So am I. I’m screaming my head off, jumping up and down with Amara.
Lachlan gets to his feet, tossing the ball on the ground, smiling so big that happy fucking tears are winding down my face. The rest of his team runs out to hug him, jumping around, celebrating their win during the first game of the season.
He’s so getting laid tonight.
But then he does something funny. He runs away from his mates, away from the opposing team who is ready to shake hands, and heads toward the camera men on the sidelines. His coach Alan follows him, quickly passing something off into Lachlan’s hands before he runs back to the team. Lachlan then talks to one of the camera men until a reporter comes over, seeing an opportunity for an interview.
Lachlan smiles at her, whispers something in her ear.
He takes the microphone.
Suddenly the giant screens in the stadium fill with the sight of Lachlan’s handsome face. He smiles broadly at the screen, something that makes him look so much younger, softer, dare I say goofy. He brings the microphone to his lips and speaks into it but no sound comes out.
He tries again but nothing. His lips are moving, he’s smiling, his eyes crinkling joyfully, but that’s all we in the stands can know.
“What is he doing?” I ask Amara.
She shakes her head. “I haven’t a bloody clue.”
Finally he waves at someone and they come out with a clipboard and a pen. He takes the pen, is about to write something down, and then he pauses and looks up at me. Right at me in the stands.
I can feel Amara’s eyes on me too, as well as the people below us as they all crane their necks to look at what the hell Lachlan McGregor, savior of the game, is staring at.
It’s me.
Always me for him.
Always him for me.
Our eyes are locked together.
Then he writes something down.
He looks back at me while he displays the paper and clipboard in front of the camera. I know that the screens are showing a message because people are gasping, but I can’t take my eyes off of him. His gaze always holds me, as strong as his hands.
“Kayla,” Amara whispers, grabbing my arm. “Oh my god.”
I finally look at the screens. At the shot of the paper Lachlan is holding, still smiling, albeit a bit nervously now. It’s shaking.
It reads: Kayla Moore will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?
Signed: Lachlan McGregor.
Then the clipboard drops away, the camera focus on the grass.
My head swivels back to him but he’s gone, running forward, across the field.
Up the stairs.
Down the row.
Stopping right in front of me.
I’m still sitting down. I haven’t moved. I haven’t really formed one coherent thought.
I honestly can’t figure out what’s going on. Is this really my Lachlan, my reserved, subdued Lachlan? Am I caught in the middle of a play or something?
He gets down on one knee so that he’s at my level. His damp hair clings to his sweaty brow, his eyes clear green, piercing through me.
“What are you doing?’ I ask him, so stunned.
He holds out one of his hands and held between his fingers is a ring. A gorgeous, beautiful emerald and silver ring.
“Oh my god,” I think I say, maybe I just breathe it.