Page 81 of Broken Rivalry

“How are we feeling today?” Coach asks, trying to sound nonchalant, his eyes focused on the other side of the field where our ultimate rivals, the Kings of Miltown, are performing their stretching.

I stretch, feeling the pull of my muscles. “I’m ready, Coach. Number ten won’t let you down.”

He looks down at me for a second, mutters something under his breath about players’ hormones, and walks back to talk to his assistant coach.

I turn toward the guys who are stretching a few steps from me now, and they give me knowing smiles.

It’s the last game of the season before the playoffs in Vegas. I hope she will come with me.

The energy in the stadium is electric. Every shout, every cheer, it’s like a pulse driving me forward. The grass beneath my cleats feels familiar, grounding me. The opposing team is fierce, their determination evident in their aggressive plays and shouts. But there’s a distraction: Poppy. She’s in the stands, wearing my jersey. It’s not merely a piece of fabric; it’s a statement. And it fuels me.

We’re nearing the end, and the tension’s thick. The ball finds its way to me, and for a split second, everything slows down. The goal’s in sight, the challenge clear. I take the shot, and it’s like the world erupts. The crowd’s roar is deafening, but amid the chaos, there’s clarity. I need to get to her.

Breaking from the team’s ecstatic huddle, I make a beeline for her. She’s radiant, eyes shining with pride and something deeper.

I spread my arms wide, an unspoken invitation. There’s a heartbeat where time seems to stop, and then she’s rushing toward me. The world blurs as she leaps into my arms, her legs wrapped around my waist. Despite the exhaustion and sore muscles, I tighten my hold around her, lifting her off the ground.

“You were incredible,” she breathes, her face inches from mine, her breath warm against my lips. She pulls back, her nose wrinkling in playful distaste. “But you’re all sweaty and smelly.”

“All because of you,” I reply, nodding to my jersey she’s wearing. The scent of her, mixed with the earthy aroma of the field, is intoxicating. “Seeing you in that gave me an edge.” I raise an eyebrow, teasing her. “Last I checked, you kind of liked me sweaty.”

She blushes, her eyes darting to my lips before meeting my gaze again. Without another word, she leans in and kisses me, soft and sweet yet filled with a passion that speaks of longing and reunion. The world fades away, and it’s only the two of us.

She wrinkles her nose playfully. “Clean up, superstar. I’ll be here when you’re done.”

I brush a strand of hair behind her ear. “Gamma’s throwing a party to celebrate the win. Think you’d like to join?”

Her eyes light up. “Of course.”

I can’t help but beam at her response. “Great! I’ll be quick,” I promise, already eager to rejoin her side. As I head toward the locker room, I hear my teammates still chanting in victory, their voices echoing my own joy.

In the dim locker room, with steam rising from the showers and the scent of sweat and antiseptic in the air, Cole’s voice cuts through. “She’s wearing your jersey,” he remarks, smirking as we towel dry after our showers.

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face, but I choose not to indulge him with a response.

Cole drapes a towel around his neck, a smirk playing on his lips. “So my method works.”

I roll my eyes, shaking my head, but my grin betrays me, revealing how right he might be.

“Yo, Ashford!” Cole calls out to Liam, who’s already dressed and deep in conversation with Peters.

Liam glances our way, a puzzled expression on his face, clearly unaware of our previous discussion.

Cole, ever the dramatic, points to his bare chest, puffing it out with pride. “I’m a fucking Casanova!” he shouts, ensuring everyone in the vicinity hears him. Liam raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “I fixed him and Curly! I’m a fucking Casanova.”

Liam chuckles, shaking his head. “You played matchmaker, Cole. That’s more Cyrano than Casanova.”

Cole looks momentarily confused, but then shrugs it off, too pleased with himself to care about the distinction.

“To be fair, you’re both,” I add as Cole reaches for the Henley in his locker.

I frown at the unfamiliar tattoo on his rib cage. Among his collection of ink, this one stands out. It’s still red, slightly raised, and looks fresh compared to the others.

“New tattoo?” I ask, pointing to the vivid design.

He glances down, and I spot a brief shadow crossing his face, though he maintains his signature grin. “A drunken mistake,” he replies, his voice carrying some regret as he quickly pulls on his shirt. But the design seems too detailed, too personal to be a mere drunken decision. It depicts a beautifully detailed violin from which musical notes flow, constructing a bridge. Beneath it, the words “Angel’s memories” are etched in an elegant script.

I sense there’s a deeper story behind it, but I also know him well enough to understand when not to push. Besides, my focus is outside, where she awaits. I need to cherish every moment with her while I can.

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