Page 86 of Second Quarter Comeback
The second half is a rollercoaster. The Gladiators pull ahead, only for the opposing team to come roaring back. By the final two minutes, the score is tied again, and my nails are practically embedded in the seat armrest.
When Kill takes the snap for what could be the game-winning drive, the entire stadium holds its breath. He drops back, scanning the field, then launches a perfect spiral down the sideline. His receiver catches it just inches from the end zone, and the crowd explodes.
One more play.
The tension is suffocating as the team lines up for what could be the final snap of the game. Kill takes the ball, fakes a handoff, and rolls to his right. The defense collapses on him, but at the last second, he scrambles, diving into the end zone himself.
Touchdown.
The noise is deafening. Fans are screaming, players are piling onto Kill in celebration, and I’m on my feet, cheering so loud my throat hurts.
Scottie grabs my arm, jumping up and down. “He did it.”
Tears prick my eyes as I watch him on the field, grinning ear to ear, his teammates lifting him onto theirshoulders. He looks up toward the box, his gaze finding mine again, and this time, the nod is accompanied by the kind of smile that makes me forget anyone else exists.
Yeah, he did it. And somehow, I feel like I did too.
The soundof celebration hits me before I’ve even stepped into Killion’s penthouse. I’m beginning to realize that not living next door to him anymore is a royal pain in my ass. Moving to a small studio in Brooklyn seemed like a good idea at the time—until I realized I’d practically relocated all my stuff to his place anyway. The only thing I haven’t moved in permanently is Ben, my cat, who occasionally graces Kill with his disapproving presence.
As I unlock the door and step inside, the laughter and clinking glasses intensify. His family has clearly made themselves at home, and I brace myself for the chaos.
And then I see him.
Killion stands in the middle of the living room, now dressed down in a plain T-shirt and jeans. His hair is slightly tousled—like he’s been raking his hands through it—and it’s maddeningly, unfairly attractive. The second his eyes land on me, his whole face lights up, like I’m the only person in the room.
“There she is,” he says, his voice carrying over thechatter as he strides toward me with the kind of confidence that could probably cure my anxiety if it were bottled up and sold.
Before I can so much as squeak a greeting, he sweeps me into his arms, lifting me clear off the ground like I’m some sort of championship trophy he’s just snagged.
“Kill,” I squeal, laughing as I swat at his shoulder. “You’re squeezing all the air out of my lungs—and people are watching.”
“Let them watch,” he says with a laugh, his grip loosening just enough to set me down gently, though his hands linger on my waist like they’ve forgotten they’re supposed to let go. “Missed you, baby.”
His tone is soft, but there’s an edge of possessiveness in it that sends a shiver down my spine.
“You were incredible out there,” I say, looking up at him, and I mean it. Watching him on the field, so in control, so focused—God, it was awe-inspiring. And not just in the wow-he’s-great-at-football way. More like the strip-me-down-and-call-me-helpless kind of way.
His lips quirk into a crooked grin, and he leans in just a fraction, enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. “Incredible, huh? Careful, baby, you’re gonna give me an even bigger ego.”
I roll my eyes, trying to play it cool even though my body is very much not cooperating. “Oh, please. Like your ego needs any help. It’s already at max capacity.”
His grin widens, all cocky charm, and he dips his head to murmur in my ear, “Speaking of max capacity . . . should I let everyone clear out so we can test your theory?”
My face heats faster than I can stop it, and I shove at his chest with a laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“But you love me anyway,” he states.
He’s not wrong. And judging by the way his hands tighten ever so slightly on my waist, neither of us wants me anywhere else. “That I do,” I agree.
His grin softens into something more intimate, his thumbs brushing lightly over my sides, sending a shiver down my spine. “Thanks to you,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick with sincerity. “Knowing you were watching? That was all the motivation I needed.”
I blink up at him, torn between swooning and teasing him. “Oh, so you’re saying all those plays weren’t for the championship, the team, or the fans? Just for me?”
“Exactly,” he replies without hesitation, his grin morphing into that devilish smirk that makes my knees weak. “Though if you hadn’t shown up, I might’ve thrown the game. Guess we’ll never know.”
I laugh, rolling my eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet, you love me for it,” he fires back, his tone so cocky that I almost want to smack him—except his hands are still on me, and I don’t really want him to stop.
