The roar of the crowd vibrated the stadium, and I stared toward the field as Quinn and his team filed back onto it. They’d taken a short break after the last round of—uh…footballing?—to huddle together off to the side, near the team bench, while the Mavericks’ coach kneeled in the center, gesturing wildly about something.
I looked around the stadium, taking in all the faces of men, women, and children filling up the stands, most of them standing on their feet, their gazes fixated on the field.
Walking onto the pristine green turf, closer to one end of the field than the other, the Mavericks looked like gods among men, standing strong and confident in their uniforms.
But my man—God, I hope he’s still my man—he looked the most confident of them all.
After this game was over, I was going to do everything in my power to let him know I was all fucking in.
Number 9. Bailey. It only took one game for me to know that jersey like the back of my hand. I could spot it anywhere on the field, even when he was on the sidelines. It probably helped I had intimate knowledge of the man inside the jersey. And that I was wearing a reproduction of said jersey too.
“This is it, Cat,” Denver said as the Mavericks lined up in a row, Quinn standing behind them. “Fifteen seconds, sweet cheeks.”
“Fifteen seconds left? Like, in the whole game?”
“Yep.” He nodded. “Quinn needs to convert for a touchdown on this play.”
Convert for a touchdown? I assumed that meant score more points. My football-ignorant brain tried to think back to the letter he’d written and had Jillian deliver to me.
A touchdown is how you score points in a football game. It’s worth six points.
I looked at the scoreboard on the opposite end of the field, directly below the upper section of the stadium.
New York: 20 Minneapolis: 24
“Couldn’t they, like, kick the ball toward that pole thingy?” I asked, and Denver shook his head, a smile on his lips. That kick thing scores points, right?
“A field goal isn’t an option, sweet cheeks. The only way they’ll pull out a win is with a touchdown,” he explained, even though it was all still kind of as clear as fucking mud for me. “By the way, I love that you have zero clue about football.”
“I’m trying!” I exclaimed and hopped to my feet, getting too nervous to remain sitting. I stared at the field, trying to figure out just how far away they were from the touchdown box thingy. “Aren’t they kind of far away?”
Denver nodded. “They could definitely be closer,” he answered. “Quinn is probably gonna have to pull off a thirty-yarder here to pull this one out. If he can only manage another first down, they might not have any time left on the clock to complete another play.”
Thirty-yarder? That sounded far. But then I remembered Devon in the airport gift shop talking about a seventy-three-yard throw.
“But…he’s done it before, right?”
Denver nodded. “He’s done more and with less time.”
I let that information sink in, and Denver smiled, nudging me with his shoulder.
“You probably don’t really understand it, but your boyfriend is one of the best quarterbacks in the league. Probably one of the best to ever play in the league,” he said, pride filling his voice. “If anyone could pull this win out, it’s Quinn.”
God, I hoped he was still my boyfriend.
I felt like I’d fucked things up with the way I’d avoided his calls, but that was why I was here. I wanted him to know that I would fight for us. That I wanted this, him. And, most importantly, that I loved him. I truly madly deeply loved him.
When Denver and I had arrived at the game, the anxiety of the situation had started to overwhelm me. I had no idea what Quinn’s reaction to my being there would be. I wasn’t sure if he would forgive me for the way I’d handled things. I knew I hadn’t made it easy on him.
But then, after Jilly had intervened, he’d looked toward the sideline, directly near our seats, and our eyes had locked.
I’d never seen Quinn smile like that. It was…beautiful. And the tension in my heart had eased a little. I just hoped I could see that smile again after the game, when I would finally get the chance to talk to him.
But right now, I’d just focus on cheering for him and keeping everything crossed that the Mavericks could pull this out.
The crowd grew louder, and both teams were lined up, New York on one side and Minneapolis on the other. I might have known zilch about this game, but I knew this moment, right now, was important. Anxiety and nervousness pricked at my fingertips. I wanted Quinn to do well. I wanted to see the Mavericks walk away with a victory.
But they needed a touchdown. And they only had fifteen seconds left to accomplish it.
My chest tightened, and I fidgeted on my feet, moving from right to left over and over again.
