Page 26 of Falling for the Bombshell (Falling for #1)
Biscuits, Backroads & Billings
The smell of bacon hit Blaine the second he opened his eyes. It took him a second to remember where he was—soft quilt, floral curtains, a crackling radio down the hall, and the warmth of Linnie still curled beside him. Only now… she wasn ’ t.
“ Linnie?” he mumbled, blinking toward the doorway.
Her voice floated back from down the hall, full of laughter. “ I ’ m with your grandma! She ’ s teaching me how to fold biscuits!”
He smiled, groggy but happy. The bed felt colder without her, and somehow the whole room did too. He rubbed at his eyes, then reached for his phone. A song was still playing softly through his Bluetooth earbuds—something she must ’ ve picked last night while they drifted off.
"Aren ’ t you somethin ’ to admire, 'cause your shine is somethin ’ like a mirror…"
Justin Timberlake ’ s voice filled the space like a soft echo of how he felt lately. Like every time he looked at her, he saw a reflection of the kind of life he never let himself imagine—until now.
By the time Blaine dragged himself into the kitchen, Linnie was seated at the table between his two youngest cousins, both of whom were arguing over who got to sit next to her for grace.
Grandpa had already finished half a plate of eggs and was reading the local paper out loud—something about a tractor getting stolen again.
Grandma was humming while flipping pancakes, and Aunt Patty was sipping coffee with a loaded revolver on the table “ just in case.” (Blaine had learned years ago not to question it.)
Linnie looked up at him with flour on her cheek and a smile that made his knees weak. “ You ’ re late, quarterback. You missed my biscuit folding debut. ”
He slid in beside her. “ As long as I ’ m not missing practice.”
That earned a whole round of groans from the table.
“ Already leavin ’ ?” Uncle Terry asked, reaching for another slice of ham. “ Didn ’ t even get to show her the drag strip.”
“ Next time,” Blaine promised, glancing over at Linnie , who nodded with a grin like yeah, there ’ ll definitely be a next time.
And somehow that thought alone made his chest tighten.
They packed up their bags—Linnie gave Grandma an extra-long hug and promised to call about the biscuit recipe—and hit the road before noon. Blaine ’ s truck, hopefully would behave all the way back to Billings.
They rolled the windows down, took the scenic route past the hills, and split a bag of spicy trail mix while flipping through Blaine ’ s playlist. Linnie queued up “ Mirrors” again without saying a word.
He glanced at her, curious. She smiled softly, chin propped in her palm as the lyrics drifted through the speakers.
"It ’ s like you ’ re my mirror… my mirror staring back at me."
“ It feels like us,” she said, almost shyly .
Blaine swallowed, something thick rising in his chest. He reached over and linked his fingers with hers on the center console. She wore his hoodie this time. The one with his name stitched on the chest and his number on the sleeve. She didn ’ t give it back the whole drive.
They pulled into the Plex lot just before 3:00 p.m., practice already buzzing with music and shouting voices. Blaine parked crooked in his usual spot and turned to her.
“ You good?” he asked.
She pulled her hair up into a ponytail. “ Let ’ s go win another game.
” He grinned, leaned in for a quick kiss, and whispered against her lips, “ Tomorrow, we show South Dakota what happens when you mess with Billings.” “ Damn right we do.” They stepped out together—players and dancers both clocking their arrival—and for once, Blaine didn ’ t care who saw them.
Let ‘ em talk. They had each other. And they had a game to win.
The rest of the day at the Plex was a whirlwind of cleats stomping on turf, whistle blasts, laughter, and last-minute prep.
Blaine ran tight routes under a late afternoon sun while Linnie and the Bombshells fine-tuned their halftime routine on the adjacent field.
Every now and then, he ’ d glance over and catch her laughing with Sadie or adjusting her sparkly top under that fierce sun.
She moved like she knew everyone was watching—but also like she didn ’ t care. She was locked in. Focused. Radiant.
"You in or what, Austin" Coach barked, pulling Blaine back to the drill.
“ Always,” Blaine muttered, nodding as he lined up for the next rep.
The parking lot was glowing pink by sundown—pink flags, pink truck lights, pink face paint smeared on cheeks both young and old.
A sea of people in matching shirts that read “ Stronger Together” flooded the stadium gates, dropping donations in the bins marked For Hope House and clapping along as volunteers passed out ribbons.
A huge pink banner stretched across the bleachers: BILLINGS BULLETS – PLAYING FOR MORE THAN POINTS.
Linnie adjusted the glitter ribbon pinned above her heart and tried not to cry.
Her teammates were chattering and stretching, but her mind was somewhere else.
Her grandma had passed years before she was born.
Stage four. A battle that started slow and ended fast. And now here she was, in the middle of the biggest crowd they ’ d had all season, dancing not just for the team, but for her.
Blaine found her just before warmups—tucked away behind the concession tent, staring out at the crowd with her arms crossed tightly over her Bombshells jacket.
“ You okay?” he asked, brushing a curl behind her ear.
She nodded but didn ’ t speak at first.
Then: “ She would ’ ve loved this. The pink, the glitter, the dancing…” Her voice caught.
Blaine pulled her into a hug, careful not to crush the rhinestones on her top.
“ Then let ’ s make tonight so good she hears it,” he whispered into her hair .
Old-school bangers like “ Jump Around” and “ The Power” filled the stadium while pink streamers blew in the breeze.
The Bullets were locked in—focused, hungry.
South Dakota ’ s team, the Black Hills Blaze, had beaten them by 20 last season.
But tonight? Tonight had heart behind it.
And Blaine was on fire. He ran like something bigger was pushing him forward—caught a 35-yard touchdown, broke a tackle on the next series, and pointed skyward after each play.
The camera caught him more than once with “ Hope 4 Her” written in pink marker on his wrist tape.
Linnie and the Bombshells tore it up at halftime, performing a fierce remix of “ Toxic” blended with “ Can ’ t Touch This” —every move sharper, every kick higher.
Linnie danced like she was lifting something heavy off her shoulders.
Her smile never wavered. But when the routine ended and the lights dimmed, she looked up and whispered, “ For you, Grandma.”
They raised over $12,000 that night—announced over the PA as the game clock wound down. And as the Bullets sealed the win with a final touchdown—a deep pass to Blaine that nearly took him into the tunnel—fireworks burst overhead, not red or white, but pink and gold.
Linnie sprinted toward him, after all the cheers, the hugs, and the sweaty chaos of post-game celebration, someone shouted for one last photo. Linnie laughed as Blaine set his helmet down on the turf and nodded toward it.
“ Climb up,” he grinned.
She stepped onto it, balancing herself carefully, her pink pom- poms still clutched in her hands.
Even then, she still wasn ’ t quite tall enough to reach his lips without a little help.
Blaine leaned down just enough to close the gap, their foreheads touching first, followed by the biggest, goofiest smiles breaking across both their faces.
The camera flashed.
Click.
It was the kind of picture that would live on forever—her standing tall on his helmet, him bracing her waist with those pink-wrapped hands, and both of them laughing like they ’ d never known anything but this kind of joy.
A wide receiver and a dancer. All heart, all in.And under the bright pink lights of the stadium, it wasn ’ t just a win for the Bullets. It was a win for them.
The pink ribbons and electric cheers of Breast Cancer Night still echoed in their bones, but Saturday night settled soft and quiet around Linnie and Blaine like a well-worn hoodie.
No glitter, no cameras—just leftovers, fuzzy socks, and Linnie curled into Blaine's side as they passed the Playstation controller back and forth between games.