Page 113 of Near Miss

But I’m grinning the entire time I walk out onto the field, eyes only on her.

I haven’t put on my helmet yet, and there’s probably a fine for that, too, but I want her to know I see her—all of her—those partsshe thinks are empty, the parts that made it hard to get here today.

And I want her to know she’s the most important person in this entire stadium.

The most beautiful one, certainly. Standing there with her earmuffs on, wisps of dark hair fluttering around her face, and eyes that saw right through me from day one.

She raises one of those perfect, live-saving, real-person-sculpting hands and offers me a tiny wave.

I rub my chest before bringing a closed fist to my mouth, and I point at her before I put my helmet back on.

I don’t really want to turn away—looking at anything other than her seems like a colossal waste of time right now—but I know she’s going to be there afterwards. No matter what.

I think people are shouting again, but I can’t really hear anything else.

Just her.

You’re real.

You’re worthy.

I love you.

The ball snaps, and I kick.

Beckett

It doesn’t feel like I thought it would.

Sure, there’s a part of real Beckett that’s just as competitive as old Beckett.

It would have become this elusive thing if I’d never hit it. And there’s already a part of me saying that 67 yards isn’t enough. It’s just the start. That he wants to kick so far and so well, no one’s ever going to catch up.

But the other parts of me say it can wait—because if it wasn’t for that one fuck up, the biggest fumble of the year according to significantly more articles online than one would think possible, I wouldn’t be here.

Pushing past my teammates, I ignore reporters for the first time in my life so I can get a clear line to sprint across the rest of this field.

It does open up a bit, and my hamstring and quad scream when I take off, but not as much as the rest of me does.

It’s nothing really, not the first time I’ve sprinted after her or towards her, and I hope it won’t be the last.

My hands and arms know how to hold her, so it really isn’t anything to jump and grab onto that barrier and lift myself up.

She’s right there. With her sister, her two best friends, and too many other screaming fans who’ve decided they like me after all.

Her sister whips her head around towards them. “Back off.”

They do.

“Dr. Roberts.” I grin, swinging my legs over the edge and hopping off, down into the stands.

She blinks up at me, hair lifting in the breeze, fluttering around her face. Earmuffs still on, one hand pressed to her chest, and my favourite lips move softly, deliberately, before my favourite sound in the world follows. “Great legs.”

“Who knew?” I say, voice rough.

“You’re a meme again, Record Breaker.” Her lips shift into this soft smile, forest eyes glistening and she holds up her phone. “All kinds of videos about what it takes to make a successful 67-yard kick look easy. They’re saying you’re the best.”

“I don’t really care.” I swipe a hand through my hair.

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