Hay Barn, yelling at the TV.
The Super Bowl always pulls in a good crowd, even in previous years when it hasn’t been the Stormhawks playing.
Dylan, Jake, and Chase would come down to watch the game with the fans, buying rounds for everyone.
Other players, too, drifting in and out, just guys watching football with the people who love them.
And yet I don’t feel out of place here, either.
I glance around the skybox again. Front row seats are taken by the Huberts—Donny sitting between his mom and his grandfather, Don Hubert Senior, his posture proud, eyes fixed on the field.
Mama is here, of course. She’s wearing a black pantsuit, working the crowd.
A row back from the Huberts, Harper and Serena sit close, leaning in to talk, hands gripping sodas they’re barely touching.
Dylan, Izzy, and Mad are watching from home tonight, and I can already picture Mad jumping with excitement.
I glance around the room for Grayson, only to find him moving to stand beside me, close enough that I can feel his warmth and the excitement buzzing through him just like it is me.
He slides his hand into mine and it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
Yeah, maybe I don’t belong here. But I’m happy. Happier than I’ve ever been.
Since Sunday night, since Grayson came back to my apartment and stayed, we’ve barely spent a moment apart.
We’ve bounced between my bed and his hotel suite.
When I’ve been at the bar, Grayson has tucked himself into a corner booth with two screens open, murmuring into his phone, eyes lifting every few minutes just to find mine.
To smile. To remind me he’s there. Sometimes he’ll pull me into his lap and kiss me like he can’t help himself.
And even though I know it’s temporary—because after today, the season is over, and Grayson won’t be able to ignore New York forever—even though I’ve been bracing myself for the bubble of this little world we’ve carved out to burst, this week has felt somehow normal, too.
Luxury and normality. His world and mine.
I always thought they’d never fit together. But they do.
All thoughts of Grayson and the future are shoved aside as the game starts.
The New York Steelguards, in their black and green, are fast and aggressive.
They push down the field early, eating up yards, and my heart lodges somewhere near my throat as they punch in the first touchdown.
The roar from their side of the stadium is monstrous.
Then it’s our turn. Chase is calm and controlled, threading passes through impossible gaps.
Our receivers take brutal hits but get straight back up.
Jake barrels through the line on a third-and-short that has the skybox on its feet, and when we score our own touchdown, I start to hope, to believe, maybe, we can do this.
It’s the kind of football that turns people into fans.
Each quarter feels more brutal than the last. I shout myself hoarse, barely aware of the words coming out of my mouth.
Grayson is right there with me, shouting too, groaning when a block is missed, pumping his fist when Chase scrambles out of pressure.
I glance at him once, and smile to myself.
This is the same man who didn’t know what a wildcard was a few weeks ago. Now, he’s living every snap.
By the fourth quarter, my nerves are shredded.
We’re down again with minutes on the clock.
We need six points. It’s our play, but we’re pinned deep in our own territory, backed up near our end zone.
The kind of field position that makes commentators start talking about “respectable losses” and “great seasons.” I don’t want respectable. I want the win.
The snap comes clean. Chase drops back, scans, then throws for Jake.
The ball sails just wide. Jake stretches for it, fingertips brushing leather.
The ball wobbles, knocked loose in the collision with a defender, and hits the turf.
My stomach drops through the floor. Steelguards swarm.
Black and green everywhere. It’s over. I can barely watch.
Then somehow the ball is back in Jake’s hands. I don’t even understand how it happens. One second, it’s chaos, bodies crashing into each other, and the next, Jake is upright and running. The skybox explodes.
Our linemen pull across the field, receivers who weren’t even part of the play throwing themselves into blocks, keeping defenders from his reach, buying him space.
Jake tears down the field.
Past midfield.
Past the thirty.
The twenty.
I can’t breathe.
Five yards.
Two.
He hits the end zone.
Touchdown!
The sound that follows is unreal. The crowd loses their minds.
It’s raw, unrestrained, and shaking the air itself.
I’m on my feet, hands in the air as the field floods with Stormhawks players racing toward Jake, piling on him.
Grayson is jumping up and down beside me, laughing, shouting, pulling me into his chest like he can’t contain any of it.
The score flashes. We’re tied 24-24. The clock reads zero, but the game isn’t over yet.
Everything comes down to one kick and the extra point we need to win.
JT walks onto the field like this is nothing.
Like eighty thousand people in the stadium and millions watching on TVs in fans bars and at home aren’t holding their breath.
Like the weight of Denver isn’t balanced on his right foot.
The stadium goes eerily quiet. The snap. The hold. The kick. The ball arcs up, slicing through the air at an angle that makes my heart stop, before sailing cleanly through the uprights. For half a second, the world freezes. Then all hell breaks loose. We’ve won. 25-24.
The Stormhawks have won the Super Bowl!
I’m crying. Laughing. Shaking. Grayson lifts me off my feet, spinning me as red and silver confetti cannons explode across the field below.
It feels like no time at all before we’re piling down the stairs with everyone else, swept along in a tide of red jerseys and shouting voices.
Music blares across the stadium. Red confetti rains down, sticking to hair and clothes and skin, and I don’t even try to brush it away.
Players are everywhere, hugging, laughing, crying.
Helmets are tossed aside. Cameras swarm. It’s chaos in the best possible way.
Serena breaks away from us and runs across the turf, her face lit up with pure, unfiltered joy.
It’s hard to believe from the look of love on Chase’s face that they were ever just best friends.
Then, instead of opening his arms, instead of pulling her into the celebration like I expect, he drops down to one knee.
My breath leaves my body in a rush. The noise seems to dull around us as Serena skids to a stop in front of him, hands flying to her mouth.
Her eyes fill instantly, tears spilling onto her cheeks as Chase says something I can’t hear, holding up a diamond ring from a chain he must have been wearing around his neck during the game.
This win and this moment planned. She nods, and he stands, lifting her off the ground.
They kiss like the rest of the world has disappeared, and my chest aches so fiercely I think my heart might burst.
I turn and find Grayson watching me. His eyes are soft, intense. He steps closer, resting his forehead against mine, silencing the chaos around us. His hand slides to my waist, and when he kisses me, it feels like a promise.
When we finally pull back, Grayson’s mouth curves into that familiar smile. “There’s a party,” he says quietly. “I organized it. For after.”
“You did?”
“Of course. There’s always a party, right?”
I nod. “I just didn’t think about who organized it or that I’d go. What would’ve happened if we’d lost?”
“It would’ve been canceled. It’s why I didn’t tell you.” His eyes dance with mischief. “I knew you’d think I’d jinx the win.”
“Damn right I would,” I say, laughing, but not mad.
I realize, at this moment, that I’m in this with Grayson.
Not because it’s easy. It won’t be. But because somewhere in the weeks we’ve spent together, he’s started being the person I look for in every room.
That realization both thrills and terrifies me.
Because even now, even with confetti still clinging to the air and the city celebrating around us, there’s a quiet voice in the back of my mind.
The season is over.
The deal is over.
What happens next?
Every time Grayson steps away to answer a call, I’m reminded of how fragile we are.
How easily it could slip back into distance and duty and New York.
But fear doesn’t erase the truth that I’ve fallen hard for this man, and there’s no pretending otherwise.
No version of a future where I don’t give this everything I’ve got.