“Come on, Quinn!” I blurted out, my voice fading in with the rest of the now-screaming and enthusiastic crowd. “You can do it!”
Now, I was starting to understand why sports fans yelled a lot. It was the only outlet for stress when things got intense.
Quinn squatted down behind the player in front of him, and it just kind of looked like he was staring at his teammate’s ass.
I’m pretty sure that guy is the snapper…? Although, that just makes me think of fish…
But, truth be told, he did have a nice ass. Pretty much everyone on the Mavericks had a nice ass. Obviously, Quinn’s was number one in my mind, but a girl was allowed to make observations.
The snapper guy tossed the ball from between his legs and into Quinn’s hands, and I grabbed Denver’s arm as I watched number nine take two steps back with the ball in his hands.
Come on, Quinn.
The crowd grew louder, their chants and cheers and shouts banging against my eardrums. And my grip on Denver’s arm grew tighter as I watched Quinn look toward the other end of the field, ball still in his hands.
A big, huge monster of a guy broke through the Mavericks’ line of other big, huge monster guys, and that bastard started running toward Quinn like he wanted to kill him.
Oh my God!
I gasped, and my free hand flew to my mouth. “Stop doing that! Go away, you bastard!” I shouted as I watched with wide, fearful eyes as Quinn looked right and moved left, throwing the hulk-sized player from Minneapolis off-balance just long enough for Quinn to chuck the ball into the air.
It flew like a rocket out of his hands, spiraling high and a long, long way down until it landed, perfectly, in the hands of who I already knew was Sean Phillips.
“Touchdown Mavericks!” the commentator exclaimed from the stadium speakers, but I couldn’t focus on the fact that Quinn had just won the game.
I was too focused on the fact that he was on the ground.
“Oh my God, is he okay?” I asked Denver, and he nodded, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and tucking me into his side.
“Don’t worry, KitCat,” he said, making up his own version of my nickname. “Quinn Bailey can handle anything, even hard-ass motherfucking hits from burly defensive linemen.”
A few seconds later, Quinn hopped to his feet. A little slow at first, but eventually, I knew he was perfectly fine when he ran toward Sean to celebrate.
They high-fived and hugged each other briefly, before the rest of the team huddled around them and joined in. A few moments later, the kicker guy kicked the ball between those pole thingys, and it was then that the Mavericks victory celebration could ensue.
I looked up at the scoreboard again.
New York: 27 Minneapolis: 24
“Way to go, Bailey!” Denver shouted toward the field.
They’d won.
I smiled, big and wide and so, so proud of Quinn.
I guess football isn’t so bad, I thought to myself as I watched the Mavericks celebrate together.
I looked up at Denver. “I can’t believe they won.”
“I can.” He winked. “So, how was your first Mavericks game?”
I grinned. “It was fantastic.”
“Well, guess what?”
“What?”
“It’s about to get even better.” He nodded toward the field, and I followed his eyes.
Number nine jogged toward us, his eyes locked on me and only me.
By the time he reached the edge of the stadium, he took his helmet off and motioned me down toward him. “Come here, kitten!” he shouted, a giant, all-consuming smile on his face, and the fans that weren’t trying to file out of the stadium started looking around at each other, not sure who he was talking to.
But I wasn’t concerned with those people.
I just cared about Quinn.
“Go get him, pretty girl,” Denver whispered into my ear, and I nodded, the smile on my face mirroring Quinn’s. “This is the part we came for.”
With the aisles full of people leaving the stadium, I worked my way down toward the field by climbing over the rows of seats. Awkward and clumsy and close to falling on my face, I didn’t care. I just kept moving, right for Quinn.
“Yo, Quinny!” Denver yelled from behind me. “I’ll meet you guys outside the locker room!”
My gaze was locked firmly on Quinn, so I knew he didn’t nod or acknowledge his brother at all. But I had a very strong feeling Denver didn’t mind.
A few seconds later, I stood at the bottom of the first level, my hands gripping the metal railing that separated the field from the stands. I looked down at Quinn, and he looked up toward me.
“You’re here,” he said and reached up to wrap his hand around my leg, squeezing it gently. “I’m so fucking glad you’re here, kitten.”
