Page 20

20

BLAKELY

Honestly, I’m glad I didn’t wear a sweater.

Once the music ramps up in the stadium and the cheerleaders line up along the entrance of the tunnel, I’m sweating. A video starts on the jumbotron, but I don’t look away from the tunnel, counting down the seconds in my head as I wait for Jamie to appear.

Nathan’s vibrating beside me, his focus on every inch of the show being put on. This is his future; I feel it deep down in my soul.

Someone in a Pythons jersey runs down the path created by the cheerleaders with a giant orange and black flag in his hands. The open-mouthed Python on the flag ripples as it catches a small breeze.

A deep voice rings out through the stadium, and my pulse kicks up a notch. I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I fold my arms. It doesn’t feel right, so I drop them and press my palms to my thighs. That still isn’t right, but I don’t switch it up. If I keep twitching, the only headline coming out about me and Jamie is that he chose a weirdo to be his wife.

Keep it cool, Blakely .

“Oh, God,” I breathe out when smoke fills the air beside the first set of cheerleaders and bodies start appearing from the tunnel.

We didn’t go over anything. Didn’t plan how we’d do this—and we’re so screwed. It’s going to be terrible and awkward. I’ll never get over the embarrassment.

Nathan steps into my space and takes my hand while waving his other one. I squeeze the shit out of his fingers and keep my eyes trained on the players emerging.

Jamie’s second out of the tunnel.

Even with a helmet and bulky equipment on, I know it’s him. The tall length of his body, flexing fingers at his sides, and the hand that goes up to wave at the crowd screams Jamie.

He only confirms my suspicions when he skips down the field and lifts both arms into the air in a louder motion. I nip at the inside of my cheek and watch him holler into the stadium, his white teeth flashing behind the bars of his helmet.

I think that’ll be it. That he’ll put on a bit of a show and then go to the bench with his team. Oh, am I ever wrong. Instead of doing that, he turns and jogs right for me.

My breath stalls in my throat. The gasps from the fans behind me are so loud they echo in my ears. Nate tightens his hold on my hand as if to calm me down, and I don’t have the heart to tell him it isn’t working.

Jamie takes his helmet off, leaving it banging against his thigh as he slows his pace, getting closer and closer. His gaze is electric as he looks at me and grins so damn wide that some of my nerves dissipate.

With his football gear, he towers over me. His normally wide shoulders are bigger, and with the short sleeves of his jersey, those thick biceps corded with never-ending muscle are exposed, rippling with every brief stretch. It’s outright arm porn, and I’m struggling to catch my breath in front of him right now.

I’ve heard of a puck bunny, but is there an equivalent term for football? A ball chaser? Fuck it, the only balls I’d ever contemplate chasing are Jamie’s, and even then, I’d prefer not to do any literal chasing. Or have anything to do with balls.

“Smile at me, Bandit,” he says, voice low as he moves in close. “And please hug me back, or this is going to look really awkward.”

Warm, strong arms slip around my body, folding me against a firm chest. I release a tight breath and slowly wind my arms around Jamie, feeling the padding beneath his jersey and the scrape of the fabric against my palms.

It’s hard to tune out the cheers and bright flashes of cameras around us. Even with my eyes shut, I can see every white light and hear the various reactions from the fans.

Jamie palms my lower back with the gloved hand not holding his helmet, and I move, bringing my face to his chest. I’m hidden here, only growing more so when he adjusts his position and guards me with his arms. Something hot and sharp digs into my chest, and I squeeze my eyes tighter against the burn.

I’m protected. Even if just for as long as I’m right here.

“Good luck, Jamie,” I whisper.

His hold tightens, hand wandering up my spine to press me closer. “With you here? I’ll play the best I ever have.”

I can’t tell if he’s teasing or not, so I just assume he is.

He slowly releases me, moving carefully enough that I have time to prepare myself for reality again before it smacks me in the face.

Keeping his head dipped, he brings his mouth to my ear, softly breathing on the shell. “I’m going to kiss your cheek again, and if you’re feeling frisky, you can smack my ass when I turn away.”

The tease in his voice has me snorting a laugh. He grins against my cheek before pressing his lips to it, lingering there for a few moments.

Once he’s stepped away, I ignore the sudden change in temperature and watch as he fist bumps Nate .

“Keep your sister safe for me, buddy. And don’t forget to have fun,” he tells him.

Nate nods firmly. “You got it.”

Jamie rubs a hand over Nate’s hair and offers me a quirked, goading smile. His brows bounce around, and I follow my gut, waiting for him to spin around before acting.

“Go show off, Pretty Boy,” I call while whipping a hand out and smacking his ass.

