Page 40

Wild

For championship runs, you don't look too far ahead. The game before you is more important than the one after it. A game at a time, no matter how low the opponent is in the league standings. That's it.

I know, I know basketball and championship runs didn't invent breaking big goals into smaller goals, but well, it works over here too.

We're hitting the second half of the season, and Coach has been prioritizing game management and time management. It's the only way to cut back on players' injuries. Nothing kills championship dreams faster than injury to a player. It doesn't even matter if it's a minor player.

Most people disagree, but I will die on the hill that there are no minor players. A team is like a four-legged chair. A 'minor' cut on one of the legs, and the whole thing won't sit right.

I'm thinking about balanced chairs and team building because of Dame Green, a hard-working rookie who never expects to play. He's taken to sitting slumped on the sidelines watching the games. Don't get me wrong, the kid works hard, but it's hard when you don't know when you will play. If ever.

So, when Coach suddenly points at him in the middle of the tightest fourth quarter, the kid is slumped on the sidelines, not ready.

Then he hurries through changing and getting on the court.

We lose, and again, the fans and reporters are acting like aliens invaded.

In the novel I'm currently thumbing through— because I haven't been able to put it down—the aliens are asleep in their world. The book kept me up all night. I read it in the car, during breaks, and even after the game while we await the press conference.

It's Evie's fault. After our failed, perfectest date, she went on a Goodreads scavenger hunt determined to expand my fantasy library beyond Mr. Sanderson.

When the press conference starts, I'm impatiently fiddling with the book, eager to take out the bookmark and get to the next page.

Of course, their questions start and end with Dame Green. It reminds me of being hounded by fans and reporters during my rookie year.

I make sure my microphone is working because I want to be heard clearly. It is. "We didn't lose because of Dame. We lost as a team because we weren't good enough. The end."

They go quiet, and I can see them pulling up my experience as a rookie and comparing us. Sure enough, a bullheaded one goes off in that direction. "You almost took us to a championship your first year. It's just one game; Dame should learn not to be so sensitive.”

"And you should learn to use your platform and words for good. What is sensitive and what's not sensitive? Dame has every right to his feelings because they are his feelings, just like your words are your words. Talk with some respect. It's basic human decency."

The other reporters fidget, shocked at my open defense of my teammate. Again, it's human decency. Things might have turned out differently if I had accepted my team standing up for me. If I hadn ’ t run away.

I don ’ t want Dame feeling the need to run. Or hide.

"Next! I have a book I'm dying to get back to,"I joke.

They laugh. "What's the title?"

I hold up the book in answer.

Someone has heard of the little-known but great author, and we derail the rest of the press conference talking books.

The same annoying, bullheaded reporter from earlier tries to redirect the conversion several times but is interrupted.

"How did you get that paperback? I think it's self-published and only available in Kindle format."

"My wife,"I say. "She spoils me."

Later, I find Dame crying in the locker room. I've forgotten what it feels like to be a teenager. It's not even an important game.It'sa regular season game, and it won't affect our playoff seeding. But yeah, teenagers.

"You have to stay ready,"I tell him when everyone is gone.

"I'm trying,"he says, head down, a towel draped over his slumped shoulders.

"I'm sorry it happened,” I say of the fans hurling abuses at him online and offline.

Dame’s head inches out of the towel. Progress.

"It's nothing compared to what you experienced."He winces. "Sorry for bringing it up."

"It's good,"I tell him of being stalked by an angry fan for six months.

"You almost dragged your team all the way. Mine is just a regular season game."

Since he's still feeling so raw, I shut my mouth and listen.

He talks for hours, and after, I say, "Try to forget your mistakes after learning from them.”

“ Tell that to my brain,” he retorts.

“ Don ’ t know if you ’ ve noticed but we have a team of sports psychologists. And you can talk to Larry about the fans."

He nods.

We walk the hall together, past the cameras, loitering fans, and headache-inducing music. Some of these fans who stay behind long after the game, lurking and hoping to catch the players unguarded, are the real troublemakers.

The music rattles my ribcage. Even a whiff of Evie's backyard garden is a paradise compared to this. A group calls out to Dame. Our security makes way for us, but I expect Dame to leave and join friends his age. He doesn't.

He nods at the book I've refused to let go of. "That good?"

"You read?"

Before he can answer, a group of fans burst through security. Dame nudges me, nodding towards the staff exit from where Evie is waving at us. My eyes sweep over her hair, dress, and sandals. Beautiful. And she's mine.

"Maybe you should take her through that side entrance to the parking lot? Because..."

"Yeah." I say my goodbyes and run to Evie. On reaching her, I take her hand and run even though we're in no danger from fans. I run because I have her with me, and I'm so happy my emotions need an outlet.

Our footfalls pound down the empty parking lot. Evie's breathing harshly, so I stop. She braces herself against the wall, struggling to catch her breath.

“ Why are we running?”

I smirk. “ No reason.”

“ Show off.”

Unable to help myself, I run both hands over and through her hair. Catching a handful of the curls, I run my fingers through them.

I can't stop touching her.

The second she catches her breath; I press my lips against hers. After a beat, she kisses me back. Every cell in my body goes taut. I deepen the kiss, drawing a gasp from Evie. Her hands go around my neck and clench tight.

Her whole body is tight with the strain of reaching up. I wrap my hand around her legs and lift her the rest of the way.

Her fingers dig into my shoulder as she stares down at me with wonder. “ Wild.”

Then she ’ s kissing me. She tilts her head one way, giving me better access, and it's all too much.

I stop, dragging my lips over her cheeks to her temple.

My breaths come in harsh, painful gasps. Evie's hands are tight around my neck. I focus on breathing and clearing the haze from my sight.

She turns her head and presses a kiss to my neck.

"Evie," I warn.

And she stops.

"Remember that gala?"I whisper into her temple.

She nods.

"I stopped thinking straight from that night,"I admit.

I cup her cheek, push my hands into her hair, and kiss her temple."And your sandals on my thigh.”

"I think I've always loved you,"she whispers. "I just fought hard not to fall too deep and get hurt."

"Sweetheart."

"It was scary at first. Then itwasn't."

"You're as important to me as breathing. I couldn't not pursue you. The whole fake engagement was more of an opportunity for me."

She smiles. "You hid it well."

"I was too dumb to realize what was happening at the time. I just knew I didn't want you out of my sight."

"And now?" she asks.

I pull back so she can read my face. "I want to share your dreams, lows, and highs. We made plans for three girls, remember?"

"We agreed to negotiate, remember?"

If you hear a howl from the parking lot, don't run scared because it's just me. I rock back on my heels. "Let ’ s make it official."

Evie laughs, running her hands over my shoulders. "You still owe me a date."

"That's true."But I want more. "So, we are verbally official."

And she's wearing my ring, though I don't say it.

Her hands weave around my neck. "I love you, Wilder Andrew Carrington."

"Evie Cassandra, my love for you is forever,"I vow.

On the drive home, she watches the press conference on her phone, and when she gets to the part where I defended Dame, she twists our fingers together. Then she blushes on hearing me call her my wife.

I bring our hands to my lips.