Page 19

19

JAXON

T he morning air is crisp as I keep a steady pace on my light jog through campus, my headphones in, drowning out everything except the steady rhythm of my breathing and the anticipation buzzing under my skin.

It's the same every Saturday—the quiet before the storm. The routine. The focus.

At least, that's how it normally is.

Until I spot her.

Madison, standing outside the coffee shop, phone in one hand, a cup in the other.

She looks comfortable, casual—oversized sweats, hair piled up in a messy bun, her face bare.

The morning light catches on her features, softening them, making her look younger, more like the girl I knew before everything changed.

My heart does that familiar stutter-step it always does when I see her unexpectedly.

But then, I notice what she's wearing, and the warmth in my chest turns to ice. It's a football hoodie.

But not mine.

HAYES is printed across the back in bold letters, his number stitched onto the sleeve .

I exhale through my nose, trying to shake the irrational irritation creeping up my spine.

It's just a hoodie, just a piece of clothing. It's not like she's wearing it to make a statement.

Still.

The sight of her in another man's clothes—in Carter's clothes—sits like a stone in my gut. It makes me wonder if I've been reading everything wrong, if the moments between us have been one-sided.

I shove my hands into my hoodie pocket as I cross the street toward her.

She doesn't see me at first, too focused on whatever's on her screen, but when I stop in front of her, she finally looks up.

Her eyes widen slightly before she gives me a small smile, a real one that reaches her eyes.

"Hey, Montgomery."

I smirk, pushing down the jealousy still clawing at my insides.

"Montgomery? We back to last names now?"

She shrugs, taking a sip of her coffee.

"Figured I'd change it up."

I tilt my head, taking her in. "Didn't peg you as the type to be up this early on a Saturday."

She rolls her eyes.

"Believe me, I'm regretting it, but Lyla had a study group, and I couldn't sleep, so…" She gestures to her coffee.

"Here we are."

I nod, rocking back on my heels.

The past few days have been.

..easy. We've been texting back and forth—not anything serious, just random shit. She asks what I had for dinner. I ask what her current favorite song is. She sends me a picture of some weird snack combo she's obsessed with, and I pretend to be disgusted, even though I know I'd probably eat it.

It's simple.

Normal, even. Progress.

I shift my weight. "You ready for the game?"

She raises a brow.

"You're asking me if I'm ready when you’re the one who has to play?"

I smirk.

"Yeah. You're the one wearing a football hoodie and everything." I say it casually, like I don't notice whose hoodie it is, like it doesn't cut me to see her in it, but I think she catches something in my tone anyway.

She glances down at it, her brow furrowing. She looks down at the sleeve before her eyes go wide. "What the hell? I just grabbed this sweatshirt out of the back seat of Lyla’s car this morning. I didn’t expect it to be so cold and assumed this was just one she got oversized.”

I gape at her. “Lyla? As in your roommate who happens to be the football coach’s daughter…had the quarterback's hoodie in her car?”

Madison shakes her head, complete shock still on her face.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” My voice dropping to a whisper.

“If you’re thinking Carter is fucking his coach’s daughter, then yes. Yes, I am.” A smirk is slowly growing on her gorgeous face. “Damn, Ly. I hope she enjoys her study group, because I have a lot of questions for her once she’s done.”

Even though I know she didn’t wear another man's sweatshirt on purpose, my fingers twitch slightly at my sides, and I have the sudden urge to see her in my hoodie instead.

Trust me, I've fantasized about her with my last name across her back many times, in many places that definitely included her in my jersey. In nothing but my jersey. Simply recalling that little fact makes my cock twitch, but it's more than that—more than just physical. I want to see her wearing my name because it would mean something. It would be a declaration, a statement that she's finally mine.

I clear my throat, swallowing the yearning that threatens to choke me. “Here.” Pulling my hoodie over my head, I hand it over to her, a small blush working its way up her neck and onto her cheeks. “Just in case you need a new one once you return that one to your roommate.”

“Always such a gentleman.” Madison laughs as she takes the hoodie from me.

I’ve never been so glad she can’t seem to read my thoughts. Chuckling, I change the subject. “So, you coming?"

She hesitates, biting her lip like she's considering it. "I don't know, Jax."