The immediate recoil is far more attractive than I was anticipating, but it has nothing on the wink Jamie shoots my way on his way to his team. The finger he keeps pointed at me with every single step draws even more attention to us.

It’s another claiming. And for the first time since I agreed to this, I’m starting to really believe that we can pull this off.

And by the time Jamie and the team set up for another play in the second quarter, I’m still fairly confident in that statement. He’s gotten three touchdowns so far, and while I was expecting some sort of big production when he scored, he’s kept his reactions pretty plain. Nate, along with the entire stadium, was weirdly silent when he celebrated his latest touchdown with a simple hip-swinging dance.

To me, it looked fine. But Nathan pointed out that I only felt that way because I’d never seen his usual celebration. Whatever that means.

“I wonder if something’s wrong with him,” Nate mumbles, eyeing whom I’ve learned is the quarterback when he sets up on the field.

Jamie finishes talking to another member of their team and then tucks his mouthguard in while taking his position. Bending forward, he claps his hands between his thighs and points at the player opposing him. When he turns his hand upside down and makes a walking motion with two of his fingers, it’s obvious to everyone that he’s goading him.

“He looks fine to me, Nate,” I muse .

“Maybe he’s feeling sore or something. He’s never so boring when he scores a TD.”

“Dancing is boring?”

Nate huffs. “It is compared to what he usually does.”

“Okay, and what does he usually do?”

“Shh, they’re about to start the play.”

I bite my tongue, letting it go. Nate’s completely zoned in to the action, waiting and waiting . . . before whooping loudly. The noise hits me, and I’m instantly on high alert, narrowing my eyes on the players separating on the field.

The quarterback is retreating with the ball in his hands, his head on a swivel as he searches for someone to pass to. Nate lurches forward a step when the football cuts through the air in a perfect spiral, aimed right for Jamie.

My fiancé is already moving. He cuts through a circle of players and spins, evading the same one who he was taunting and continuing to sprint alongside the ball.

I hold still, a wince building in preparation for seeing him get plowed down. The last thing I want is for him to get hurt, and that’s the thing with football. It’s always a possibility.

Free healthcare in Canada is the biggest benefit we’ve had with Nate’s love of the sport. The number of cuts and broken bones he’s had would have bankrupted us without it.

With my hand gripping my shoulder, I wait and watch. Then, the crowd is erupting at the same time I am. I jump when Jamie slips past the closest player and leaps off his feet to snatch the ball and tuck it close before speeding off down the field.

He’s incredibly fast. For someone his height and with his bulk, it doesn’t seem like he should be able to move that fast. But he’s left everyone in the dust.

Nate clutches my arm, silently watching Jamie get closer to the end zone by the second. The coach has moved closer to the lines along the edge of the field, his clipboard held as tight as Jamie’s holding the ball.

It all happens so fast .

One second, Jamie is still sprinting, and the next, he’s crossing into the end zone and smashing the ball on the turf. The fans scream while the cheerleaders dance and chant, their pompoms swooshing. Nate’s cheering into his domed hands, and the staff near us are clapping.

It’s chaos. Even without the score being close and this being a deciding touchdown, the celebration is incredible.

“He’s amazing!” Nate shouts, looking up at me with stars in his eyes. “I can’t believe we were here to see that!”

“Yeah, he’s pretty good.” I bump our shoulders and keep Jamie in my sights.

With a blown kiss to the crowd, he leaves the ball where it lies on the turf and starts back our way. Instead of doing the same dance as earlier in the game, he changes course completely and doesn’t come the entire distance to the sidelines.

Nathan’s excitement is potent in the space around us, and even without him telling me what Jamie’s doing, I piece it together myself.

Jamie stops in the centre of the field and stares at me. Despite the distance between us, his eyes are so bright, alive with adrenaline and a love for this sport. They hook mine, and I keep still, afraid that if I move, the moment will end.

Shouts from those behind and around us make my ears throb as Jamie stretches his arms in front of him and shoots an invisible arrow at me.

“Point at him, Lake,” Nathan whisper hisses.

I don’t question the order, pointing at the proud football player. My friend. The man who’s shown me more kindness than anyone else ever has.

He grins and mouths the words for you .

The crowd erupts beyond any level I’ve heard yet tonight, and if it weren’t for the security that’s surrounded us in the past few moments and the swarm of reporters, I’d be looking into a camera right now.

That’s what I’m supposed to want. It points to us doing a good job and is a whole lot safer than wishing I could cut across the field and tell him that despite my lack of knowledge and passion for this sport, I’m proud of him.

Especially when we only have a few more months of this. Then . . . then there will be someone else on the sidelines catching his invisible arrows.