Page 73 of King of Violence

“Set!” I bark, the sound hoarse but commanding. The team responds, their energy matching mine.

The ball snaps into my hands. Time slows as I drop back, scanning the field. My wide receiver is covered. The defense is closing in, a sea of bodies charging at me like a tidal wave.

I fake a pass to the left and pivot right, breaking into a sprint. The crowd explodes, but I can barely hear them over the pounding of my feet on the turf and the blood rushing in my ears.

Ten yards.

Five.

I dive, stretching the ball out just as I’m tackled. The impact rattles through me, but I don’t care. I know before I look—the ball crossed the line.

The referee’s whistle blows, and the stadium erupts into chaos.

We did it.

“LET’S FUCKING GOOOOOOO!” my teammate yells, but I can barely hear him over the pounding of my heart.

The trophy ceremony is a blur. The weight of the championship trophy in my hands is surreal, its polished surface gleaming under the stadium lights. People will say this is the highlight of my career, but they’re wrong. It’s not this.

It’shim.

As the chaos of the celebration swirls around me, I glance toward the sidelines.

There, holding a press badge like it’s the most natural thing in the world, is Felix.

He’s dressed sharp, his tailored blazer a stark contrast to the boisterous fans and players around him.

But it’s his smile that catches my attention—proud, steady, and full of the quiet confidence that’s always grounded me.

Felix.

My anchor.

He’s come so far since we met. After law school, he carved out a career as a sports lawyer, working tirelessly to advocate for athletes and protect them from the kinds of exploitation and pitfalls that almost derailed me. He’s brilliant and relentless, and he works closely with my management team now. It’s not just my success—it’sours.

Our eyes meet across the field, and for a moment, it’s just us in a sea of chaos. He gives me a subtle nod, a private gesture in the midst of the public spectacle.

The locker room is a circus. My teammates are celebrating, dousing each other in champagne and shouting over the music. Reporters hover around, trying to snag interviews, but I’m barely paying attention.

I spot him immediately, leaning casually against the wall near the back of the room.Felix. He’s watching me with that same soft smile, his arms crossed, looking completely out of place yet exactly where he belongs.

I weave through the madness, ignoring the slaps on my back and the calls of my name. When I reach him, I don’t say anything. I just grab his hand and pull him into the quieter hallway outside.

The noise fades as the door swings shut behind us. For a moment we just stand there, the tension and adrenaline from the game still thrumming through my veins.

“You did it,” Felix says, his voice warm and steady.

“Wedid it,” I correct him as I take his face in my hands. “None of this would’ve been possible without you.”

Felix’s brow furrows slightly, like he’s about to argue, but I don’t give him the chance. I lean in and press my lips to his.

It’s not the kind of kiss that comes from adrenaline or celebration. It’s slow and deliberate, a grounding reminder of everything we’ve been through to get here.

When we pull apart, Felix rests his forehead against mine. “I’m proud of you, Jules. Not just for tonight—for everything.”

I can feel the emotion threatening to spill over, but I hold it back. Instead, I grin and tug him closer. “Well, now that the championship’s over, I think I deserve a reward.”

Felix rolls his eyes and laughs softly. “Your reward is not getting tackled by 300-pound defensive linemen for the rest of the night.”

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