Page 105 of Play Maker

He breathes out a quiet laugh, something close to disbelief, then leans forward to press a kiss to my shoulder. “You’re the only one who ever told me that.”

“I mean it.”

Silence stretches for a long beat. A good one. The kind that fills, not frays.

Then, finally, his voice—low, ragged, full of everything he’s still learning to give. “I like your bed better than mine.”

I cup his cheek and pull him close until our foreheads touch. “I like my bed better when you’re in it.”

“Good, ’cause I’m never leaving it.”

* * *

Kolby slept until noon, and after that, we went to his place and packed everything we could in the Jeep, and everything else in boxes to come later.

The back of the Jeep is packed to the roof—boxes, a lamp that I thought was too cool to leave behind, his team duffel, and a rogue cleat that I swear I tossed three times before he finally said that was the only thing he kept from all those years ago.

He drops into the driver’s seat with a satisfied grunt and passes me the last cold bottle of water from the floorboard stash. “Next stop: home,” he says, resting his hand on my thigh.

But then both our phones buzz at once, and we both can’t help but look.

A breaking news alert.

“LIVE: Outriders’ Caleb Cross Speaks Out About On-Field Fight with Kolby Grimes”

I sit straighter. So does he.

He taps the link, and the video opens to Cross, standing outside his team’s training facility. He’s in team-issued gear, hat low, expression unreadable. Cameras flash, reporters cluster.

I look at Kolby. His jaw is tight. That thing behind his eyes—the tension he tries to pretend doesn’t exist—rises like the tide.

Cross takes a breath. “It got heated on the field. And honestly? Yeah, it started because of a girl.”

The press murmurs. Microphones inch closer.

“One we both liked in college,” he continues. “Grimes won. Guess I never really let it go.”

I flinch, but Kolby doesn’t move. Not even a blink.

“You didn’t go to college together.”

“Close enough.” He chuckles.

A reporter jumps in immediately. “So, that’s what the shouting was about? That’s what you meant by ‘he left me?’”

Cross hesitates. And I canseethe calculation happening in his head. Then, smooth as anything, he says, “Nah. That was me being dramatic. What I meant was … Kolby walked away after he got the girl. I was mad. We say shit we don’t mean when tempers run hot.” He shrugs, playing it cool. “We’ve patched it up now. Heat of the moment. No real bad blood.”

The reporter nods. “So, it’s settled?”

Cross flashes a wry smile. “It’s football. You hit hard, you forgive harder. That’s the job.”

The video cuts.

I turn to Kolby. “You think that’s for show?”

He exhales, leaning his head back against the headrest. “Part of it. But … that wasn’t just for PR.”

“No,” I agree softly. “That was a favor. The kind you give someone who mattered once.”

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