Page 42 of Watching You
Kane
Ifly through the locker room, pulling on my gear like I’m late for war. Pads, cleats, jersey—everything feels heavier, tighter, like it’s holding the heat of her skin. I can still feel her breath on my neck, the way she trembled against me, the way her lips found mine like she’d been holding back for years.
Rhett glances up from his locker, eyebrows raised. “You good?”
“Better than good,” I mutter, snapping my chin strap into place. “She came.”
He grins. “Knew she would.”
I don’t answer. I’m still tasting her. Still hearing my own voice in her ear—Don’t forget, sunflower. You’re mine now. In every way that matters. I meant it. And she wore the jersey. Not just any jersey—myjersey. One of my actual game-day ones. No one else will wear it. Ever.
Coach blows the whistle from down the hall, barking orders like the stadium isn’t already vibrating withanticipation. I check the overhead clock. Five minutes until we run out on the field. I’m ready. But not because of the gear. Not because of the drills or the pressure.
I’m ready because she’s here.
Wearing my number.
Sitting in the stands.
Carrying the scent of us like a secret.
I jog out with the team, the tunnel roaring around us, the crowd swelling like a wave. But I don’t hear it. Not really. I’m scanning the bleachers—row by row, face by face—until I see her.
Blonde curls soft around her shoulders. Jersey loose on her frame. Eyes locked on mine like she never left that shadowed wall.
And just like that, the game begins.
But I already won.
The whistle blows, and the Riverhawks storm the field like they’ve been waiting their whole lives for this moment. The crowd roars, but I barely hear it. I’m locked in.
We win the toss. I call for a standard I-formation—two wideouts, tight end tucked in, fullback ready to clear the lane. Rhett’s lined up behind me, eyes sharp. First play: Power Right. I take the snap, hand it off clean, and watch Rhett explode through the gap between guard and tackle. He picks up seven yards before he’s dragged down.
Second down. We shift to Trips Left, spreading the defense. I fake the handoff, drop back three steps,and fire a quick slant to our slot receiver. He snags it mid-stride and turns upfield—twelve yards, first down.
We’re moving fast. No huddle. I call Red 22 Texas, a play-action rollout with a deep post option. I sell the fake, roll right, and see our wideout breaking free over the middle. I launch it. Spiral tight. He catches it in stride, thirty yards downfield. The crowd erupts.
Inside the red zone now. I glance toward the stands. I see her. Blair. She’s watching me like I’m the only thing on the field.
I bring my glove to my nose and inhale deeply, reliving the darkened tunnel. She’s with me, and that’s all that I need.
I call Ace Spread Jet Sweep. Our fastest receiver cuts across the formation, takes the handoff, and races to the edge. He dives for the pylon—touchdown.
Defense holds strong. We’re back on the field. I call Shotgun Double Stack, looking for mismatches. On second down, I audible to Quick Out. Receiver breaks at five yards, catches it, steps out. We’re chewing clock and stacking yards.
Third quarter. We’re up by ten. I call Play-Action Bootleg Left. I fake the run, roll out, and keep it. No one’s there. I sprint down the sideline, twenty yards before I slide.
Fourth quarter. Two minutes left. We need one more first down to seal it. I call QB Sneak. I lower my shoulder, push behind the center, and feel the surge. Chains move. Game over.
I glance up one last time. She’s still there. Still watching. And I know this wasn’t just a win.
It was a promise.
The final whistle blows.
We’ve won.
I’ve got the ball in my hands—mud-slicked, sweat-stained, proof of every second we fought for this. The crowd’s roaring, teammates swarming, but I don’t wait for the celebration.
