Page 5 of Falling for the Bombshell (Falling for #1)

End Zone & Eye Contact

I woke up to thunder.

For a second, I thought it was a dream—like maybe the roar of the crowd had followed me into my sleep. But then lightning cracked across the sky, so bright it lit my entire room in white, and I realized this wasn ’ t dream-stuff. This was real.

It was pouring.

Of course it was.

First official game of the season. First time back under the lights since everything fell apart last year. My shot to prove I still belong on that field—and now we ’ re playing in a storm .

By the time I got to the stadium, the bleachers were already dotted with umbrellas and soaked blankets.

It smelled like wet grass, Gatorade, and nerves.

The guys were scattered across the field— stretching, shaking out limbs, checking laces and tape jobs.

Logan was already firing himself up, Chase was tossing warm-up spirals, and Noah was barking out something none of us could hear through the downpour.

I was half-listening to Coach bark a warmup schedule when I saw her.

Linnie.

Hair pulled back in a long brown ponytail, curls escaping around her face.

Wearing a burgundy team windbreaker, sleeves rolled.

Hood down—of course. Rain soaking her shoulders and making her glow under the stadium lights like a damn highlight reel.

She moved through her girls like a general—nodding, correcting, steady.

My whole body responded like it had radar locked on her. Not in the lusty, locker-room way some guys talk. No, it was different. She didn ’ t just walk through the storm—she owned it .

Like she was the storm.

Last week, when I saw her at tryouts, I froze. That never happens to me. But there was something in her energy, her focus, the way she looked like she was carrying every pressure and still standing taller than everyone around her.

I was still watching when Coach yelled my name.

“ Austin! You stretching or sightseeing? Pads on. Let ’ s MOVE.” I blinked, threw on my gear, and jogged over. Rain slapped my helmet like open palms. Cleats sunk in wet turf. Drills started.

Muscles burned. Brain locked in.

Then the lights shifted. The speakers crackled.

A sudden roar surged from the stands. “ All aboard! AH HA HA HA HA!” The opening riff of “ Crazy Train ” exploded through the stadium speakers.

My heart leapt. Fog machines lit the field edges.

Stadium lights pulsed. Rain bounced like glitter under the strobes.

The Bombshells took the field in a flash of gold and black.

They moved like they were born for the chaos—hip hits, sharp turns, fists pumping to the beat like war drums. Their hair flew in wet arcs, their sneakers slid and caught in practiced rhythm, their precision untouchable even in the mess.

And Linnie?

Dead center.

She hit every count like she was sculpting thunder with her body. Lightning cracked again overhead, perfectly timed, like nature itself couldn ’ t help but sync to her rhythm.

Crowd went nuts.

Our sideline did too—even the guys pretending they weren ’ t watching were watching.

Coach tried yelling over the music, but I couldn ’ t hear a damn thing.

I didn ’ t care. I was locked on her. She was fire in the storm.

Raw energy and control, wild and rooted.

And somehow, in all of that noise and chaos, when the final beat dropped and she hit the last pose—drenched and fierce—she looked up. ..

...and almost looked right at me.

Then the music cut. The fog cleared. Players lined up.

Whistle blew. Game on .

We received the kick. Gage caught it, juked two defenders, and

got swallowed up in a puddle of mud. That set the tone.

The other team was scrappy and fast, and they didn ’ t care about weather.

First quarter? I got jammed off the line.

Twice. Couldn ’ t plant, couldn ’ t cut.

We ended down 0-7. Coach pulled us in. “ Austin, I need you to stop thinking about the weather and start trusting your instincts.”

So I did.

Second quarter. Chase dropped back. I ran wide, slipped in mud, but kept moving. The ball was in the air. I broke free, and my hands found leather in the end zone. Touchdown. Tied game. The stands erupted as much as they could under raincoats and ponchos. I looked toward the sideline.

Linnie.

She was clapping, but not for me. Not really. She was locked in on her dancers. Focused. Fierce. And all I wanted in that second—more than the replay, more than the stats—was for her to see me. Not the highlight. Me.

Third quarter hit like a brick wall. They scored again. The rain came down sideways. Lightning delay had us off the field for fifteen. Guys grumbled, wrapped in towels and frustration. I couldn ’ t sit. I jogged the tunnel, trying to stay loose.

And then I saw her again.

Linnie. Alone, near the trainer ’ s hallway. Wrapping her ankle. Lip caught between her teeth. Her hands moved fast, practiced. But I saw the way her shoulders shook, just for a second.

Then Coach Summer appeared.

Their eyes met. Something passed between them—something I couldn ’ t name. And just like that, Linnie squared her shoulders, stood up, and limped back to the field like pain didn ’ t touch her.

That ’ s when it hit me:

She ’ s playing through it, too.

Fourth quarter. Tied game. Final drive.

Coach looked at me, dead in the eye. “ Austin, it ’ s yours.” Snap. Chase dropped back. I broke right. Slipped. Regained. Cut left. Open. Ball in the air—everything slowed. Crowd disappeared .

The rain, the noise, the lights—it all faded.

Just me. And the catch.

I caught it. Tucked it. Scored.

We won.

The team swarmed me, mud flying, helmets slapping my back. But my eyes were already searching the sideline. Linnie stood still, surrounded by chaos. She smiled—small, real.

And when our eyes met...

She saw me.

Really saw me.

And in that moment, the rulebook didn ’ t matter. The storm didn ’ t matter.

Because I knew something else had just started.