Page 7 of Falling for the Bombshell (Falling for #1)
Concrete & Catch-Ups
The day after the first game felt like a hangover.
Not the kind where you ’ re curled around the toilet, but the kind that ’ s quiet.
Heavy. Lingering. I woke up sore—shoulders, legs, even my freaking eyebrows hurt —and my head was full of replayed moments.
Both on the field… and in the stands. It rained.
We won. I saw her. And somewhere between kickoff and the final whistle, something cl icked.
Then clicked again when I got a friend request from
Linnie.
I accepted it. Obviously.
Then she messaged me.
Just a casual, “ Hey. Great game today :) ”
Simple. Sweet.
I stared at it for thirty minutes.
Typed a reply.
Deleted it.
Typed again.
Backspaced.
Locked my phone and tossed it across the room like it burned. I didn ’ t know what to say. Not because I didn ’ t want to. But because I did—and that scared the hell out of me.
Work was exactly what I needed. Grounding.
Repetitive. Physical. My uncle met me out at the site—some ranch-style place getting a full remodel.
Cold air bit through my hoodie, but I didn ’ t complain.
I hauled lumber to the side yard, tried to let the weight clear my head.
"You catch that storm last night?" Uncle Wes asked, tossing me a nail gun.
"Played in it," I said with a half-smile.
He raised a brow. "That semi-pro thing?" "Yeah.
We won. Barely." He grunted in approval.
"Good. You need something to keep you outta trouble.
" I didn ’ t respond. Just focused on hammering, hoping the noise drowned out my own thoughts.
After work, I headed to the gym, then swung by Chase ’ s place. The guys were mid-argument over playoff odds and pizza toppings.
Celtics vs. Knicks. Game 3.
Knicks up 3-0. The tension was biblical.
I dropped into the beanbag as Noah threw a chip at Logan’s face.
“ I ’ m telling you, Garnett ’ s gonna choke if they press him in the third,” Chase argued.
“ Blasphemy,” I muttered. “ The man ’ s got ice in his veins.
” “ Had ice,” Chase said, cracking open a Mountain Dew. “ Now he ’ s just cold and slow.”
The game tipped off and the noise settled into our usual chaos— shouting at refs, analyzing every call like we were ESPN analysts.
Then… we lost.
By 14. Oof.
“ Maybe next year,” Noah muttered.
“ Maybe next decade,” Chase grumbled.
I stood, stretching out the tightness in my back. “ Grabbing a water.” My phone lit up as I walked past the table.
Linnie.
Still just that one message.
Still unread.
I didn ’ t open it. But I didn ’ t delete it either.
That night, I laid in bed, the ceiling fan whirring like a lullaby.
My room still smelled like wood glue and turf.
I couldn ’ t stop thinking about her. Her voice.
Her dancing. That smile under the lights.
I wasn ’ t ready for a relationship. But I wasn ’ t ready to pretend she didn ’ t exist either.
Maybe tomorrow I ’ d text her back. Maybe I ’ d say something cool.
Maybe I ’ d freeze up again. But one thing was clear— She was getting harder to ignore.
The next morning, I grabbed a protein bar and headed to the driveway just as Bria came out the front door with a suspiciously good mood.
“ Whoa,” I said, eyeing her outfit—ripped jeans, Air Forces, hoodie tied like she was trying too hard not to look like she was trying too hard.
“ What ’ s the occasion?” She rolled her eyes.
“ I have a date.” I nearly dropped my keys.
“ A what?” “ A date, Grandpa. You know, that thing people do when they like each other? You should try it sometime.”
“ Funny,” I deadpanned. “ Did Mom approve?”
“ She thinks we ’ re going to the bookstore,” Bria said with a smirk. “ Which we are, technically. There just might be coffee and hand- holding involved.”
I groaned. “ You ’ re fifteen.”
“ And you ’ re nineteen and still have a romantic history that could fit in a fortune cookie. Who ’ s really losing here?”
I shook my head, smirking. “ I could date if I wanted to.”
“ Oh please. You ’ ve been obsessing over that dance girl since kickoff, and you still haven ’ t replied to her message.”
I blinked. “ How do you know about that?”
She waved her phone. “ I have friends. Girls talk, genius.” “ Is there some teenage girl spy ring I should know about?” Bria shrugged. “ We just care about results. And right now, you ’ re not scoring.”
I groaned again. “ Please never use that word around me again.”
“ Then grow a spine and message her back.”
She popped her earbuds in and strolled off like she hadn ’ t just roasted me into oblivion.
At practice, I showed up early hoping for clarity. Instead, I sat in my truck, tapping the steering wheel, staring at that stupid smiley face.
On the field, the Bombshells were already warming up. Linnie was front and center. That ponytail. That focus. That presence.
I unlocked my phone and typed:
Blaine: Hey. Sorry for not replying sooner. Saturday was wild. You crushed it, by the way.
I hovered. Then hit send before I could second-guess myself. The rest of practice was a blur. I dropped a snap. Missed a read. Logan yelled something about me being "spiritually possessed." But I didn ’ t care. Because I sent it. No reply yet. But I finally took a step.
That night, Bria peeked into my room while I was icing my ankle from a bad turf slip. “ So?” she asked, arms crossed. I didn ’ t even pretend to not know what she meant. “ I texted her.”
She raised an eyebrow. “ And?”
“ She hasn ’ t replied.”
Bria gave me a slow, pitying look. “ Maybe she ’ s busy. Mayb e
she ’ s playing it cool. Or maybe,” she said dramatically, “ she ’ s
testing to see if you have an actual backbone.”
“ Gee, thanks, Dr. Phil.”
She threw a piece of popcorn at me. “ You ’ re welcome. And FYI? If you mess this up, you ’ ll have to explain to Mom why I ’ m the only one in this house with a functional dating life.”
I couldn ’ t help but laugh. “ Noted.”
She lingered for a second, softer now. “ You like her?”
I hesitated. “ Yeah. I think I do.”
“ Then don ’ t be a coward. Girls can smell fear.”
And with that, she left me to stare at the glow of my phone. Still no reply. But now? I was okay with waiting. Because Bria was right.
For once, I wasn ’ t ignoring something—I was choosing to lean in.
To try.
To show up.
Even if it scared me.