I sigh, tilting my head. "Come on, Mads. We both know you don't have a real excuse. What else are you gonna do, sit at home and pretend to study?"

She groans, shaking her head. "You're so annoying."

I grin, taking a step closer. "And yet, you still talk to me."

She exhales, but I can tell she's fighting a smile. For a moment, we just stand there, looking at each other, and I'm struck by how familiar this is—the teasing, the banter, the way she tries to hide her smiles but never quite manages it. It reminds me of before, of all the years we spent circling each other, never quite brave enough to cross the line.

I watch her for a second, debating if I want to push my luck. Then, before I can overthink it, I ask, "What about dinner tomorrow?"

She blinks. "Huh?"

"With my parents," I clarify, heart pounding against my ribs. "I told you my mom's been asking about you. Figured I'd ask again."

She swallows, fingers tightening around her coffee cup. "Jax, I don't know if?—"

"It's just dinner," I say, keeping my voice light. I need her to say yes—this feels like more than just a meal, like a chance to rebuild everything we've lost. "You gotta eat, right?"

She exhales, looking down at her shoes, and I can see the conflict written all over her face. The fear there battles with something else—longing, maybe. Hope.

I wait, watching her carefully. I know this is more than just dinner to her. I know she's been keeping her distance from my family for a reason. But I also know she misses them, whether she admits it or not. They were as much a part of her life as they were of mine .

Finally, she looks up at me again, something hesitant in her eyes. "I'll think about it."

It's not a yes, but it's not a no either.

I nod, smirking slightly. "That's all I'm asking."

“Get outta here, hotshot. You’ve got a game to get ready for.” She shoves me gently, but I lean down, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before giving her a wink and heading towards the football field with an extra pep in my step.

The stadium is packed. The roar of the crowd hums in the background as I step onto the field, rolling my shoulders, stretching out my fingers inside my gloves. The pregame energy is thick, pulsing through me, but still, my eyes do what they always do.

They search for her.

Somehow, like a compass locking on to true north, I find her almost instantly.

Madison is sitting a few rows up, tucked between Lyla and a few other familiar faces. She's wearing leggings and sneakers, her hair loose around her shoulders, cheeks flushed from the cold. But the thing that catches me?

She's not wearing Carter's number this time.

She's wearing mine.

Granted, I gave it to her a few hours ago, but damn, if it doesn't hit me right in the chest. I didn’t think she’d wear it in this heat. Seeing her here, knowing my name is on her as she watches me play—it's like every fantasy I've ever had come to life.

I barely realize I'm smirking until Carter nudges me with his helmet. "Dial in, Montgomery. You can flirt with your girl after you rack up some yards."

I shake my head, clearing my throat, but the energy in me shifts. The game is already important—every single one is—but now ?

Now, I really need to win. I need to show her what she means to me, even if I can't say it out loud.

The first half is a battle—one of those gritty, grind-it-out types of games where nothing comes easy—but I thrive in games like this.

I catch everything thrown my way. Shake off defenders. Move the chains. Find the end zone.

Each time I make a play, my eyes find her in the crowd. I see her stand, see her cheer, see the way she leans forward when I have the ball, like she can't help but be drawn into my orbit. It fuels me, drives me harder, makes me want to be better. For her. Always for her.

By the time the fourth quarter rolls around, we're up, but barely. Every yard matters. Every second counts.

Carter calls an audible at the line, and I know before the ball even snaps that it's coming to me. The second the play starts, I take off, pushing my legs to full speed, faking left before cutting hard to the right. The ball sails through the air in a perfect spiral, and I stretch, catching it right over my shoulder, pulling it in before I hit the ground.

First down.

The crowd erupts, but I swear, I can hear one voice above all the others.

That's all the motivation I need to close this game out, to prove to her I'm worth betting on. I'm worth taking a chance on.

Later in the locker room, when I finally step out of the shower, towel slung over my shoulder, I grab my phone from my locker. The screen lights up with a single unread message, and my heart rate speeds before I even read it.

Mads

You can pick me up at three tomorrow.

My stomach clenches, a mixture of relief and anticipation flooding through me. She said yes. I type back before I overthink things too much, keeping it short and sweet.

See you then

Then, I shove my phone into my bag, a smirk playing at my lips.

For the first time in a long time, it feels like we're finally heading in the right direction.