Page 16

CHAPTER FOURTEEN-KOA

It’s our first friendly against the NOLA Casters.

The kind of match that shouldn’t be this big of a deal.

Just a warm-up, an exhibition. But for me?

My head’s a fucking war zone.

Because I haven’t been sleeping.

Not properly.

Not since I started spending my nights wrapped around a smart-mouthed, sweet-tasting, impossible-to-ignore redhead.

Finley.

My Red.

God, she’s more than I ever could’ve imagined. Wild and warm and completely real.

She laughs with her whole chest, rolls her eyes at my grunts, and kisses like she knows I’ll never be the same afterward.

Being with her is easy. Too easy.

And that’s what fucks with me most.

Because now I know. With absolute certainty.

She’s it.

I’ve been with women before—casual, quick, no promises.

But Finley? She feels like home. She fits into the cracks I didn’t even know I had. And suddenly, the stakes feel impossibly high.

We haven’t done more than kissed. Haven’t touched again since the night behind the snack shed.

Not because I don’t want her.

Fuck, I do.

I want her every second I breathe. I ache for her.

Physically, emotionally, viscerally.

But I want more than some rushed, desperate fuck in public. I want her in a bed.

My bed .

I want her spread out and moaning, every inch of her marked by me. I want her after. Morning coffee, lazy kisses, her laugh echoing in my kitchen.

And that means I need to get my shit together.

Because if this thing is going to work—if I want to keep Finley in my life and I do, more than anything—I have to stay in the States.

And that means playing. Winning . Showing them that I’m not just a body on the field, but the fucking backbone of this team.

Coach says our next match is back in Consequence, and I’m so fucking stoked at the idea of returning.

Going back to where this all started.

Back there with her means maybe, finally, I can make things real between us.

But I can’t think about that now.

Not with the Casters pushing hard and Tank yelling in my ear.

“What the fuck, bro! Get your head on straight!”

We’re down one try, and I know he’s right.

I’m off. My reactions are half a second slow.

My tackles too shallow. My grip not tight enough.

I shake my head, breathing hard, and turn my gaze toward the sideline.

And there she is.

My Red .

Camera in hand, eyebrows drawn together in a tight little frown as she watches the ref check out the last guy I slammed into the turf.

Her expression isn’t angry.

She’s not a groupie or fan looking for the next fella who’s better than me,

No. She’s concerned for me .

And just like that, the noise falls away.

The roar of the crowd, the slam of cleats on turf, the whistle’s sharp cry—it all fades into white static.

All I see is her.

And I know, deep in my chest, beneath the sweat and pressure and roaring adrenaline that I have to win this.

Not for the team.

Not even for the coach.

For her.

Because if I fuck this up, if I let myself fall too deep and lose my edge, I could lose everything.

My spot. My career. My chance to stay close to her.

To build something with her.

To keep her.

And that’s not an option. Not anymore.

My jaw tightens. I slam my shoulder pads back into place, crack my knuckles, and glare at the opposing line.

Fine.

Let’s fucking go.