Page 161 of Can't Always Get What You Want

“Too late!” she sings, blowing me a kiss when they start pulling her back through the gate.

“I LOVE LUCA BABINEAUX!” she shouts, twisting dramatically between the two guards like a pageant queen being dragged offstage. She cannot be derailed from her goal. “I AMIN LOVE WITH THIS MAN AND I DON’T CARE WHO KNOWS IT!”

Nova—red-cheeked, windswept, my jersey hanging off her like armor—keeps shouting as they pull her up the tunnel toward whatever makeshift holding cell awaits.

“I REGRET NOTHING,” Nova yells, voice echoing through the arena like a battle cry. “I’D DO IT AGAIN!”

One last desperate shout over her shoulder: “I LOVE YOU EVEN WHEN YOU WEAR CROCS!”

Crocs? How dare she—I’ve never worn crocs in my entire goddamn life.

Then.

She’s gone.

Dragged into the tunnel like the beautiful, feral creature she is.

The crowd is absolutelyeating. It. Up.

People arechantingher name. And mine.

I just stand there in the box, helmet off, blood still crusted under my nose, and laugh—because what elsecanI do?

A grin spreads over my face.

That’s my girl.

A complete maniac.

Mine all mine.

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nova

Ihad no idea the arena had a jail.

Huh.

You learn something new every day.

Apparently,if you break into the penalty box and scream a full-throated love confession in front of a stadium packed with twenty-thousand people, they don’t let you go with a slap on the wrist and a wink. No. They escort you tostadium jail.

Which is exactly what it sounds like.

A holding room in the concrete underworld of the arena, lit by flickering fluorescent lights, the walls painted a shade of beige that does nothing for my complexion, now that I’m brunette.

Honestly, it’s offensive.

At least the old me—blonde me—might’ve glowed under this lighting. Butnewme? Post-confession, possibly banned-from-the-arena me?

I look unhinged.

Not cute.

I shift in the metal chair, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, which is hard when the woman next to me complimentsmy large, hoop earrings and tries to touch them. Meanwhile, a middle-aged man in the opposing team’s jersey is slumped in the corner, passed out.

This cell smells like beer and defeat, full of poor decision makers.

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