Page 10

Thea

It’s not my fault you fell so fast.

I just smiled, and you forgot your past.

Call it magic, call it game,

Either way, you’ll never be the same.

The energy is palpable as Bailey Hill performs on stage. I’d seen her perform on TV countless times, watched every music video, streamed every song, but nothing, absolutely nothing, prepared me for seeing her live. She was merely a foot away and commanded the circular stage at midfield like she’d been born there.

“Holy shit,”

I whispered, knowing my mic wouldn't pick it up over the thunderous sound system. “Holy. Shit.”

Bailey's voice soared over the stadium as she transitioned into her third song, the opening notes sending the crowd into a frenzy. Her dancers moved around her in perfect synchronization, a kaleidoscope of color and movement, but she remained the undeniable focal point. She was magnetic, powerful and impossibly present.

I couldn't help myself; my body started moving to the beat, my hips swaying as I held my microphone, temporarily forgetting I was here to work, not fangirl. But it was Bailey fucking Hill, and I was standing close enough to see the sweat on her forehead, the fierce determination in her eyes as she hit a particularly challenging note.

I felt Jackson shift beside me, steadying the camera on his shoulder as he captured the performance. We'd fallen into this routine over the past year. He’d film while I hosted, the perfect team both on and off camera. Together, we'd built something that neither of us could have created alone.

“You're dancing,”

Jackson said into my ear, his voice amused but professional enough that anyone watching wouldn't catch the intimacy in his tone.

“Can you blame me?”

I shot back, grinning at him over my shoulder before returning my attention to the stage.

Bailey launched into her latest hit, the one that had been at the top of the charts for eleven weeks straight. The crowd went wild and thousands of lights illuminating the stands like stars. I'd been nervous about this event for weeks with all its implications, but in this moment, I felt nothing but pure, unadulterated joy.

When the song reached its climax, Bailey hit an impossible note as fireworks exploded overhead, perfectly timed with the music. I felt my heart swell, my breath catching at the sheer spectacle of it all.

“This is incredible,”

I said into my mic, knowing we'd use this footage for the intro to my segment. “Bailey Hill is giving the performance of a lifetime here at Super Bowl LIX.”

As the final song ended with another explosion of fireworks and light, I turned toward the camera, slipping effortlessly into my professional persona despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

“That was Bailey Hill, everyone. Absolutely breathtaking.”

I glanced back at the stage where the crews were already breaking down the elaborate set with military precision. “Stay tuned, as we might just get a few words with her after this.”

Jackson lowered the camera, giving me the signal that we'd stopped recording. His smile was proud, a little impressed, and something else, something heated that made my stomach flip despite having been together for years now.

“You killed that,”

he said, stepping closer. “Didn't miss a beat even with Bailey ten feet away.”

“Pure professionalism,”

I replied with a laugh, though we both knew I'd been barely holding it together.

The field was hectic as the halftime show equipment was cleared and the teams began returning for the second half. I spotted Tanner and Devin among the Crossbills players warming up near the sideline. Jackson noticed them too and waved to catch their attention.

“Hey!”

Jackson called out, motioning them over. They jogged to the sideline, helmets in hand, looking simultaneously focused and amped up from the break.

“Great first half,”

Jackson said, bumping fists with both of them. “You guys are crushing it.”

Devin grinned with all the confidence and swagger you’d expect from one of the best defensive lineman in the league. “Just wait for the second half. We’re going to keep pushing.”

Tanner, on the other hand, looked... different. Intense in a way that went beyond normal game focus. His eyes kept darting to the luxury boxes above us, and there was a tension in his jaw I'd never seen before.

“You good?”

Jackson asked him, evidently noticing the same thing.

Tanner nodded, seeming to come back to himself. “Yeah. I'm good. Better than good.”

A small smile played at his lips, the kind that suggested he knew something we didn't. As if we didn’t know what his plans were for after the game. “We've got this.”

“Hell yeah, you do,”

I said, genuinely meaning it.

A coach called their names, and they jogged back to the team, Devin slapping Tanner on the shoulder as they went. Jackson watched them go with a thoughtful expression.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out.

“We’ve got to go. Bailey’s publicist says I get ten minutes with her right now.”

Jackson's face split into a huge grin. “Where?”

“Tunnel entrance, east side,”

I read, already moving, adrenaline making my steps quick and light. “In five minutes.”

We navigated through the sideline crowd with Jackson's hand at the small of my back, guiding me through the chaos. My mind was racing, mentally sorting through the questions I'd prepared, trying to decide which ones to prioritize given the limited time.

“You've got this,”

Jackson said as we approached the tunnel. “Just like we practiced.”

I nodded, taking a deep breath to center myself. This was my moment, the opportunity I'd been working toward for years. Bailey Hill wasn't just a singer; she was an icon, a voice of our generation, and I was about to interview her on the biggest stage in sports.

The interview went by in a blur. Bailey was everything I'd hoped—gracious, articulate, funny, and disarmingly normal despite her superstar status. We talked about her performance, her upcoming album, her fashion line. The ten minutes stretched to fifteen as we fell into an easy rhythm of conversation.

When it was over, her publicist pulled her away to another obligation, but not before Bailey squeezed my hand and said, “Great questions. Not the usual bullshit. Hit me up next time you're in LA.”

I maintained my composure until she was out of sight, then turned to Jackson with wide eyes.

“Did that just happen? Did Bailey Hill just tell me to hit her up in LA?”

Jackson laughed, lowering the camera. “She did, and you earned it. That was the best interview I've seen you do. Period.”

