For a second, when our eyes meet, I feel a whisper of something long-forgotten burning inside me…
ELEVEN
SERENA
RYAN:Hey beautiful, can we meet soon? Official Stormhawks business, I promise!
HARPER:Good luck with the fake-kiss 2.0 tonight, S!
MIA:Remember—lip contact AND longing glances. No half-measures.
SERENA:Thought we did that two weeks ago!
SERENA:We’re also faking a sleepover tonight. But actually staying over. Think I’m confusing myself.
HARPER:Do a late-night selfie on the bed. Mood lighting. Slightly tousled hair.
MIA:#morningaftervibes
SERENA:And I thought things couldn’t get any weirder.
The roar of the crowd hits me as I step out of the tunnel and onto the sidelines. The stadium is a sea of red and white and foam fingers and glittering signs. The buzz is electric, pulsing through the air like a live wire. I gulp it down, loving every second. Above us, the Sunday afternoon sun is bright, the temperature hovering in the late sixties, but with a slight drop in pressure that tells me another cold front is approaching from the northwest. I feel it in the subtle bite of the breeze. Classic fall shift and perfect game day weather.
Ahead of me, the cheer team fan out in perfect formation on the field, each one radiating focus, energy, and poise in their uniforms of white hotpants and red cropped tank tops—skintight and bearing the Stormhawks logo in shimmering silver thread. Their matching red sneakers thud in perfect rhythm against the turf, pom-poms flashing with every movement. And even though a part of me will always yearn to be on the field, I’m still happy to be on the sidelines in my coaching uniform of red leggings and a white and red Stormhawks hooded sweatshirt.
I tap the iPad in my hands, connecting me to the live TV display so I can see what the viewers at home are seeing as well as the crowd. We’ve spent the last two weeks, not to mention the last three hours, practicing every move of the opening sequence, the halftime show, and the short sideline dances they’ll perform between plays. Every one of them is at peak fitness and will give everything to keeping the energy high and the fans engaged.
Further down the sideline, the football coaches are gathering. I spot Coach Allen’s white hair and bushy mustache as he gathers his coaching staff for a final rundown of the plays. Beyond them are the opposition coaches from the Trailblazers—Chase’s old team. The tension is palpable. Both teams want this win, and I know Chase is feeling the extra pressure tonight afterthe Stormhawks lost last week’s game in Las Vegas against the Desertraptors.
We’re not playing our best as a team, and I don’t know why or what to do about it, he said a few days ago when we met for our regular mid-week coffee. It felt normal, like the hundreds of times we’ve grabbed coffee together, talking about our weeks, teasing each other like we always do. The only difference now is the location and the touching. Since the Hearts of Denver awards two weeks ago, we’ve chosen a bustling café near the stadium instead of Hank’s. Adding some PDA and trying to ignore the eyes on us from the other diners glancing over, phones discreetly angled our way.
Seeing my face splashed across the gossip sites is surreal. Photos of me walking arm in arm with Chase or staring into his eyes. It’s no coincidence my viewing figures for Weather with Serena have shot into the thousands. But instead of questions about storm tracks or cold fronts, every single comment is about Chase.Are you really dating him? Is he a good kisser? Are you moving in together?
And tomorrow morning, when I film my weather report from Chase’s apartment with him making a quick guest appearance, I already know it will fuel the gossip sites even more. The numbers will drop once this whole circus dies down. But a part of me hopes I might keep a few new followers who are actually interested in the weather and not in whether Chase Sullivan is “boyfriend material.”
At least it’s working. There were hardly any of the Chasing Love fans waiting for him after last week’s game, and despite his message today, Ryan hasn’t shown up at my Pilates class since Chase’s confrontation at the awards.
The first beat of music for the opening routine blasts through the stadium and my attention snaps back to the field. It’s my job to watch for errors and tiny slips, looking for the places we needto sharpen both with particular individuals and with the team as a whole. I’m also looking at this squad for the ones who stand out, who deserve their space and that front row position.
I glance down at the live feed playing on my iPad. Megan’s bright smile shines from the front row. Tonight’s routine, like every pre-game opening, is fast and demanding, packed with high-energy sequences, with the added pressure of a pyramid stunt that pushes their limits. It’s ambitious, but the girls are ready.
I hold my breath, only breathing again when the squad land the pyramid. Holly nails the back tuck. Jess sticks her heel stretch. As the last beat of the song rings out across the stadium, the squad drops as one into the splits, their legs straight, their chins tilted up, smiles wide, basking in the cheering crowds and that electric energy. I shout out praise as the squad run, pom-poms waving, to the sideline where they’ll get a short break before the next routine.
They hustle off the field with flushed cheeks, laughing and high-fiving. A cooler of sports drinks waits just inside the tunnel. It’s a fast turnover, not enough time to fully rest, but enough to catch their breath and refocus before heading back out to keep the crowd hyped.
“Nice work, girls!” I call, clapping hard. Pride floods me.
“You coming in, Coach?” Megan calls.
“In a sec. Gotta say hi to Chase first.”
She flashes a smile. “Oh man, maybe I should be a coach if it means I can date the hot QB.”
“Hell no, Megan. You keep your focus on the field. You were killing it out there.”
Her smile widens, and I know that praise will get her through her twelve-hour barista shift tomorrow.
Just then, Liv jogs over, her own tablet in hand, flushed cheeks glowing under the late-afternoon sun. She’s in the sameStormhawks coaching uniform as me, dark bob tucked behind her ears. The buzz in her eyes mirrors the one zipping through me.