Page 13 of Falling for the Bombshell (Falling for #1)
Playbook
Trip Day. And Snickers is on His Arm. Again.
Blaine cracked one eye open and immediately regretted it.
Light filtered through the slats of his blinds, hitting him square in the face, and his shoulder?
Completely numb. A tiny, very hairy weight was snoring directly into his ear.
Snickers. The five-pound menace of a dog was flopped over his arm like it was a designer throw pillow.
Blaine shifted with the grace of a sleepy walrus, trying to reclaim circulation without waking the gremlin—but Snickers rolled with theatrical flair, draping his body dramatically across Blaine ’ s chest. A little huff came from his squished snout, like don ’ t even think about it, bro.
“ Buddy,” Blaine mumbled, scratching the soft fur behind his ears.
“ I gotta pack. We got a bus to catch.” Snickers responded by licking Blaine ’ s chin and immediately resuming her snoring.
Blaine sighed and grabbed his phone off the nightstand, squinting against the screen glow. Team group chat was blowing up—bus check-in times, gear reminders, Coach warning everyone for the third time not to forget cleats.
Rain in Missoula. Classic.
He scrolled absently through the messages until he saw her name near the top.
Linnie: Thanks again for the smoothie ?? also your playlist is elite. Tuesday rematch??
He blinked. Read it again. Just a smoothie.
Just a playlist. Just a—he paused, brain buffering — Tuesday rematch ?
Why did it feel like his ribcage had suddenly expanded and shrunk at the same time?
He hadn ’ t responded yet. Because of the rules.
The contract. Her mom. The absolutely written-in-stone no dating captains thing.
But also—he hadn ’ t stopped thinking about her.
The way she ’ d looked at him over her shoulder at the gym, half-sweat, all smile.
Like she actually saw him. Not just the football guy.
Not the rookie or the dropout or the kid from Billing who had no business playing in a semi-pro league. Just… him.
Snickers barked at a bird outside like it had personally offended her honor. Blaine took that as the universe's cue to move. He carefully rolled out from under the dog and stood, rubbing the feeling back into his arm.
He grabbed his duffel bag from the closet: cleats, compression gear, lucky socks, headphones. A screenshot of Linnie ’ s message. Not that he was obsessed or anything. “ Tuesday rematch, huh?” he muttered under his breath as he zipped the bag. He tried to sound casual. Failed miserably .
Maybe.
Saturday, 1:42 PM – Team Bus to Missoula
The team bus to Missoula was part nap zone, part chaos.
Half the guys were passed out with hoodies over their faces, while the other half were arguing over fantasy trades like it was Wall Street.
Someone had hijacked the Bluetooth speaker and was playing early 2000s hits, complete with off-key singalongs.
Blaine leaned back, headphones around his neck, letting the noise wash over him.
They passed the big “ Welcome to Missoula” sign, and the energy shifted. Like someone turned the dial from "frat house" to "locked in." Guys sat up straighter. Jokes tapered off. Even Coach got that game day jaw clench thing going.
Blaine looked out the window, watching the mountains rise in the distance. The butterflies in his stomach turned into something heavier. Not fear, exactly. Just weight.
This was the moment. His first away game. First time back on a college field in almost a year. His one shot to prove that skipping college wasn ’ t a mistake. That he wasn ’ t just the guy from Billings building decks and chasing dreams that should ’ ve expired senior year.
Across the aisle, Devin was snoring. Nate was still debating
cornerback coverage with a rookie. And Blaine? He was quietly replaying Linnie ’ s text again in his mind. He needed to focus. Just football. Lock in. Still... his thumb hovered over the screenshot. He smiled, then shoved his phone in his bag and stood when the bus turned into the parking lot.
Game time.
Saturday Night – The Plex
The Plex was straight-up buzzing. People were packed in shoulder-to-shoulder to watch the live- streamed away game. It had become an unofficial party—folding chairs, glitter signs, someone ’ s mom with a crockpot full of little smokies, and an extremely aggressive kettle corn guy yelling
“ LAST CALL FOR SWEET ‘ N SALTY!” like it was a football chant.
