Page 101 of Against The Rules

But with Tyler playing… it feels different. So different.

I can’t wait to watch him play. I can’t wait to feel his eyes on me across the field.

It’s not just me, either. Probably because last week was an away game, we’re all brimming with energy. The locker room’s electric with it.

“Okay, pretty ladies,” Rebecca calls out, standing at the door. “It’s go time, are we ready to get out there and get our fans excited?”

“Yes, ma’am!” we all shout at the same time.

“Get your poms fluffed and get out there, girls! Let’s support our boys!”

I cringe, unable to keep it off my face. We’re grown women, and the players are grown-ass men. I can’t stand when Rebecca says that. We’re not kids.

“Put a smile on that pretty face, Savannah!” she barks at me.

“Yes, ma’am.” I almost say it like they do in the marines, shouting it back at her out of sheer pettiness, but I don’t. Instead, I take a deep breath, stick my poms on my hips, and get in line.

We spend an hour or so warming up on the sidelines, running through some of today’s routines, the players warming up on the field too. I try not to watch for Ty, but my eyes are drawn to him.

He’s damn sexy in that uniform, and I try not to drool too obviously.

That’s my man.

“Focus, Savannah!” Eva says, and I slide back into formation as we mark through another routine. Before long, it’s time to start the pre-game ritual of cheering for the players as they walk onto the field.

The fanfare at the beginning of home games is always fun, and today? Today it’s even better. We line up on either side of the stadium entrance to the field.

The Beaver stadium’s announcer calls the name of the players, and I cheer for all of them, striking the choreographed poses with the pulsing music. Fog machines and flashing lights compete for attention with our sparkling holographic poms, and the players run out on the field one at a time to the adulation of the crowd.

“Number nineteen, starting wide receiver Tyler Matthews,” the announcer booms.

I don’t have to fake the grin on my face when he jogs out of the entrance, larger than life in his football pads, eyeblack on his cheeks making him look rugged and even more handsome. In one hand, he has his football helmet, and in the other, there’s a fuchsia-colored rose.

Oh.

Oh no.

I try to keep up with the routine, hitting the contagion rippling down my line just a hair late.

Ty makes a beeline for me, a devious grin on his face.

I keep smiling, looking at the crowd above him, trying to pretend like I have no idea what he’s doing.

He stops right in front of me as they’re calling another starting offensive lineman, and holds the rose out to me.

I ignore him, panic rising in my chest.

He stands there, rose held out, still waiting for me to take it.

I grin manically at him, still dancing. “I can’t,” I finally yell.

He staggers back, a hand over his heart, and anyone who’s still watching our little drama in the crowd laughs, and some even boo. He throws the rose at my feet, waving to the crowd before blowing me a kiss.

I ignore him; or, at least, I pretend to, but one glance at the jumbotron in my periphery tells me that the cameras in the stadium have broadcasted the entire terrible exchange.

Dammit.

I keep smiling, keep dancing, pretending like I’m not grappling with both how cute and sweet Ty’s rose at my feet is and irritation at him for singling me out in front of the entire Beaver stadium and the notoriously insane Hot Dam fanbase, the Beavers’ most rabid cheering section.

---