Page 3 of Game Day

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.

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.

The “Marry Me, Clay!” sign disappears under my feet as we head for the doors together.

2

NOVA

"Dammit. The boutique owner I was supposed to meet had an emergency.” Brooke taps her nails on the hood of the car and frowns at her phone.

I scan the parking lot tucked between beautiful brick buildings. “We can wait for her?”

"No. I’ll reschedule. We can talk about her designs another time.”

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