Page 162 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
A dozen journalists lurk like bored lions, all sporting press passes and fake-friendly smiles. The bleachers are packed with fans, phones raised like shields, merch waving as if it’s a battle. And somewhere amid all this, I’m expected to act like this is just another preseason demo.
Like, I’m not completely on edge because she’s here.
“Crawford,” someone calls. “Heard you brought a plus one.”
And boom. Not even three minutes in and it’s not about my speed, my recovery, or the fact that I’ve been grinding my ass off since April. It’s about Olivia.
The woman with the killer side-eye and an alarming ability to dismantle my ego with a single look. The one currently lounging on the lowest bleacher, a coffee in hand, dressed like she’s trying to go incognito in the Witness Protection Program: ball cap, sunglasses, probably armed with snark.
“Don’t wave,” I mutter as I jog past her, “unless you want to be trending under hashtag-CrawfordCutie.”
She flips me off.
It’s subtle. Refined. Practically a love letter.
God, I love this woman. But as much as I want to spend this time ogling her, I get to work.
I hit the sprint station hard, pushing through the cone work and lateral cuts like the devil’s chasing me. I know she’s watching. I can feel it. The heat of her gaze presses against my back, making my lungs tighten and my blood moves faster. I want her to see this part of me. The version that isn’t polished or packaged. The guy who’s been doing drills since he was ten. Who’s rebuilt every tendon in his body and still shows up.
She’s seen me on my knees for her. Time she sees me sweat for something else too.
“Crawford,” another reporter calls, way too chipper to be harmless. “We heard there’s a special someone in town. You finally off the market?”
I almost miss it. The mic shoved toward my jaw—the flash of a camera.
Fuck. Rookie mistake. I stopped moving.
“Is she your girlfriend?”
“Are you two living together?”
I glance toward Olivia. She’s frozen mid-sip, and even behind her glasses, I can see the don’t-you-dare expression that would probably terrify lesser men. Or at least terrify me, if I weren’t already deeply, madly in love with the way she drinks coffee like it’s fuel for violence.
“No comment,” I mutter.
In PR-speak, it basically means: Yes, and we’re naming our future dog Biscuit.
The press finally moves on after one of our trainers steps in with a look that says, “Touch the athlete and die.”
I drag myself through the rest of the training session with a fury I haven’t tapped into in weeks: cone drills, foot fires, and sprint ladders. I run like I’m trying to outrun the part of me that wants more than benefits. That wants her in my bed, in my kitchen, in my damn offseason plans.
I launch into a series of directional changes—quick cuts left and right across the fifty-yard mark—like I’m carving the turf into answers. Next, I hit a wide receiver route, running slants with clean feet, tight hips, and a solid push. Coach claps once. Rare. I clock it.
And Olivia?
She’s still there.
Still in that first row. Still sipping her coffee as if it’s not eighty-five degrees out here. Still watching, as though she’s trying to figure me out.
Like she hasn’t already wrecked me completely.
The sun’s high, my shirt’s soaked, and I’m fighting the burn in my thighs as the whistle blows for the final round of sprints. I glance at Coach, and he nods toward the field goal posts.
Wind sprints. Classic punishment. But today, I welcome it.
I dig my cleats in. I run.
Not for the stats. Not for the scouts.