“Me too,” I said, my voice low and emotion clogging my throat. Tears started to prick behind my eyes. “I missed you so much. I’m so sorry—”
“Hold on, baby,” he interrupted. “I need you closer.”
A surprised laugh escaped my lips. “I don’t think I can get any closer right now, Quinn.”
“Yeah, you can.” He grinned and then, with fast hands, helped me climb over the railing and into his arms.
But he didn’t put me down, no, he wrapped my legs around his waist and held me in his arms, our faces mere inches away. “There,” he said. “That’s much better.”
God, I love him.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry how I handled things. I was just scared and freaked out, and I didn’t know how to deal with any of it.”
“It’s okay, kitten,” he said. “I know it was a lot for you to take in all at once. Not to mention, some of it was really uncalled for and pretty fucking awful. I’m sorry you had to deal with that, especially that for most of it you were completely ambushed.”
“It’s okay.”
“Where do we go from here?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, and his face started to drop a little. “But I know with everything inside me, that wherever we go, we go together.”
His blue eyes locked with mine. “All in?”
I nodded. “All. Fucking. In.”
“God, I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you too,” I said, swallowing against the emotion in my throat. “So much.”
He pressed his lips to mine, starting our kiss off soft and slow, until he took it a little deeper, gently touching his tongue to mine.
We stayed like that, kissing and holding each other tightly, for a long moment, until the sounds of the stadium and crowd and onlookers around us started to filter in. We weren’t in the privacy of our homes; we were on display for all of the world to see.
“Shit,” he muttered, a smile on his lips. “I almost forgot where I was for a second.”
I grinned. “Me too.”
Someone cleared their throat behind us. “Excuse me, Quinn?”
With me still in his arms, he turned to face them.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” a woman dressed in a nice black dress with a sleek jacket started, a knowing smirk on her lips.
She held a microphone in her hand, and a cameraman stood right beside her with his big camera resting on his shoulders. “But ESPN would really love to have a short interview with you since that thirty-yarder to Phillips will be on the Top Ten List tonight. Mind if we get an interview real quick?”
“Sure thing, Louisa.” Quinn nodded and gently set me down on my feet.
As the cameraman pointed the camera directly toward Quinn, I started to move off toward the side, but he grabbed my hand, holding it tightly, and kept me in place, right beside him.
“Uh…” I muttered and looked up at him.
“I need you with me, kitten,” he whispered into my ear. The sincerity in his voice made me melt, and instead of freaking out about being anywhere near the camera, I just nodded in understanding and squeezed his hand to let him know I’d stay.
Louisa got right into it, asking him questions about the game, what happened in the first half, and how he managed to pull off that thirty-two-yard throw in the last fifteen seconds. And of course, in true Quinn fashion, he answered with charm and grace.
And I stood there, right beside him, with our hands intertwined, and listened to the interview, smiling along and even laughing when he said something amusing.
I didn’t worry about being near the camera and possibly making a television debut.
With Quinn by my side, I had no worries. I just wanted to support him.
If he needed me, I wanted to be there. Always.
Before Louisa finished up the interview, she looked toward me and then back at Quinn. “So…any important news for your fans?”
“Well…I know a lot of people were wondering about my kitten…” He paused, smiling down at me. “So, I guess now is a good time to introduce her. Say hi to ESPN, Cat.”
I giggled nervously and glanced at the camera. “Uh…hi…?”
This whole media attention thing was obviously something I needed to get used to.
But, for Quinn, I’d do anything, even being awkward in front of way more people than I wanted to know.
Louisa grinned, looking far too giddy about getting me, us, together on camera.
“Is it safe to say this is your girlfriend, Catharine?”
“Yes, this is Catharine,” Quinn said, nodding, and then paused. “And she’s way more than just my girlfriend.”
What? My eyes popped wide in surprise, and I darted my gaze to his face.
“Oh!” Louisa responded excitedly. “Has there been an engagement you haven’t told us about?”
Engagement? What the heck?
His blue eyes shone brighter than the stadium lights, and he locked his gaze with mine. “No engagement…not yet, at least.” And right there, with Louisa and ESPN watching, Quinn leaned down and kissed me.
And I kissed him right back.
A future engagement to Quinn Bailey? Count me all in.