Page 85 of Second Quarter Comeback
Her smile widens, eyes gleaming with mischief that sets my pulse racing. “Oh, Killion,” she purrs, dragging a finger down my chest, “we’re just getting started.”
I capture her mouth in a searing kiss, murmuring against her lips, “And this is exactly why I love you so fucking much.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Camille
Sittingin the backseat of Killion’s parents’ car is the kind of awkward no one prepares you for. There’s no etiquette manual for sharing a confined space with the people whose house you . . . well. . . defiled. Let’s just say I haven’t seen them since Christmas, and I’m not exactly itching to bring up the memory.
In my defense, Kill and I weren’t trying to traumatize anyone. His room is allegedly soundproofed, and I was, uh, too preoccupied at the time to worry about acoustics. Still, every time his dad, Mathieu, flashes me a smile in the rearview mirror, that tiny, panicked voice in my head whispers,What if they know?
“You’re quiet, Camille,” Mathieu says, his tone warm and teasing, like he doesn’t suspect I’m spiraling. “Nervous about the game?”
I plaster on a smile and fidget with the strap of my purse. “A little, I guess. It’s a big deal, right?”
“Big deal doesn’t even cover it,” John pipes up from the passenger seat, his tone brimming with pride. Honestly, you’d think he was the one gunning for his third championship ring. “This is legacy stuff. Killion was born for moments like this.”
“Born for them,” I repeat, nodding along like a good future daughter-in-law who definitely doesn’t break their son’s headboard during visits.
This isn’t my first rodeo—or time I attend a game, technically. Back in January, I went to his final regular season game in Vegas. We even toyed with the idea of eloping while we were there, but we didn’t. Neither of us is ready for that step just yet. Kill is laser-focused on winning the championship, and I’ve got my hands full opening my practice next month. One major life milestone at a time, right?
When we pull up to the stadium, the energy hits me like a freight train. Fans are everywhere, decked out in Gladiators gear, waving signs, and chanting at topvolume. The air smells like hot dogs and ambition, and I swear I can feel my stomach auditioning for Cirque du Soleil.
Kill texted me this morning—a simple, cocky “Can’t wait to see you after we win.” The confidence practically jumped off the screen. It’s one of the many things I admire about him. He’s so sure of himself, his team, and their ability to win. Meanwhile, I’ve spent most of my life overthinking whether I should text someone back in five minutes or twenty. That level of certainty? Equal parts inspiring and mildly terrifying.
Inside the VIP box, I’m immediately shown to the table with drinks, canapes, and snacks. I’m surrounded by a swarm of Killion’s family and friends. His brothers are already in heated debates about stats, their voices climbing over each other like this is their game to win. Lucian is betting against him, but I’m pretty sure it’s because his team lost last week and they’re out for the season.
Scottie shoves a plate of hors d’oeuvres into my hands. “This is ours. We’re not sharing with anyone. Today is amazing. Finally, I have two sisters and don’t have to deal with the boys on my own.”
Val, who I’ve only met twice but have decided is an angel, laughs. Before she can respond, Kade pulls her close and kisses her deeply.
Scottie groans. “Ugh, please. Can you guys at least wait until you go home?”
Before she can roast them further, the room eruptsinto cheers. The Gladiators are taking the field, and every nerve in my body flips into overdrive. My eyes immediately find Kill. He glances toward the VIP box, and for a second, I swear he locks eyes with me. Then he gives the tiniest nod—at least, I think he does.
Scottie leans in, smirking like the chaos gremlin she is. “You’re blushing.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, though the grin on my face completely betrays me.
Because she’s right—I’m absolutely blushing. And damn it, I’m too proud to care.
As the game begins, the tension in the air is palpable. The Gladiators start strong, their offense slicing through the defense like a hot knife through butter. Every time Kill throws the ball, the crowd roars, and I find myself clapping along, my heart racing with every play.
By halftime, the score is tied, and the box is buzzing with anticipation. I excuse myself to grab some air.
“You okay?” Scottie’s voice startles me, and I turn to see her leaning casually against the railing.
“I’m fine,” I say, though my hands grip the railing a little tighter than necessary. “Just . . . it’s a lot.”
Scottie studies me for a moment before smirking. “You’re nervous for him.”
“Of course I am,” I admit. “This is huge for him, and if they lose?—”
“They’re not going to lose,” she interrupts firmly. “Trust me, I’ve seen him in moments like this. He thrives under pressure.”
I nod, wanting to believe her.
“And for the record,” she adds, her tone softer, “he’s lucky to have you here. He knows it too.”