Linnie was curled on a blanket near the front, Bombshell hoodie zipped up, sipping a Sprite she barely remembered grabbing.
She tried not to look obsessed. She tried not to freak out every time the camera zoomed in on Number 15.
But Blaine? He was killing it. Two touchdowns before halftime.
One-handed catches that had half the dance team screaming.
She tried to stay cool. Sipped her drink. Looked down at her phone. Looked away.
Until Blaine made a ridiculous slant catch in triple coverage and Linnie leapt to her feet.
“ YES, BLAINE—GO!!” Silence. Every head turned.
She froze, Sprite mid-sip. “ I mean—Bullet! Go Bullets. The team. All of them. Yay, sports.” Sadie slowly leaned in, eyebrow arched.
“ You wanna try that again?” Linnie slumped back into her seat, hoodie pulled over her head. Her ears burned.
She wasn ’ t technically breaking the rules. But she also hadn ’ t
mentioned the smoothie. Or the playlist. Or the text. And the way her heart sped up every time Blaine appeared on screen? Yeah. Not subtle.
Sunday – Sadie ’ s Apartment
“ You screamed his name in public,” Sadie said, holding up a bag of popcorn like it was evidence in a trial.
“ It slipped!” Linnie groaned, flopping onto the couch.
“ It was a sports reflex.” “ You said his name, not touchdown,” Cleo chimed from the floor.
"Girl, your heart is wearing a Letterman jacket.” Linnie groaned again, louder.
She hadn ’ t heard from him. Not a single text. Not even a double tap on her Instagram story of the smoothie cup. Which was frankly rude. The team chat had mentioned Number 15 no less than thirty-six times. She ’ d counted. And avoided it all day .
Later, when they were in the middle of pedicures and Clay mask selfies, Cleo added, “ Okay but... if you want to flirt again, you need a game plan.” Linnie paused.
“ Like... strategies?” “ Oh yeah,” Sadie grinned.
“ Spa strategy. Hair, nails, confidence.” “ And maybe,” Cleo added, “ send a meme. Boys are defenseless against memes.”
Monday.
Linnie didn ’ t hear from him Monday. Instead, she triple-exfoliated, redid her game-day curls, and sent Jade three decoy texts about team cohesion and athletic bonding.
Breakfast with her mom was a blur of fresh fruit, awkward silences, and too much coffee.
Summer had made waffles—Linnie had pushed them around her plate like it was a strategy.
Her mom didn ’ t press, but she watched her like she was trying to read the fine print in Linnie ’ s smile.
Then she roped Cleo and Sadie into a three-hour outfit planning Zoom call.
“ If he doesn ’ t text you back by Tuesday,” Jade declared during their nail appointment, “ I vote we egg his truck. Not the windows, just the tires. Symbolic sabotage.”
Tuesday Morning – Game Day
Linnie was up before her alarm. Glitter on her cheekbones. Lip gloss poppin ’ . She didn ’ t care. Really. Okay, she cared a little. Okay, she was checking her phone like it owed her money. Still no message. She exhaled, pulled on her jacket, and headed out. Game day waits for no drama.
Tuesday Night – Home Field
The stands were packed. Golden sunset. Big energy.
Hometown pride. Linnie adjusted her curls and took her spot on the sideline.
Every muscle buzzing. She should ’ ve been focused on counts.
Choreography. Kicks. But her eyes drifted.
Down the field. Past the offensive huddle.
To him. Blaine. Number 15. Black eye paint.
White jersey. Talking with the coordinator, focused—but still, like he felt her looking.
Because then? He looked up. Right at her.
Their eyes locked. Just for a second. But it hit like a lightning bolt.
A nod. Barely there. But it said enough.
I see you. I remember. I ’ m here.
And in that second, Linnie forgot about the rules, her mom, and the fact that she hadn ’ t heard from him in days. Because sometimes? A nod is the loudest thing in the world.