Page 108 of Bitter When He Begs

“I hate you, bitch.”

“You love me, slut,” he says, voice smug. “But not like you love your quarterback.”

I don’t respond. I just grip the armrest a little tighter and tell myself not to grin like a damn idiot, but it’s a losing battle.

“Okay,” Nate sighs dramatically, stretching out his legs. “Serious question.”

I glance over. “This should be good.”

He doesn’t even blink. “Do you think he’s hotter when he’s brooding in the locker room post-practice or when he’s throwing bombs downfield like a god-tier jock fantasy?”

My mouth opens, then shuts again.

Because.Shit.

“Exactly,” Nate says, cackling.

“You are the absolute worst person I know.”

He grins. “But I’m not wrooong,” he drags out the word like the menace he is.

I ignore him again, eyes tracking Luca as he jogs back to the team huddle, the veins in his forearms prominent as he adjusts his gloves, the stretch of his shirt doing entirely evil things to my sanity.

It’s not just that he’s hot—which, yes, he is. It’s that he moves like he owns the space around him. Controlled chaos. Every inch of him sharpened to a point. Watching Luca play is like watching a fire catch. He burns in a way that’s impossible to look away from. And I think that’s what scares me sometimes. That he burns so bright, I forget what it feels like not to watch him.

The whistle blows. The announcer starts doing his thing—welcoming both teams, listing starters, calling out stats and jersey numbers—and the game begins.

We settle in as Blackthorne receives the kick. Luca’s on fire from the start. His passes are precise, cutting through the air like blades. He reads the field with that terrifying intensity I’ve only ever seen in private when he’s looking at me like I’m something he’s trying to memorize.

And yeah, okay, maybe I melt a little every time he calls an audible at the line of scrimmage, shouting across the line in that deep voice that carries even above the roar of the crowd. Maybe I can’t take my eyes off him, and maybe Nate catches me zoning out more than once and mimics me in a lovestruck voice, whispering, “Luca,” dramatically with his hand to his forehead like the dick he is.

“You know he’s gonna know you’re staring, right?” Nate says somewhere in the middle of the second quarter. “He can probably feel it all the way from the fifty-yard line.”

“Then he should stop being so—” I wave my hands helplessly. “Luca.”

Nate barks out a laugh. “That is not a valid adjective, but I’ll allow it.”

We’re up fourteen-three by halftime, and Luca’s already thrown two touchdowns. The entire student section is losing their minds, and when Luca jogs off the field toward the tunnel, he does a half-turn in the middle of the chaos, his eyes scanning the crowd.

And when they land on me, that stupid smile curves his mouth.

Not cocky or arrogant.

Just… him.

Soft, dangerous, and everything I still haven’t quite figured out how to deal with.

I sit down so fast that I nearly crack my ass on the bleacher. “Oh, my God,” I breathe into my hands.

“He fucking looked for you,” Nate says, stunned as he shakes my shoulders. “Sage. He looked for you in the middle of all this shit andsmiledlike you’re the only person who exists. What the fuck, bro?”

My heart feels too big for my chest. “Shut up, Nate.”

Nate wheezes beside me, barely holding it together. “You’re fucking doomed, dude.”

“I hate him.”

“You’re wearing his name and number. You don’t hate him.”

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