Page 128 of The Elusive Billionaire

We race out of the inn to her idling car. If Grey is seriously learning how to line dance, this is an opportunity I can’t pass up.

Ten minutes later, we’re parked on the far side of the football field and tiptoeing along the fence that will lead us to a break in the chain link and straight to the bleachers while Cole Swindel plays through the loudspeaker.

“Where are Madi and Clover?” I whisper.

Elle points to the backside of the bleachers, and sure enough, Madi, Clover, and Braxton are belly-down in the dirt, spying on something.

This is going to be a disaster, I can feel it.

With the entire team facing the visitors’ goalpost, we’re able to slide under the bleachers without being seen, but the idea of dropping to my belly where there’s 100 percent certainty that beer is the number one ingredient in the dirt is not something I’m super excited to do.

“Get down here,” Madi whispers. She tugs on my hand, and I drop to my knees.

The amount of germs and DNA under here is enough to make me dry heave.

“Look,” Clover whispers on Madi’s other side. At least she was smart and brought a blanket to sit on.

I don’t get as close as them because the last thing I want to do is lie face down in someone’s backwash, but I’m close enough to peer out between the metal slats.

I track line after line of white football pants before I finally land on a pair of gray slacks.

Greyson Reyes has never followed the rules. Not when Coach B. coerced him into helping out with the quarterbacks, not when the assistant coach roped him into working on special teams, and not now, when the boys should be running and pushing sleds across the field.

Instead, Grey stands in gray suit pants that cost more than my monthly mortgage and a white undershirt that clings to every muscle.

Ethan, a local kid and starting lineman, stands in front of them all, counting the beat like a maestro while demonstrating each move.

And holy hell. I think we just found the one thing Greyson Reyes isn’t the master of—the man has two left feet.

The team sways to the right, but Grey slides left and slams into a running back.

Then the team twirls with two stomps while Grey swings the wrong way and gets his foot clobbered by our center.

“Ow,” Braxton moans with sympathy pains. “That had to hurt.”

“H—how is he so bad at this?” My wide-eyed gaze can’t break away from poor Grey, who’s clearly agitated but refusing to give up.

“They’ve already been at it for an hour,” Clover whispers.

Five rows of football players move forward. The center lineman scoops up Grey so he doesn’t knock him over because Grey is the only one moving backward.

The snickers from under the bleachers grow louder, and although I’m smiling, I don’t like anyone else making fun of him.

“Shh.” I feel all eyes on me, but I don’t give them my attention.

Poor Grey.

Ethan blows a whistle, and all the football players look to Grey, presumably to see what he’ll do next. Grey is known for requiring perfection, and on more than one occasion has made the entire team run many miles after a less-than-stellar performance.

“Okay, let’s try this a different way.” Ethan is a giant kid, and his voice booms across the field. “Ever seen the movieDirty Dancing?”

Braxton rolls over and bites his arm to keep from howling.

Greyson must voice some kind of opinion because the players around him all take a step back.

“Well, do you want to figure this out or not?” Ethan fires back.

“Uncle Grey,” Sage says, pushing his way to the front.