Page 93 of Never His Girl

I move down a few rows of seating to snap a few photos with my phone, and even with such a close game, there’s still a fair amount of attention onme. Not sure when I’ve last seen a saltier group of girls in my life, but they’re out in full force today. From both, Cypress Prep and South Cypress High—West’s super fans, I’m sure.

They eye the jersey I’m sporting over my hoodie. No doubt glaring at the last name of their king embossed on the back.

Golden.

When he first asked me to wear it, I was hesitant because I foresaw it garnering this exact level of attention. Because I knew the message it would send.

That I, Blue Riley, am officially West’s girl.

But damn, who knew I’d like the sound of that so much?

Ignoring the many,manyeyes I feel on me, I face the field again, trying not to panic.

“You’ve got this,” I whisper mostly to myself, but some small part of me believes West can feel me rooting for him. Even above all the others.

Sterling snaps the ball to West and then West drops back. He gets away from the pressure, thanks to Sterling and the other linemen acting as a human shield.

Three seconds.

“You’ve got this,” I say again, sending those words to him like a fervent prayer, clutching my phone tightly in both hands.

Another breath leaves him, and I hold mine, feeling so tightly wound I can onlyimaginewhat this feels like for the team.

For West.

Timeandthe defense are closing in on him. Then, with one second left on the clock, he launches a desperate Hail Mary from midfield. A pass that has me and the crowd at my back on our feet.

Immense tension—those are the only words for this feeling I have, the cause of the sinking sensation in my gut.

It’s as though we’re watching in slow motion, our gazes never leaving the ball as it soars. There’s overwhelming anticipation and a sense of disbelief that West is still fighting for this win, but he is.

It’s do or die and no one can ever say he didn’t give this game his all.

“Holy mackerel, Jim!” one of the announcers yells through my earbud, punctuating the moment I just witnessed in real time—Dane plucking the ball out of the air in the endzone, pulling it into his chest.

Touchdown!

Hands shaking, I snap as many pics as I can of Dane’s clean catch, shocked as shit that they just pulled that off.

“What a nail-biter!” The announcer yells. “These boys are a sight to behold. I, for one,cannotwait to see what they bring to the field of NCU next fall.”

The crowd erupts in cheers, celebrating the narrow win that has just marked the end to Cypress Prep’s perfect football season.

Players rush the field from the bench and so does the entire dance squad, jumping all over the boys while small gold squares shoot from confetti cannons on the sideline. The marching band plays loud and proud, because our boys just did it.

I snap a few more photos, but I’m pretty sure I’ve gotmorethan enough for the paper. Besides, the professionals are here—local and national news outlets that swarm the field.

Placing my phone inside my hoodie, I fight the urge to sprint down the stadium steps to West. It wouldn’t be right, though. That well-earned spotlight is shining brightly on him today after that incredible pass, and I’d never stand in the way.

The team fought hard for this and they deserve their moment in the sun.

Instead of interrupting, I slowly ascend toward the exit, knowing I couldn’t be prouder of him than I am right now. Every so often, I glance back over my shoulder to West, as he smiles into the lens of some network’s camera, and I’m content to congratulate him later.

I’ll still be here when the interviews end, when the screams die down, when the confetti settles.

My notifications are going wild, which isn’t a surprise. With the boys’ win, Pandora is gonna be firing off updates all day, I’m betting. I hug myself for warmth and trudge up the stands, but the sound of cleats on the cement steps has me halting and turning around.

Out of breath and drenched in sweat, the star of the game is taking the steps by two to catch me.

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