Dylan shrank back into her seat. The stadium's Jumbotron had just located her for a third time, and even the shadows beneath her hat couldn't hide her identity from the eagle-eyed camera operator. The stadium around her jeered and roared; even the super-fans immediately sandwiching her in the second row took their eyes off the field to crane close and get a better look at her every time the camera panned her way.

Dylan believed in a benevolent God. That being said, she couldn't remember the last time she had taken time out of her busy schedule to pray. She did so now, over a now-empty popcorn bucket she had mistakenly thought would assist her disguise.

Dear God, please let Charlie get through this game. I'll work out the rest of the season somehow, just…let there be the possibility of a season. Amen.

She couldn't care less about her personal reputation today and vowed to worry more on that front later. Obviously the entire world thought she had given Charlie the all-clear to play—in exchange for sex, probably. But she hadn’t, and wouldn’t, for sex or any other reason, if he wasn’t ready. Did he really think he was the first celebrity footballer to try and go behind her back to get a second—or third or fourth—opinion that matched his desire to play?

Only problem was, Charlie had actually succeeded in his attempt to get back out on the field. The camera zoomed in on him now, giving Dylan a larger-than-life, high resolution glimpse of his Adonis-like face. He had his helmet off and tucked beneath one burly arm; his blond hair was in disarray, and he was gazing up into the stands with a distracted look as one of his teammates shouted something to him. Dylan scanned his handsome, flushed countenance, looking for any line out of place or clenched muscle that would betray he was in pain. She had managed to secure this seat by playing to her newfound celebrity at the box office and was ready to leap up at any moment and storm the field should Charlie so much as wobble.

But it was her heart that wobbled first when she realized the face on the Jumbotron was trained toward her, in real life. She met his eyes, but she didn't wave. She didn't know what to do. She was trapped and helpless, pinned by innumerable pairs of waiting eyes, but his was the only pair that truly mattered.

How many people were watching at home? How long had the game been stalled while everyone waited for Charlie to put his helmet back on and resume play?

Then Charlie did the unthinkable: he walked off the playing field. A ripple murmured through the stadium. One of the Teamsters' coaches made to move after him, but Charlie put up a big hand, and the man backed off, perplexed.

He was leaving the field, jumping for the railing and pulling himself up the wall between the field and the stands. More than that, he was coming toward her. Dylan rose to meet him, heart pounding in her chest. She watched him climb the stairs, her gaze switching rapidly back and forth between his face and the knee he appeared to be favoring. He was hurting, but before her doctor's instincts could kick in fully and override her fraught personal feelings, Charlie arrived at the step beside her seat. Dylan gazed up the length of his grass-stained jersey, taking in the bright eyes and remorseful frown he had trained on her. In that moment, Charlie didn't appear to remember there was anyone else in the world but her.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey."

She shifted and tucked a stray piece of hair behind one ear. It was hopeless trying to make herself look presentable now, when she had deliberately dressed herself to blend in. Fat lot of good that did me. It occurred to her that maybe, just maybe, identifying herself to the ticket agent in the box office had been the downfall of her disguise.

"You came to watch the game." Charlie said.

Dylan nodded. "I was…"

"Worried?"

She nodded again.

"You should be pissed at me," he offered. "I went behind your back and got the team doctor to clear me. My knee hurts like a bitch."

"I know you did, and I know it does." Dylan half-smiled, half-grimaced. "Not exactly an original move, Wild. Although credit where credit's due, you managed to pull it off."

"You shouldn't have come out," he murmured. Somehow, his words didn't register as a real rebuff. He almost sounded in awe of the fact that she stood before him. "Even if you were worried about me. You don't want this kind of publicity."

"No. But I want you," Dylan blurted. "I mean…I want…your knee…"

"Uh-huh."

His smile stretched the length of a playing field then, but before she could fully comprehend his reaction, Charlie reached up and knocked her cap off. Dylan let out a gasp of surprise the moment before he swooped in, cupping the back of her head and crushing his lips against her own.

The stadium erupted. The roar of approval from the crowd was deafening, like a summer thunderstorm and an earthquake all rolled into one as Dylan reached up and latched onto Charlie's neck. He dipped her back, and strobing lights went off all around them as ecstatic stadium-goers snapped photos with their phones. Dylan was grinning from ear-to-ear by the time Charlie let up on the dramatics and righted her. Her face felt hot as a sunburn, but the sensation that accompanied it was indescribable happiness. Her lips tingled with the memory of his kiss—a memory that she would be able to relive over and over again, since it had been captured in high definition for all the world to see.

"C'mon." Charlie wrapped a burly arm around her shoulders, finally submitting himself to an outside offer of additional stability as they tripped down the steps to the nearest exit together. "The press is going to have a field day with this one. They're going to want a statement. Now you get to tell everyone I broke the rules and you were right all along."

"Can't think of a better way to spend a football Sunday," Dylan admitted.

"Oh, I don't know about that." Charlie's hand slipped from her shoulders to grip the curve of her waist, his fingers brushing her just above the indecency line. "I can think of a few ways to top it off."

"Top being the key word in that sentence, I hope," Dylan craned herself up to whisper. "As your doctor, I don't want to see you putting any additional strain on your injury this week. Any recreation you plan on getting up to is going to have to involve you lying on your back."

The echo of Charlie's booming laugh followed them all the way out to the awaiting press pool.