Page 10 of Falling for the Bombshell (Falling for #1)

Bumping into Blaine

Linnie had tried to keep it together during practice.

Keyword: Tried.

Seeing Blaine across the field again after they ’ d finally started texting?

It was like being hit with a jolt of static electricity — not painful, just..

. enough to wake up the parts of her that had been asleep for a while.

She hadn ’ t looked at him. Not really. But she ’ d felt him.

His presence moved through the air like heat, humming along the edges of her awareness every time he drifted near her side of the field.

Her stomach did this ridiculous little twist every time she caught him in her peripheral vision — focused, intense, gorgeous in that soaked-through-practice-shirt, eye-black-streaked, wide- receiver-warrior sort of way.

Jade teased her the entire stretch session.

“ You ’ re literally glowing,” Jade whispered, wiping sweat from her neck.

“ It ’ s like someone turned your crush into a walking GQ spread.

” Linnie rolled her eyes, trying not to grin.

“ He hasn ’ t even looked at me.” “ He totally has,” Jade smirked.

“ Like, a lot. Like, should-I-be- worried levels of looking.” Still, nothing happened.

No smile. No wave. No follow-up text after their banter the night before.

By the time practice ended, Linnie felt wrung out — not from dancing, but from overanalyzing every micro-moment that maybe, possibly, might ’ ve meant something.

She wasn ’ t going to text him first again.

Nope .

She had her pride, thank you very much.

The next morning, she needed to sweat it out.

Literally. She threw on a cropped hoodie, charcoal leggings, and her worn-in black Adidas, tied her curls into a puff on top of her head, and drove to the Plex.

The place was always packed on Saturdays, but she didn ’ t care.

She had her playlist, her headphones, and zero desire to think about Blaine Austin or how obnoxiously good he looked in the rain.

She just wanted to lift, stretch, and zone the hell out.

She strolled into the weight room, rolled her sleeves, and paused mid-step.

No. Freaking. Way.

There he was.

Blaine. Standing near the squat rack in a navy tank that clung to his frame like a second skin, gym shorts low on his hips, earbuds in.

His hair was damp, jaw stubbled, and he had that stupid relaxed smile that had lived rent-free in her head for the past week.

He hadn ’ t seen her yet. He was laughing about something with one of his teammates.

Her stomach fluttered. Rude. She ducked toward the turf zone, pretending to check her phone while silently screaming.

Why here? Why now? She hadn ’ t even shaved above the knee.

Her socks didn ’ t match. Her sports bra was from, like, sophomore year.

She started warming up, trying to ignore how hyper-aware she was of every move he made across the room. She stretched into a lunge, exhaled— And heard footsteps. And a voice.

“ Hey.”

Her breath caught.

She looked up.

It was him.

“ Hey,” she managed, trying not to sound flustered.

Or like she ’ d been talking to herself about him for the past six minutes.

“ You work out here a lot?” Blaine asked, nodding toward the gym around them.

“ Sometimes. Mornings, mostly. Less crowd. More peace.” “ Smart,” he said, smiling.

Her heart flipped. Silence stretched, the comfortable kind that tugged at her in a weird way.

They were in the middle of clanking weights, loud grunts, and gym bros, but none of it touched this little bubble.

“ You looked good at practice yesterday,” he said.

“ Thanks.” She smiled. “ We ’ ve been drilling hard.

My mom would straight-up murder us if our kick line wasn ’ t tight.

” “ I noticed. It was kinda... insane.” She glanced away, then back.

“ You ghosted after texting last night.” He winced.

“ Got caught up with my little sister. She found glitter slime in the couch cushions. Also, Snickers peed in my bed. So.”

She blinked. “ Wait — Snickers?”

“ My dog,” he said, grinning. “ Brown with caramel paws. Named after the candy bar. Full menace.” That made her laugh — the real kind that uncurled from her chest and surprised her.

And just like that, the tension cracked.

It wasn ’ t awkward anymore. Just... two people.

Talking. Being. “ I ’ ll let you get back to your workout,” he said, stepping away.

But Linnie wasn ’ t done.

“ Wait.” She stood straighter. “ Want to do core together?”

He raised a brow. “ You trying to humble me?”

“ Maybe.”

He dropped his water bottle and followed her onto the turf.

They planked, laughed, talked about dogs, favorite pregame songs, college towns.

He asked her what it was like growing up under Coach Summer ’ s roof.

She asked him why he chose to stay in Montana instead of taking a scholarship back East. He didn ’ t answer that one.

Just said, “ Sometimes you stay where you ’ re needed.

” By the time she left the gym, Linnie ’ s abs were burning — and it had nothing to do with the workouts.Blaine couldn ’ t stop smiling.

Which was weird, because smiling wasn ’ t really his thing.

Not the deep, lopsided, lingering kind. But there he was, walking out of the Plex with sore everything, a smoothie in his hand, and Linnie Sanders ’ s voice echoing in his head.

She ’ d crushed him in their core set. He blamed Snickers. She called him soft.

He liked her.

God help him — he really, really liked her.

But now he was back on the tailgate of his uncle ’ s work truck, grease-stained gloves beside him, the mid-day sun pressing down like a spotlight. And that stupid contract clause was clawing at him again.

No dating dancers. No drama. No exceptions.

Coach Ben ’ s voice might as well have been carved into concrete.

Blaine hadn ’ t technically broken any rules.

He wasn ’ t dating Linnie. They were just texting.

Talking. Working out. Laughing. Thinking about each other.

But even he knew that wasn ’ t the full truth.

The full truth lived in how his stomach dropped every time he saw her.

How his fingers hovered over his phone at night.

How Bria had asked, point-blank, “ So when do I get to meet the pretty dancer girl?” He ’ d nearly choked on his cereal.

The sound of gravel crunching under boots snapped him back.

“ Break ’ s over, kid,” Wes called, motioning him in.

“ Youdaydreamin ’ or writing poems about wrenches again?

” “ Just thinking,” Blaine muttered, hopping down.

“ Thinking about a real future, I hope,” Wes grunted.

“ That team ’ s not your way out. It ’ s a hobby with shoulder pads.

School ’ s your shot.” Blaine didn ’ t argue.

Just pulled on his gloves and headed inside.

That night, he sat on his bed, scrolling. Thinking.

Overthinking. Then finally, he typed:

Blaine: Today was fun. Let me know when you ’ re back at the gym. I owe you a rematch.

He hit send before he could regret it.

Screw the contract.

He wasn ’ t ready to let this go.