I wring my hands nervously before realizing this won’t do me any good.

Why did I think this was a brilliant plan? It’s absolutely moronic.

The overwhelming pandemonium from the NFL fans in the Hard Rock Stadium is nearly deafening as the Zac Brown Band finishes performing the national anthem. I stare down at my palms and flex my fingers as anxiety-ridden anticipation courses through my body. I’m not sure I can do this, but it’s my only choice. There’s no other way.

Even though I’m certain it’s too late.

The only text message I’d received since my interview aired hadn’t hinted at any indication that Becket had forgiven me.

Becket: Saw your interview. I wish you had told me, Ivy.

Becket: I miss you.

I had been at a loss for how to respond, so I’d gone with a simple, I miss you, too. I wanted to ensure I could make things right before I reached out to him. I knew I needed to offer more than a simple apology. Becket deserved more than that after what I put him through.

Expiation. The irony of today’s Word of the Day isn’t lost on me since I’m firmly entrenched in the final stage of making amends.

A slap on my shoulder jars me, drawing me from my conflicted thoughts, and my gaze locks with Corbin Hartson, the coach of the Jags.

“All set?” he yells to be heard over the crowd.

I nod. “All set!” I holler back with far more conviction than I feel.

“Then get out there. Let’s do this!” Another slap to my shoulder punctuates his enthusiasm, and I resist the urge to rub the spot. What is it with coaches and players and the slapping thing? Geez.

I close my eyes and drag in deep breaths that are meant to be soothing, attempting to psych myself up to follow through with this plan. That damn internet story about a guy who played the piano nonstop to try to win back the love of his life had spurred this idea.

When I’d mentioned the story to Darcy, she’d asked, “You ever notice it’s never the girl who does the whole grand gesture thing? Why’s that, I wonder?”

My mind began to race a million miles a minute, and the seed for this idea was planted.

My eyes flash open, and I know this is it. It’s time.

With my first step onto the field, carpeted with crunchy Bermuda grass, I force myself to put one foot in front of the other. My focus is centered on one thing—on one object—sitting on the fifty-yard line.

For the first time in my adult life, I’m wagering what I’ve long believed was cold and bitter. Useless.

My heart.

I stride over to the baby grand piano that sits on a platform to protect the grass from any damage. Once I ease myself down onto the seat and place my hands on the keys, the stadium grows quiet and the announcer’s voice booms over the speakers in a loud echo.

“To help kick off this year’s Super Bowl, we have a special guest who will be performing a song dedicated to Florida native and beloved quarterback, Becket Jones. Let’s welcome the talented, Ivy Hayes!”

I draw in a deep breath, attempting to combat the flurry of nervousness rushing through my veins, and exhale slowly. I hit the button for my headset microphone and close my eyes as the stadium falls to a dull din when I play the first few notes.

I pour my heart and soul into my performance, hoping it will help prove I’ve changed. That I love him, and I want to be with him.

Once I play the final note on the piano, I remove my hands from the keys and turn off my mic before releasing a long, heavy breath. The applause is deafening, but it’s not what I’m most concerned with.

I rise from the seat, step down from the platform, and hand over the microphone headset to an attendant as the roar from the crowd escalates. When I turn to exit the field, I stop short at the intimidating sight of a football player in full uniform standing two feet away from me. He holds his helmet in one hand at his side, and eye black is streaked beneath each of his eyes to deflect the glare from the stadium lights. His dark gaze is centered on me in such a way that everything surrounding us fades away.

“Did you mean that?” He regards me cautiously. “The words in your song?”

“I meant every word.” A tear spills down my cheek. “I love you, Becket. And I’m sorry for hurting you, for not telling you the truth about my past. I’m—”

He advances suddenly and draws to a stop when we’re practically toe-to-toe.

His brows pinch together with that pronounced crease between them. “I’m sorry”—he turns to point his right ear toward me—“could you speak into my good ear? Because I could’ve sworn you said you loved me.”

Relief floods through me, and I shove at his chest with a wet laugh. “Wiseass.”

He snakes an arm around me to tug me closer, his mask of innocence gone and in its place one of consternation, utter seriousness. “Say it again.”

I gaze into his deep-brown eyes and repeat myself. “I love you.”

As soon as the final word leaves my lips, his mouth crashes down on mine. He kisses me with fervent intensity, with such ardent emotion, I feel it all the way in my soul. Our lips part and he raises his head to dust a light kiss on my forehead.

“Ivy Hayes.” His voice increases in volume to be overhead against the roaring crowd and cheers. Backing away to gaze down at me, he swallows hard, and his eyes possess a slight sheen. “I love you more than you could ever know.”

“Time to get this game started!” Dax hollers from a few feet away, waving Becket over.

“Go.” I nod in the direction of his team. “I’ll be waiting for you when it’s over.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

The smile that spreads on his face is infectious, so boyish and joyful, and I can’t help but mirror it. He jogs off the field while I head in the other direction to take my seat to watch the game.

Dax had called in some major favors for me and insisted on ensuring I’d have a seat. I’d been apprehensive, especially since I didn’t want to waste the available spot in case things went south and Becket’s response was not in my favor. Needless to say, I’m grateful for Dax and his optimism.

I only make it a few feet when I hear Becket shout my name and turn to find him grinning at me.

“You know I plan to put a ring on it, right?” he calls out with a wink.

I laugh and yell back, “Baby steps, Jones. Baby steps.”

* * *

There’s confetti everywhere. The fans are absolutely bonkers, and it’s pandemonium to the nth degree.

I lean against the stadium wall on the outskirts of the crowded field and watch as the Jacksonville Jaguars are presented with the trophy. As team captain, Becket accepts it on behalf of the Jags.

He hefts it up in the air and speaks into the microphone. “Jacksonville, this is because you continue to believe in us and have supported us through the years! You earned this trophy right along with us! Thank you!”

Collective cheers sound and Becket hands off the trophy to his teammates once he spots me. After being stopped along the way by a handful of sports reporters wanting a sound bite, he finally makes it over to where I now stand.

He draws to a stop before me. “I’m sweaty and disgusting as hell, but once I get showered and cleaned up, I’d love to get a celebratory kiss.” He smiles at me with a hopeful glint in his eyes.

“Mmm.” I hesitate, a smile spreading across my face. “I’m not sure I can wait.” Then I launch myself at him, wrap my arms around his neck, and fit my mouth to his. He automatically grasps me at the waist, and I wrap my legs around his waist and kiss him as if my life depends upon it.

Once our lips part, I peer down at his bearded face and tease, “Not sure about this look, though.”

His brown eyes sparkle with mirth and, most of all, love. “I think you’ll learn to love it.” He smiles mischievously. “Between your thighs.”

I laugh, and he cups my nape to bring me back for another kiss. And I’ve no doubt I can learn to love his beard the same way I learned—the way he taught me—to love.

Thanks to this particular quarterback, my life is now more than I ever imagined it could be.

Just like his tattoo depicts, there’s only love.