Page 72 of Play Maker

My jaw tightens. “Avoiding you? I’m giving you space. Time to?—”

“Well, I don’t want it.” She scowls.

“You do, Lo.” I try to keep my voice steady. “Because I can survive like I always have. But if you give me more—just a little more—and then realize you deserve better …” I shake my head. “I’ll grieve losing you more than anything I’ve ever lost.”

She steps in. I step back.

“You think I’ve ever looked at anyone else?” she snaps. “From day one, it’s been you.”

“What about the guy at the bar? The security guy?—”

“I was trying to make you jealous, you damn fool!”

From behind me, Skinner calls out, “You two aware you have an audience?”

“Leave them alone,” Hart adds. “This has been a long time coming.”

“I don’t win unless it’s after the game,” Riley mutters, not looking up.

Lo smiles. Big, real, glowing. Then she grabs my face, rises on her toes, and kisses me.

Lucas’s voice drifts across the field, “Gonna guess he’s signing with us.”

She starts to pull back, but I catch her hip, tug her forward, and press my forehead to hers. “If they send me packing for that, you’re coming with me. Or I’m going to jail for attempted abduction.”

She laughs, breathless. “That’s the least confident thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“You’ve seen the security detail around here?”

She brushes her thumb across my jaw. “Don’t get comfortable. You’re not stepping foot back in my house until after the game.”

I nod. “Fair.”

We finally trade numbers, and then she walks off toward the rest of the girls, hair bouncing, head held high.

I head back to the huddle.

Coach Cohen’s voice cuts through the chatter. “Red zone run sets! Let’s go! Earn your keep!”

No more fluff. No more flag football.

Time to prove I belong.

* * *

The field’s emptying fast—guys laughing, grabbing their bags, yelling about takeout and controller batteries like they didn’t just spend the afternoon crashing into each other in subzero winds.

I hate to make them wait, but I have something I need to do.

Scanning the area, I spot Ryan across the field, still talking with one of the assistant coaches. I adjust my grip on my helmet and make my way over.

“Ryan,” I say, not loud but not soft, either.

He turns and looks at me. Calm. Always calm.

“You got a second?”

He nods and dismisses the coach with a clap on the back. Then he turns fully to me, arms crossed over his chest, like he already knows what’s coming.

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