Page 161 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Until he stands before me, close enough for my pulse to react in that strange way it does when I forget how to act cool around him.
His eyes are stormy—moody, beautiful, and slightly dangerous—and his jaw tightens as if he’s holding something back.
He lifts a hand to my face, brushes my cheek with the backs of his fingers. Then cups my jaw gently and reverently, as if I’m some fragile thing he’s afraid to touch too hard.
And then he nods.
“Every time,” he murmurs. “Because I’m sure I’ll fuck up too. Probably quite a bit. Spectacularly.”
He tips my chin with his finger, holding me there.
“I love you so fucking much, Olivia. I have no idea what you did to me. You make me lose my fucking mind. You stole my dog.You argue with me about everything. You give me panic attacks every time you use a butcher knife to cut bread. You tease me about the way I sleep. And still—somehow—you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
A breath escapes my lungs. It’s not relief. It’s not even clarity. It’s just . . . surrender.
“I love you,” I whisper. “I believe I’ve loved you since the day you offered me a large muffin and said I looked like I’d lost a fight with the creatures inside my wall.”
He laughs, low and rough, like it’s breaking something open inside him.
And then he kisses me.
It’s not sweet.
It’s not soft.
It’s all tongue, heat, and desperation—like he has been yearning to taste this moment, afraid it might never arrive. Like he needs to commit every fucking second to memory before it fades away once more.
I kiss him back with everything I’ve got. No more holding back. No more pretending it’s merely sex, convenience, or survival.
It’s love. Messy and beautiful and flawed.
When we finally pull apart, breathless, his forehead rests against mine.
“Say it again,” he whispers.
“I love you.”
And then he’s kissing me again.
And I let him.
God, I let him.
Because this time, I’m not afraid of falling.
He’s already caught me.
Chapter Forty-Five
Lucian
She’s With Me, She Just Refuses to Admit It
The second my cleats touch the turf, I know this isn’t about training.
It’s a show.
PR-sponsored. Team-approved. Camera-ready.
