Page 10 of Hero After Midnight (Gibson Hollow)

Ramsey

T he world hadn’t quite restarted yet.

Alia was still close, her hand warm and steady over the center of my chest like she could anchor me there with just her touch. I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. I wasn’t sure I remembered how.

Everything inside me was buzzing, not like adrenaline from a game or the crackle of a fight about to break loose, but something deeper.

More dangerous. Like I’d just crossed some invisible line, stepped off the edge of reason and landed somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be—and found out it felt like heaven.

I’d kissed her. And she’d kissed me back. I hadn’t imagined the way her body leaned into mine or the way her breath had caught or the soft, stunned sound she’d made, like maybe she’d been waiting for this just as long as I had.

I should’ve been thinking about Bodie and the fallout. About the impossibility of this actually working. About everything I’d just risked for five minutes of borrowed magic.

But the only thing circling in a relentless loop through my brain was how much I didn’t want this to end. Not the night. Not the moment. Not her.

I wanted more. God help me, I wanted. And for once, I wasn’t pretending otherwise.

For a flickering second, it didn’t feel like a random Saturday night.

It felt like New Year’s. A beginning. Like a door swinging open to something I hadn’t dared to name before now.

She was still close, and I could feel her breath warm against my neck.

I could still taste her—sweet and impossible.

Everything inside me was thrumming like a struck chord, all shimmer and tension, like I’d just broken a rule and found heaven waiting on the other side.

I wanted to tell her. God, I wanted to tell her.

Rip off the mask, say, It’s me. I’m yours, if you’ll have me .

No more pretending. Just the bald-faced truth and all the risk that came with it. The words were right there. My mouth was already halfway open, the truth about to spill out and crack this whole night wide open.

Then my phone buzzed in my pocket. One long, low vibration, insistent enough to pull me back into my skin.

I hesitated, not wanting to look. Not wanting this spell to break. But what if it was Bodie? What if something had gone wrong? With an apologetic glance, I gave her fingers a quick, reassuring squeeze and shifted back enough to pull the phone out and check the screen.

The message lit up in blue and white.

Coach Langston:

Johnston’s out with a concussion. You’re on the shortlist for the Charlotte Combine. Van leaves at 3 a.m. Be at the field house. No excuses.

For a second, I just stared at it. The words didn’t make sense. Couldn’t make sense. Not here, not now. Not when I was still standing in the afterglow of the best kiss of my life.

But they were real. They didn’t go away when I blinked.

Johnston’s out with a concussion .

Apparently that ER run Bodie mentioned had been the real deal.

The Charlotte Combine.

It wasn’t just a tryout—it was the tryout.

A high-profile regional showcase, sponsored by pro recruiters and stacked with NFL scouts.

These things weren’t open calls. You didn’t just walk in and sign up.

You were invited. Vetted. Plucked out of obscurity and offered the kind of spotlight that could rewrite your future.

And I’d just been offered a place because of Rick’s shit luck.

This was the thing I’d trained for since my first year of high school.

Every early morning lift, every brutal practice, every hit I’d taken and gotten back up from.

The thing my mom had sacrificed for, working multiple jobs to pay for gear and training camps, because I had a dream and she believed in me.

It all led here. This wasn’t just a door opening. It was a rocket ignition.

And it meant leaving.

Right now.

No time to explain. No time to say what I really wanted to say. Just one choice in front of me—and it was the one I’d sworn I would never miss, not for anything.

Even if “anything” was standing inches away from me, her hand still holding mine.

I stared at the screen like maybe, if I waited long enough, it would change. Like maybe the words would vanish, or get rescinded, or turn out to be some elaborate mistake. But they didn’t. They stayed, cold and final.

Part of me wanted to pocket the phone, say screw it, and lose myself in one more song. One more moment. One more breath with her close enough to taste. But the rest of me—the part that knew how few chances guys like me got—understood the truth:

If I didn’t leave now, I wasn’t going to leave at all.

And I couldn’t blow this shot. Not even for her.

God, that hurt.

I turned back, and she was already watching me, her expression quiet and open and soft enough to ruin me. Like she knew something had shifted but wasn’t going to ask. Like she trusted me to decide what happened next.

The words caught in my throat, thick and reluctant. “I have to go,” I said finally, voice low.

A beat passed. My chest tightened. “I’m sorry.”

Her expression didn’t change, not exactly. But there was something in the way her mouth tilted, like she understood more than I was saying. Maybe more than I knew how to say.

I managed a crooked smile—aching and stupid and real. “Don’t forget me, mystery girl.” But what I meant was: Don’t forget it’s me.

She didn’t ask. Didn’t press for some explanation as to why I was bolting like I was Cinderella at the ball and the clock had just struck midnight. Just looked at me, steady and sure, like she already knew everything I wasn’t saying. Like maybe she’d known it all along.

“Impossible.” Her voice was soft. Not some flirty brush-off, but a truth she was handing me to hold.

And God, it wrecked me. Not because it was too much. But because it was exactly what I wanted. Because she believed it. Because somewhere deep down, so did I.

I squeezed her hand, started to turn away—then stopped.

It was late. Past midnight now, and the party had shifted into that messier, looser kind of chaos that came when the cheap alcohol started running the show.

Voices were louder, bodies closer, intentions murkier.

The room felt different. Less golden. More unpredictable.

And she was still standing in the middle of it all like some unclaimed flame, too steady, too good to be left alone in a crowd that didn’t deserve her.

I realized I had no idea how she’d gotten here. “Can I give you a ride home?”

It would blow the illusion we were operating under, but damned if I was going to leave her on her own.

She didn’t bristle or wave me off like I was being overprotective. She just smiled up at me. “I can drive myself. But you can walk me to my car.”

I nodded, offering my arm. She took it without hesitation, her fingers curling lightly around my biceps like we’d done this a hundred times before.

We slipped back through the crowd together, the press of people parting just enough around us.

I kept her close—half a step ahead, like I could shield her from the worst of it—and soaked in every second.

The slide of her arm against mine. The brush of her dress when we shifted.

The quiet ease between us that hadn’t existed before tonight.

Outside, the air was cooler, clearer. The music still pulsed faintly from inside, but it felt like we’d stepped into a different world entirely. Quieter. Still.

We didn’t speak, and I didn’t know what I was going to say when we got to the car. I only knew I wasn’t ready for this to be over.

So I walked slow. Let the silence stretch. Let myself look over at her and memorize the shape of her profile under the streetlight, the way her mask glinted when she turned her head, the way her fingers stayed curled in the crook of my arm like she didn’t want to let go either.

For one night, I’d stood beside her. Danced with her. Kissed her. Held something fragile and impossible and too good to last.

But I had this walk. I had these last few minutes.

And I wasn’t letting go until I had to.