“I need to record an outro,”

I said, trying to refocus despite the surge of emotions threatening to overwhelm me. “While it's still fresh.”

We found a quieter spot in the tunnel, and I delivered a wrap-up for the segment, my voice somehow steady despite the fact that my insides were doing cartwheels. Jackson gave me a thumbs up as I finished, letting me know we'd gotten what we needed.

“Ready to head back up to the box?”

he asked, starting to pack away some of his equipment. “Game's about to restart.”

I nodded, but as I watched him work. His movements were quick, his forearms flexing as he secured the camera, and another wave of adrenaline hit me. Or maybe it wasn't adrenaline at all, but something else entirely. Something sparked by the night, the success, and the sight of Jackson in his fitted button-down, sleeves rolled to expose his forearms, and the baseball cap he put on for filming.

He must have felt me watching because he looked up, his expression changing as he caught my gaze.

“What?”

he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew.

I glanced around. The tunnel was mostly empty now, everyone either back in the stadium or in the locker rooms. Without a word, I grabbed his hand and pulled him around a corner, into a shadowed alcove where maintenance equipment was stored.

“Thea—”

he started, but I cut him off, rising on my toes to press my lips to his.

He responded instantly with one hand cupping the back of my neck while the other found my waist, pulling me against him. The kiss deepened, quickly turning hungry and urgent. We couldn’t help it. The adrenaline after being front row on the field at the Super Bowl, living our dream was too much to fight.

And whenever something big happened, it always ended with a bang… literally.

Jackson’s back hit the wall, and I pressed against him, feeling his erection through his dress pants. His mouth moved to my neck, finding that spot just below my ear that always made me gasp.

“Someone could come by,”

he murmured against my skin, though his hands were already sliding under my blouse, contradicting his words.

“Don't care,”

I breathed, my own hands working at his belt. “You owe me for the flight.”

His pushed my hands away, growling something unintelligible before he spun us so I was the one resting my back against the wall. His hands moved down my ribs and he slipped his fingers into my pants, dipping into my underwear.

No foreplay. No kisses. Just a man on a mission to get me off as quickly as possible and I couldn’t deny how much that turned me on.

“God, you're already wet,”

he said, his voice rough with want.

“It’s what thinking about you does to me,”

I joked breathlessly, earning a sharp nip at my collarbone.

“Funny,”

he muttered as he slipped two fingers inside me.

So good.

I bit my lip to keep from making noise as he worked me, his movements quick and confident. He knew what he was doing. Knew exactly how to touch me, where to apply pressure, when to slow down and speed up. He’d gotten me off in so many different ways and places, I was already close to coming from his deft fingers.

“Jackson,”

I gasped, my head falling back against the wall as tension built inside me.

“I've got you,”

he assured me, his free hand coming up to cradle my face and his thumb brushed my lower lip. “Let go.”

And I did, coming apart against his hand, my body shuddering as waves of pleasure washed over me. He swallowed my moan with another kiss; it was deep and possessive, his fingers working me through the aftershocks.

When I could breathe again, I looked up at him, taking in his flushed face and darkened eyes. “We should—”

“Yeah,”

he agreed, understanding what I meant. “Later. The hotel room. I'm going to take my time with you.”

The promise in his voice sent another shiver through me as he gently fixed my clothing, making sure I was presentable again. I returned the favor, straightening his collar, and ran my fingers through his hair to tame it.

“Might need your baseball cap after that.”

His face pulled into a familiar smirk. “Wow, Pyro. Been waiting years for you to appreciate my hat, and now you do. The one time I don’t have it?”

I shrugged. “I’m a fickle pillow princess.”

“Correct, but you’re mine.”

The heat in his eyes was stirring something it really shouldn’t. Not after the orgasm.

“We should get back,”

I said, though I made no move to leave our hidden corner. “The others will wonder where we are.”

He laughed, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. “They really won't. But yeah, let's go watch our boys win this thing.”

We snuck out of the tunnel and joined the flow of people heading back to their seats, ready for the second half. My body was humming with pleasure from Jackson and I was still rocking a high from interviewing Bailey Fucking Hill.

The security guard barely glanced at our credentials as we made our way back to the luxury suite level. Jackson's hand found mine, his thumb traced idle patterns on my skin as we walked.

“Ready for whatever comes next?”

he asked, and though he was talking about the game, I heard the deeper question.

I squeezed his hand. “With you? Always.”

We pushed open the door to our friends' luxury box, greeted by cheers and raised glasses. If anyone noticed my slightly disheveled appearance or the lingering flush on my cheeks, they didn't mention it.

I'd barely settled into a seat when my phone buzzed again. I glanced down, expecting a message from a colleague about the Bailey interview, but instead saw a text from Bailey's publicist that made my heart stop for the second time that night.

Bailey loved your questions. Wants to do an extended sit-down for your podcast when the tour hits California next month. Exclusive. You in?

I grabbed Jackson's arm, wordlessly showing him the message, unable to form coherent speech.

He read it, his eyes widening before his face split into that proud smile that always made my heart flip. “Told you,”

he said simply, pressing a kiss to my temple. “You've earned this.”

As the teams took the field for the second half, I felt an overwhelming sense of pride. My brother was down there playing. I was surrounded by friends, and being supported by the most loving man to have ever existed.

Jackson smiled at me, and I felt it down to my toes.

This was it.

It didn’t matter who won the game tonight, we’d all already won.

And from the look on Jackson’s face, there were plenty more celebrations to come tonight.