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JAXON

G ame day.

The energy is electric, a tangible buzz that vibrates through the stadium, through the locker room, through my veins.

This is it—the last regular season game, our shot at a perfect record, my final chance to impress scouts before the playoffs.

Coach's pre-game speech is short, intense. He doesn't need to say much—we all know what's at stake.

As we run out onto the field, the roar of the crowd hits me like a physical force. The stadium is packed, a sea of school colors swaying and cheering. I scan the stands automatically, my eyes finding her without even trying.

Madison stands with Lyla, wearing my away jersey—the one I gave her after the last home game. My number is stretched across her back, my name above it. Something primal and possessive stirs in my chest at the sight.

She catches my eye and smiles, and just like that, I'm locked in.

I’m ready.

The first half is brutal.

Their defense is as good as advertised, their coverage tight, their line putting pressure on our quarterback every snap.

I manage a few catches, but nothing big, nothing game-changing.

By halftime, we're down by three, the mood in the locker room tense but determined.

Coach makes adjustments, pointing out weaknesses we can exploit. I listen intently, mentally cataloging the defensive patterns I've noticed, the tendencies of the cornerback covering me.

"Montgomery," Coach says, his eyes locking on mine.

"They're playing you tight. That safety's cheating your way every time. We need to make them pay for it."

I nod, understanding the implication.

"Double move?"

He smirks.

"Let's see if he bites."

Third quarter starts strong—we drive down the field and score a field goal, tying the game. The defense holds, forcing a punt, and we get the ball back with good field position.

And then, it happens.

The play call comes in: Falcon Right, Z Post, Y Drag. My route. My moment.

I line up wide, eyes focused downfield, mind clear. The ball is snapped. I push off the line hard, selling the corner route with everything I've got. One step, two, then a sharp cut inside. The cornerback bites, the safety hesitates, and suddenly—I'm open.

The ball spirals through the air, a perfect arc. Time slows. I track it, adjust my stride, and stretch out, fingers grasping leather just before my feet touch the end zone.

Touchdown.

The stadium erupts.

We pull ahead and never look back. The defense locks down, the offense finds its rhythm, and by the fourth quarter, we're up by ten with two minutes left. The other team is desperate, taking chances, forcing passes.

And then, with thirty seconds on the clock, I see it—the tell. The safety shifts his weight back, just like I told Madison. I adjust my route mid-stride, finding the soft spot in the zone, and our quarterback sees it too.

The ball is in the air before I've even made my break. I snag it out of the air and turn up field, one defender to beat .

A stiff arm, a quick cutback, and then there's nothing but open field. I can hear the crowd losing their minds, feel my teammates sprinting to catch up, but all I focus on is the end zone ahead.

I cross the goal line, sealing the game, cementing our perfect season.

The stadium is wild, bodies packed in every seat, fans screaming so loud, it rattles in my chest. The scoreboard flashes bright, the final seconds ticking off as the ref signals touchdown.

My touchdown.

The last one of the regular season.

The one that guarantees our undefeated record.

A wave of noise crashes over me—cheering, music, my teammates swarming in, smacking my helmet, yanking me into their excitement. I should be soaking it in, should be celebrating, should be letting the weight of what we just did settle in my bones.

But I'm already looking for her.

My eyes cut to the stands, searching, scanning, like I'm on autopilot, like I already know exactly where she is.

And the second I find her?—

I run.

I don't stop to think about cameras, or reporters, or what anyone might say. I barely hear my teammates yelling after me. All I know is that Madison is standing at the railing, eyes locked on mine, lips parted, her hands gripping the metal like she doesn't even realize she's bracing herself.

Like she knows what's coming.

I reach the sideline, grab the railing, and haul myself up.

Her gasp barely makes it out before I crush my mouth to hers, kissing her like I just won the whole damn world.

Because I did.

Madison stiffens for half a second before melting, her fingers clutching at my jersey, pulling me closer, holding on. She tastes like cherry ChapStick and something uniquely her, and I swear, I could get drunk on it .

The noise around us swells—cheers, whistles, laughter from my teammates who are losing their damn minds—but I don't care.

Because she's kissing me back.

I pull back just enough to rest my forehead against hers, my breath coming hard and fast. "Told you you're my good luck charm."

She rolls her eyes, but her lips curls up into a smile, her fingers still tangled in my jersey, like she's not ready to let go yet.

Neither am I, but I have to.

I drop down, sending her one last look before jogging back toward the tunnel, my pulse still racing, but for an entirely different reason now.

This season? It's everything I ever wanted. I'm playing the best football of my life. We're undefeated. My name is all over draft boards.

But none of it—none of it—compares to her.

—--

The energy post-game in the locker room is contagious.

Guys are hyped, music is blasting, everyone riding the adrenaline of this perfect season. Coach gives his speech, pride evident in his voice as he tells us how far we've come, but he reminds us our work isn't done yet. Playoffs are a whole new season, he says. Everything resets to zero.

But tonight? Tonight, we celebrate.

I'm stripping off my pads, still feeling that buzz from the field, from her, when I hear it.

A voice, too loud, too casual, floats in from a few lockers down.

"Did you see Montgomery run straight for Madison? That girl's got a type, huh?"

My blood freezes.

Someone chuckles. "What do you mean?"

The first guy lets out an amused scoff. "I mean, first Carter, now Jaxon? Girl sure knows how to pick her athletes."

Laughter ripples through the locker room .

It's brief, because the second I stand up and turn, the whole place goes dead silent.

Every guy in here knows exactly what's about to happen.

The dude who said it—some second-string wide receiver I couldn't care less about—is still mid-smirk when his eyes lock on mine.

And it disappears.

I step toward him, my jaw locked, my pulse hammering against my skin.

He lifts his hands, shaking his head quickly. "Chill, man. I didn't mean?—"

I grab the front of his jersey, slamming him back against the lockers before he can even finish that bullshit excuse.

"Say that shit again," I grit out, my voice low, dangerous. "I dare you."

His throat bobs, his eyes darting around the room like someone might step in.

No one does. They know.

They know Madison isn't just some girl to me.

She's everything.

"Jax, man—" Logan starts, but I don't even glance at him.

I tighten my grip, leaning in just enough to make sure this guy gets it. "You got something to say about my girl, you say it to me." My voice is calm, controlled, but it's got an edge sharp enough to cut. "And I'll make sure you never say it again."

The guy swallows hard. "I—I didn't mean anything by it, man. I swear."

I hold him there for another second, just to let him feel it.

Then, I shove him back one last time and step away. The air is thick, the entire room watching, waiting to see if I'm done.

I don't give a shit.

I grab my duffel, yank my hoodie over my head, skipping the showers entirely, and storm out of the locker room, shoving my phone into my pocket.

There's only one place I want to be right now.