Page 43 of Watching You
I take off.
I vault the fence like it’s nothing, cleats scraping metal, adrenaline still burning through my veins. The bleachers rise in front of me, steep and packed, but I don’t hesitate. I sprint up the steps, dodging fans, eyes locked on one thing.
Her.
Blair.
She’s standing now, eyes wide like she can’t believe what she’s seeing.
I reach her, grab her waist, and pull her into my arms.
She gasps, but I don’t give her time to speak.
I slam my lips down on hers—rough, desperate,real. The football drops to the concrete with a hollow thud, forgotten. My hands are on her hips, her back, her hair. She melts into me like she’s been waiting all her life.
The crowd’s still screaming, but it’s background noise.
Because this is the win that matters.
Her mouth on mine.
Her body in my arms.
Her heart beating against my chest.
I pull back just enough to breathe, forehead pressed to hers.
“You stayed,” I whisper.
She nods, breathless. “I couldn’t stay away.”
I smile, wide and wrecked. “Good. Because I’m never letting you go.”
The lights are blinding. Cameras everywhere. Mics shoved in my face like I’m supposed to have answers for everything.
I don’t.
But I’ve got one answer that matters.
A reporter leans in, voice sharp and eager. “Kane, incredible game tonight. You were locked in from the first snap. What was driving you out there?”
I glance toward the stands. She’s still there. Blair. Jersey loose, curls wild, eyes locked on me.
I clear my throat. “There’s someone who’s been with me the whole time. Not on the field. Not in the locker room. But in my head. In my chest.”
Another reporter jumps in. “We heard you mention a sunflower. Is that code for something?”
I smile, slow and wrecked. “It’s not code. It’s her.”
“Her?” The mic inches closer. “The girl in the stands?”
I nod. “She’s not just a girl in the stands. She’s the reason I showed up tonight. The reason I kept pushing. The reason I didn’t let the noise get to me.”
They’re scribbling now, murmuring, trying to spin it into something headline-worthy.
I don’t care.
“She wore my jersey,” I say. “Not a replica. One of mine. And that means something. To me, it means everything.”
