Page 160 of Can't Always Get What You Want

Everything narrows to the sound of her knuckles against the glass and the heat rushing back into my chest as she stands there, beseeching me in a jersey that’s about three sizes too big—with my number on it.

Leaning over, I push the heavy latch up so she can shove her way inside, mindful that security has probably already clocked her and now we’re on borrowed time.

The second it clicks, she blows through with a gust of cold air and chaotic determination, nearly tripping in her sneakers.

“Nova—”

“No,” she says, breathless, wide-eyed. Flushed. “You don’t get to talk yet. Italknow.”

I blink. “Okay.”

She points a finger at me—shaky, furious, but undeniably in love. “You left. You walked out. And I get it. I didn’t say what you needed me to say, and you probably thought that meant I didn’t feel it, but you werewrong.”

The entire stadium is buzzing. Cameras have turned. A slow, creepingawarenessis spreading from section to section. Phones are recording. Whispers are growing louder.

My name flashes on the jumbotron, music beginning to blare as attention goes from the game, to us and the scene she’s creating.

Then to my shock, Nova cups her hands around her mouth and clear as day—projecting like she’s auditioning for the lead in a stadium-sized Broadway musical—she screams:

“I LOVE LUCA BABINEAUX!”

I watch as the cameramen swing their massive cameras to us and flash our faces on the jumbotron, front and center. The shot cuts to me, dumbfounded and still bloodied from my fight, as she declares her love for me.

The crowdlosesit.

Gasps. Cheers. Screams of delight. Somewhere behind the bench, a blow horn blares.

“I LOVE HIM!” she shrieks again.

It echoes.

Hits the rafters.

“I love Luca Babineaux!” she screams. “I AM IN LOVE WITH THIS MAN!”

A chorus ofawwwwwwwws.The crowd goes absolutely wild.

Followed by a tsunami of clapping. Screaming. One dude is standing on his seat, sobbing into a bucket of nachos.

And of course—right on cue—security rushes over, one of the guards shouting into his walkie. “We’ve got a Code Swoon—repeat, Code Swoon—section 102.”

Jesus Christ. What the fuck is a Code Swoon and why have I never heard of this before? It’s illegal for anyone but players to be in the penalty box and because of that, there are consequences.

“She’s with me!” I try again, voice louder this time. “She’s literally my?—”

“Sir, step back,” one of the guards tells me with authority, holding up a hand. “This is standard procedure.”

They grab her by both arms—not aggressively, but firmly enough to indicate that love confessions mid-period are, in fact, against policy.

“She’s in violation of Regulation 12.4a,” the other guard replies coolly, like this is all very normal and not unfolding on a jumbotron for twenty-thousand fans—not to mention, a nationwide broadcast.

Nova doesn’t fight them.

Not physically, at least.

I feel helpless as they begin to drag her off.

“This isnotwhat I meant when I said I wanted to go public?—”

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