Page 14 of Falling for the Bombshell (Falling for #1)

Pool Games & Pillow Talks

The locker room was chaos. Steam poured from the showers, pads clanked against metal benches, and someone was blasting Drake from a speaker duct-taped to a locker.

The floor slick with sweat, the energy buzzing with victory.

Blaine peeled off his gear, jersey damp, adrenaline still pulsing through him.

Two touchdowns. One diving fourth-down catch that nearly knocked the wind out of him—but God, it felt good.

The roar still echoed in his head. The crowd?

Deafening. His teammates? Electric. But her voice?

That one stuck. Linnie. One high, clear cheer had cut through the static like it was wired straight to his brain .

He dropped onto the bench, helmet dangling from one hand, heart pounding like the game hadn ’ t ended. That last play replayed in his head on loop. The crowd had gone nuclear.

And maybe it was dumb, but he swore he ’ d heard her above all of it. Cue full-body chills.

He should ’ ve been thinking about stats. Tape. Recovery. But all he could think was: She saw that. She cheered for me. Before he could spiral deeper, Coach ’ s voice boomed over the noise: “ League dinner. Plex. Be there.”

The Plex was packed—small-town Friday night packed. Everyone who ’ d ever worn a Bullets jersey, sold nachos at a fundraiser, or sponsored a raffle seemed to be in that building. Kids darted between tables. Someone ’ s grandma handed out cookies.

The team rolled in together, still in polos and cleats, pretending not to limp. Blaine grabbed a water bottle and turned—and there she was.

Linnie.

She walked in with her crew, hair curled, a burgundy sweater slipping off one shoulder like it had better things to do. She was laughing at something Jade said, and the sound hit him like a linebacker. Light. Effortless.

She glanced up, eyes locking with his.

And smiled. Not a polite smile. Not a distant, performative smile. The real one—the one that made his heart double-tap in his chest. They didn ’ t move toward each other. Didn ’ t need to. The pull was magnetic. Gravity with hands.

Next thing he knew, he was posted by the rec room, watching her annihilate one of the O-linemen at darts. Bullseyes like it was part of her pre-game routine. She turned toward him, playful. “ You playing pool or just pretending to look mysterious over there?”

He smirked. “ I play. Badly.”

“ Perfect,” she said, chalking a cue. “ I ’ ll win.”

Plot twist: they were both terrible.

Balls flew off the table. Chalk dust coated their hands.

She missed one shot so badly it rolled right back to her.

He clapped like she ’ d just scored a touchdown.

Someone snapped a photo—her lining up a shot, him leaning in, pointing, grinning.

It wasn ’ t staged. Wasn ’ t filtered. It was kind of perfect. Too perfect.

Later, he saw it on someone ’ s story. The way they were standing—close. Too close. Shit. Coach ’ s daughter. Dance team captain. Absolutely not someone he was supposed to be flirting with. But then she looked up from the table with that sideways grin, and every rule blurred .

He was already in. Neck deep.

Linnie got home just after midnight, still smelling like cinnamon pretzels and glitter hairspray. Her makeup had smudged, her sweater wore a nacho stain like a badge of honor, and her heart? Still doing pirouettes. She kicked off her shoes, flopped onto her bed, and pulled out her phone.

Five missed texts. Three screenshots. One pool-table photo.

From Jade: Just gonna leave this here ?? From Sadie: Umm okayyyy pool shark power couple??? From Cleo: He ’ s hot. You ’ re hot. Do it for the plot.

She tried to brush it off. Really, she did. But then her screen lit up again.

Incoming FaceTime: Blaine Austin

Her thumb hovered.

She waited exactly 1.3 seconds—just long enough to seem chill—then tapped accept.

“ Hey,” she whispered, like it was a secret.

Blaine ’ s face appeared, hoodie-clad, curls damp, smirk soft with sleep.

Snickers, his dog, lay snoring on his arm like a cartoon sidekick.

“ Hey, cheer captain.” She rolled her eyes.

“ I ’ m not a cheerleader.” “ You say that, but you yelled louder than our sideline.” “ I was being polite!” “ Your polite voice cracked like you were at a boy band concert.” She laughed, curling into her blanket. “ Shut up.”

