Page 271 of Vicious Saint
I stand too, frozen with hands covering my mouth, imagining all the impossible ways Saint can end up losing a twenty-four-zero game in five seconds.
Because of me.
Multiple players from the team whose name I forgot are barreling for Levi once he’s near the touchdown zone.
The ball moves in painfully slow motion, same goes for Theory jumping up and down like a wild woman next to me.
I check the time on the clock, three seconds.
The ball…I don’t know, maybe feet away.
Clock, two.
Ball…smooth into Levi’s chest.
The crowd goes absolutely insane as the buzzer erupts, signaling the end of the playoffs, a secured championship game, and my ability to fucking breathe again.
Levi spikes the ball and his helmet, doing that howl into the night thing before gunning for his best friend, who’s punching his chest and howling the same. They crash into a hug, both clapping each other on the back before breaking apart.
Theory and I are the much girlier versions of them, squealing through a hug-jump as every member of The Royals charge in the direction of Levi and Saint. Half the crowd from the bleachers, including Theory, follow right after.
The two stars of the show get lost in the swarm of people, making it that much harder for me to find Saint and watch him bask in the victory.
I’m not love drunk enough to assumeI’mwho Saint’s thinking about after slaying one of the biggest games of the season, or that I have the right to be on the field like Theory or other true devotees to the team.
So, squeezing Saint’s Letterman around me, I drag awkward feet to the sidelines, on the lookout so he can at least know I’m happy for him.
No dice.
That is, until a mountain sized body crashes into me from the left, nearly knocking the wind out of me.
Sweat, dirt, and lingering citrus invades my nostrils as Saint picks me up, spinning me around and kissing me to a stop like his life depends on it.
Every inch of me blasts into a shower of tingles, growing more intense with every second our lips remain connected.
“See, I told you, Jimi.” He smiles through a heaving breath. “You’re my good luck charm.”
After hearing Theory explain the groove situation, I guess I can see where Saint is coming from with the preposterous idea. As preposterous as it may be, though, he believes it, and I believe in him.
“Congratulations, Letterman.” I squeeze my arms around his neck. “You were amazing out there.”
Instead of a thank you, or putting me down, Saint walks us backwards onto the field.
“What are you doing?” I chuckle.
“Getting you off the sidelines.”
With my fingers threading the short, damp hair on the back of his head, I admit, “Just wanted to let you have your moment.”
Saint lets out an amused huff, then, with his soft gaze sharpening, he says, “When will youfinallyget it, Jimi?”
“Get what?” I laugh, trying to ignore all the eyes I feel watching us.
“That thisismy fucking moment.”
35
Hendrix
