Page 65 of Second Quarter Comeback
“Lucky?” I arch an eyebrow, letting the grin grow. “That last pass wasn’t luck. That was skill. Pure, unadulterated skill.”
He rolls his eyes but can’t hold back the full force of his grin. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”
He sticks out his hand, and I take it, pulling him into a quick, sweaty hug.
“Good game,” I say, meaning it. “You’ve come a long way, Luc.”
“Don’t get used to this,” he replies, pulling back. “Next time, I’m taking you down.”
I laugh, shaking my head as I jog back toward my team. “We’ll see.”
The field is absolute mayhem. Reporters swarm the sidelines, cameras flashing like fireworks. Fans scream from the stands, waving signs and chanting like their lives depend on it. My teammates are hugging, fist-bumping, shouting over one another as the reality of the win sets in.
Coach finds me near the fifty-yard line, his face a mix of pride and exhaustion. He claps a hand on my shoulder, his grip firm enough to tell me he means every word.
“Good work, Crawford,” he says, his voice gruff but warm. “You kept your head when it mattered.”
“Thanks, Coach,” I reply, still catching my breath. But my mind is already somewhere else—Camille. Did I give her the space she needed? Sure. But now? Now, I’m hoping we can share dinner, coffee, wine—anything, really. Just a few minutes with her, her presence enough to quiet the buzz in my head.
Coach nods, his expression softening just enough toshow he’s human under all that intensity. “You earned this one. Enjoy it. Monday, we’re back to work.”
“Got it.” I watch him head toward the locker room, his pace slower than usual, and feel the ache creeping into my own body—every hit, every scramble, every second of this game catching up to me.
Darnell jogs up, grinning wide enough to rival the scoreboard lights. “Man, that last drive? Legendary. They’re going to be talking about this for weeks.”
“Not just this game,” I say, matching his grin. “That catch? It’s going on highlight reels for years.”
“You already writing my Hall of Fame speech?” he teases, slapping my shoulder.
“Just the first draft,” I shoot back.
We walk toward the tunnel, the noise of the crowd following us like a living, breathing thing. Fans reach over the railings, shouting my name, waving signs that readGo GladiatorsandCrawford for MVP.It’s surreal, moments like this. They always are.
Before stepping off the field, I glance back. Lucian is still there, talking to his teammates. But then he catches my eye and nods. It’s small, almost imperceptible, but it says everything.
We’re good. We both know tonight wasn’t just about football. I might have bragging rights, but we’re still brothers.
Next time, though? Maybe those three points will swing his way.
I shake my head, chuckling to myself as I head forthe locker room. Next time can wait. Tonight? Tonight’s about another win. Camille. I have to win her back and hopefully I have given her enough space to start talking about a future.
Her and me.
Us.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Camille
Fool the Defense with Some Slow Burn
The crisp night air brushes against my skin, biting just enough to remind me that I probably should’ve grabbed a sweater. The skyline stretches out before me, the city lights look like a thousandtiny promises just out of reach. My glass of wine sits forgotten on the coffee table, and the book I meant to lose myself in lies abandoned on the small table beside me. I’ve spent the entire day preoccupied with Scottie’s proposal, yet the tension pressing at me now has a very different name.
“Killion Crawford,” I mutter, the words tasting bitter and sweet at the same time. I shouldn’t have watched his game. I told myself I wouldn’t. But it felt . . . important. Like I’d miss something if I didn’t.
And then, as if my thoughts have somehow conjured him, his voice cuts through the quiet. “Evening, beautiful.”
Startled, I turn to see him leaning against the divider of his balcony, all casual arrogance wrapped in a hoodie and joggers. The warm light from his apartment spills onto him, softening his edges in a way that feels unfair. His broad shoulders rest easily against the railing, and his hair—a deliberate mess—makes him look maddeningly effortless.
