So I remain cool. Calm. And busy. Incredibly busy because I sort of know what I’m doing, but then again I don’t. Kyla is the calm in the storm and I hope after a few games I’m like her, efficient and organized. I’m almost thankful when Cannon Whittaker sits with me for a few minutes right before halftime while I tape up both of his hands. He’s shredded his knuckles and while it looks painful, he keeps brushing me off like it’s no big deal.
But I persist and he eventually lets me tape him, all the while giving me some tips and asking a few personal questions—though nothing too personal. He may act like a total dog with the girls, but he’s actually kind of sweet. And he’s also very passionate about football.
And Jordan? He acts like his normal untouchable self. He paces the sidelines, growls at the defense. Oh, and he also growls at his offensive line too, because he’s an equal opportunity growler. He tosses water bottles and slaps guys on the back or the butt and he never, ever wants anyone to step in for him when it’s his turn out on the field.
You’d think the coach would get this by now.
I don’t bother trying to talk to him because that wall is up so high, there’s no way I’m penetrating it. Not right now. The score has remained close through all three quarters. Now we’re in the fourth and final quarter and I’m nervous as crap, bouncing my leg so hard I’m making the entire bench vibrate.
The cheerleaders start up a chant about holding that line and I hate to tell them, but they’re off—we’re currently playing offense. They probably wouldn’t appreciate my correction.
It’s hard not to cover my eyes while watching Jordan play. Not that he’s awful—he’s the farthest thing from it. It’s more that I’m totally nervous. He throws the ball and I’m terrified someone from the opposing team will intercept it. Or one of our players will drop it. We need this last touchdown. It will most likely ensure our win.
But the home team’s crowd is roaring loudly, trying to distract us. They don’t want their team to lose. Though guess what?
We don’t want our team to lose either.
I perch on the edge of the bench as Jordan drives the ball down the field. Coach Halsey is eerily calm as he watches, his expression blank, his gaze never leaving that field. I nibble on my thumb, fighting the nerves that threaten to overload me. Kyla’s pacing, looking at a loss, but that’s because no one wants to be hydrated right now. Everyone’s too tense.
When Ryan catches the pass and runs it into the end zone, I leap from the bench, bouncing up and down, screaming at the top of my lungs. I can hear everyone in the visitor stands behind me yelling and cheering. The cheerleaders are squealing and chanting Ryan’s name.
Jordan runs up to Ryan and they high five, then Jordan slaps his hand against the back of Ryan’s helmet and pulls him in close, knocking their helmets together. I can tell he’s saying something, but what? I wish I knew.
The kicker comes out and they line up to go for that point, and of course they get it. The lead is solid and with what time remains on the clock, the game is essentially over. Our boys won.
I hand out water as the boys pass by and a few of them take the bottles, squirting the water all over their heads after they take the helmets off. They’re in good spirits and I congratulate them all, laughing when they say something funny. They’ve been nice to me, every one of them, and even Ryan comes up to me and tells me, “Good job,” before he slaps me on the back and jogs off.
When I see Jordan approach, I busy myself with cleaning up the portable water station, stashing the empty water bottles in their carriers, doing what Kyla tells me to. I feel him drawing closer, but I won’t look up. Not yet. My entire body prickles with awareness and I go completely still.
“So, what did you think?”
Glancing up, I meet his gaze. He’s a sweaty, dirty mess. He’s clutching his helmet in one hand and his hair is standing up on end. The black lines under his eyes are smudged and there’s a giant grass stain streaked across his chest from when he got tackled earlier. He’d fallen hard and I’d leapt to my feet when it first happened, my heart racing so fast I thought it would gallop right out of my chest.
“You played great,” I tell him, offering him a tiny smile. “Congratulations on the win.”
He grabs my hand and pulls me closer, his gaze unwavering. “I played for you.” His voice is achingly sincere, and I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat.
“Jordan…”
He cuts off my protest with a kiss. It’s soft and sweet and so fast, I almost think it didn’t happen, but the satisfied gleam in his eyes tells me it did. “You need to wear my number next time.”
“Huh?” I’m in a daze over his lips connecting with mine. We’ve kissed plenty of times in the past, but it’s been a while. And his lips have always had a way of rendering me senseless.
He points to the number eight on his chest. “I can give you an old jersey if you want.”
“I’m supposed to wear this.” I point at the navy blue polo that Kyla gave me to wear. She has on a matching one.
“I want to see my number on you.” The possessive gleam in his eyes sort of turns me on.