They talked for hours.

About the game. Her cursed nail polish. His protein shake that tasted like pond water.

His little sister ’ s obsession with matching pajama sets.

They had nothing in common. And somehow, everything.

“ Okay,” she mumbled eventually, eyes heavy.

“ This is weird.” “ What is?” “ You. Me. How easy this is.” He paused.

Then, quieter: “ Yeah. I know what you mean.” She fell asleep to the sound of his breathing and Snickers ’ snore.

The call stayed on. He didn ’ t hang up.

He woke to the dog snoring louder than any fullback he ’ d ever met, phone still warm beside him. The call had dropped around 4 a.m. Still worth it.

At film review, the locker room was already crackling.

Blaine walked in and instantly became a target.

“ Look at this man,” Westbrook called, tossing a granola bar at his head.

“ He ’ s got that FaceTimed-all-night-with-a-pretty-girl glow.

” “ Bro ’ s practically levitating,” Chase added.

“ He let Linnie win at pool and now he ’ s floating.

” “ I didn ’ t let her win,” Blaine muttered, though he couldn ’ t stop grinning.

They pounced.

“ So you did FaceTime her!”

“ Coach ’ s daughter? You playing with fire now.”

“ Tell us everything. Was it, like, a ‘ just friends ’ FaceTime? Or a ‘ let ’ s name our kids ’ FaceTime?”

Mercifully, Coach barged in with a remote and zero patience.

“ Eyes on the screen, not on Austin ’ s love life.”

Blaine tried to focus on tape. Really tried. But all he saw was the way Linnie had looked at him mid-laugh. Yeah. He was in trouble.

It started with whispers. Two girls brushed past Linnie at the Plex, iced coffees in hand and fake-nice voices primed.

“ Cute sweater,” one said. The other smirked.

“ Coach ’ s daughter privilege, huh?” By the time she reached the locker room, it was a full-on vibe.

Glances. Snickers. Sadie raised an eyebrow.

“ So... number 15, huh?” Then came the text.

JJ. Her ex. Her mistake. The ghost of bad boyfriends past.

Saw the pic. Guess you moved on fast. You always do this when you spiral. I ’ m here if you need to talk.

She stared at the screen, heart pounding. Stomach sinking. Old habits. Old lies. Old manipulation wrapped in faux concern. She shut the phone off. Tossed it in her tote like it burned.

Jade ’ s Couch – Emergency Cocoa Hour

Jade handed her a mug like it came with a prescription. “ I ’ m not dating him,” Linnie said for the fiftieth time. Jade took a sip. “ But you want to?” “ I want to not feel like I ’ m ruining my own life over one FaceTime call.” “ You ’ re not.” “ I might be. ”

Karter ’ s voice floated from the kitchen. “ Girl, the only thing you ’ re ruining is JJ ’ s fragile ego.”

Jade snorted. “ And that was already hanging by a thread.”

She curled up, casting a glance toward Karter—the soft, sideways kind that gave everything away. “ For the record, we all just signed contracts. Me, Mom, Karter. Everyone knows I ’ m dating Karter. Jamie ’ s with Coach Dean. Nobody ’ s scandalized.”

Linnie blinked. “ You ’ re telling me the choreographer, the DJ, the assistant coach, and the special teams coach are all dating someone on staff?”

“ We ’ re a small-town sports soap opera,” Jade said, smirking. “ Own it.” Karter dropped a waffle on a plate. “ As long as nobody makes a team Twitter about it, I think we ’ re safe.”

Jade leaned in. “ Look. If Blaine likes you, he ’ ll figure it out. You don ’ t owe anyone an explanation. Especially not a guy who dumped you via a playlist.”

“ Even though I dumped him,” Linnie muttered. “ You shouldn ’ t forget the playlist. He put ‘ Somebody That I Used to Know ’ on there. Twice. ”

That night, Linnie lay in bed, staring at the blurry, laughing photo of her and Blaine. She opened a text. Typed. Deleted. Typed again. Then finally sent:

Linnie: You ever feel like people start making up your story before you even know what chapter you ’ re on?