As the next song blasts through the speakers, as Dylan thrusts a drink in my hand and I’m swallowed up by the celebration around me, I make a second promise. One to myself. I promise I will never again step outside the friend zone and try for more. I will bury these feelings until they don’t exist and never think of Chase Sullivan as anything other than my best friend.
PRESENT DAY
ONE
CHASE
@BroncoBelle22:I already bought the dress for our wedding. Just tell me what size ring you wear.#ChasingLove
@FutureMrsQB:Delete Tinder. Forget anyone else. I’m your endgame. #ChasingLove
@ILovePBramen:I make peanut butter ramen too. Soulmates?? #ChasingLove
@Stormhawks4Life:My cousin’s neighbor would be PERFECT for you. She’s twenty-six, loves football, and has no food allergies. DM me for her number! #ChasingLove
I slip out of the east wing exit of the Stormhawks stadium and duck behind a Gatorade cart, crouching like I’m starring in Mission Impossible: Quarterback Edition. The September night air has that early-fall chill, and the glow from the stadium lights casts long shadows across the emptying lot.
From the south exit comes a screech of excitement, and I guess my older brother and teammate, Jake, has just made hisappearance like we planned. Hopefully giving enough of a show to distract the waiting fans. Normally, I love signing autographs and posing for selfies, but after last week’s away game to the Wildhorns when a woman in a tight-fitting Stormhawks jersey tried to handcuff herself to my wrist, I’m taking no chances tonight. The LA security team thought it was funny. I did not. Which is why I’m sneaking out of my own stadium after a Sunday night home game like I’m fifteen instead of twenty-eight, dodging Mama’s curfew.
It’s my own stupid fault the female fans have gone wild. It started last month. After we’d won the first game of the season against the Cincinnati Ironclads. I was doing a post-game press conference with Coach Allen when a reporter asked me about my love life. The question was a follow-up to the story from my ex, Jen, who, three months into the first relationship I’ve had in years, pulled the “you’re not ready” breakup card, before selling the details to a gossip magazine.
One story that got picked up, twisted and paraphrased by the gossip sites hungry for clicks. And that’s all it was—a story. In her version, I was a hopeless jock who couldn’t commit, who could barely tie his own cleats let alone hold down a relationship. What she left out was the reality: three months where I booked last-minute flights to New York just to sit front row at her runway shows. Three months of letting her pick the restaurants so we could be photographed in the right places. Three months where she never once came to Denver, never once stood in the sky box at a pre-season game, never even asked to see my home on Oakwood Ranch.
Chase, care to comment on Jennifer Hollister telling StarScene that you’re destined to be single for your entire life?
I blinked into the bright lights and the room of journalists waiting for my reply. My head was still on the last touchdownand the win we’d just pulled off, not on my personal life, and I didn’t think before answering.
Maybe I am, I said with a rueful smile.Maybe love isn’t on the cards for me, and that’s fine. Football’s got all my heart right now.
One moment of raw honesty, and suddenly I’m the internet’s favorite dating fantasy. Now it feels like half the women in Colorado have made it their personal mission to find me true love. Chasing Love might look cute on TikTok, but in real life it feels like full-contact chaos, and I forgot my helmet. My DMs have been blowing up for weeks, my face is plastered on dating memes, and women are waiting for me after games waving signs like “Future Mrs. Sullivan.” Which is why I’ve roped Jake in as a distraction as I sneak across the parking lot.
Giving a final check the lot is clear, I sling my gym bag over my aching shoulder and make a break for Jake’s truck and my ride to The Hay Barn. My mind is on that first sip of cold beer when I spot a familiar blue truck and an even more familiar blonde standing beside it. My feet change direction before my brain catches up. Just like they did when I was nine years old and first saw Serena Hayes and her big smile and her sparkly gold sneakers in Miss Fenton’s third-grade class. Too busy staring at her sky-blue eyes to look where I was going, sending Miss Fenton’s worksheets flying as I fell flat on my face. Classic. Five minutes later, she laughed at a joke I didn’t think anyone else heard and we’ve been best friends ever since.
And right now, she’s standing by the driver’s door of her truck, toned arms folded, the lights from the parking lot catching in her long blonde waves. She has big Bambi eyes that miss nothing, a small nose with the tiniest upturn, and rosebud lips that lift at the edges whenever she laughs at my dumb jokes.
Serena is smart as hell, knows the capital of every country, and shares weird facts about cloud formations like it’s hotgossip. She’s the only person I know who’s obsessed with the weather. She even put herself through night school to study meteorology and has her own YouTube channel—Weather with Serena—dedicated to the weather of Denver and Colorado.
And because she’s also my best friend, I can tell just from the way she’s standing that she’s tense. Shoulders too stiff, chin tilted up like she’s bracing for something. That’s when I spot who’s with her. Ryan Kessler. He’s nice-looking in that polished, doesn’t-get-his-hands-dirty way. All tailored shirts and expensive cologne. Ryan’s in backroom management for the Stormhawks, handling logistics, budgets, and staffing coordination, and not someone I have anything to do with, except for the fact he’s spent most of this year as Serena’s boyfriend, up until they broke up a month ago.
Ryan’s back is to me, but I’m close enough to hear the conversation.
“It’s dinner, Serena,” he says. “Not a marriage proposal. I just want a chance to prove I’ve changed.”
“It’s too late,” Serena replies. “We’re over, Ryan. Please accept that.”
“I can’t.” Ryan’s tone is whiny as he takes another step closer to Serena. And that’s when something instinctive sparks in me. I break into a jog and reach Serena’s side in seconds, angling myself in front of her like I’m on defense, shielding her from a blindside hit. One more move from Ryan and he’ll be on the ground.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, flashing her a smile. “You ready to go?”
Serena blinks. We weren’t planning to meet tonight, but any confusion is pushed aside by the relief on her face.
“I was ready ten minutes ago,” she says as I open the driver’s door for her and she slides in.
I glance back at Ryan with my most golden quarterback smile. “Oh, hey, Ryan. Didn’t see you there.”
The muscles in his jaw tick. He knows I saw him. Just as we both know I cut right through his little powerplay and don’t give a damn.
I jog around to the passenger side and hop in, throwing my gym bag to the back seat beside Serena’s usual haul: her own gym clothes, a pair of slightly scuffed pom-poms, and a yoga mat rolled tight. There’s also a box of granola bars and candy she keeps stocked to hand out to her cheer squad at every practice because she’s not just one of the cheer coaches now, she’s also taken on the role of team mom to all of them, too. The box is sitting on a stack of dog-eared meteorology magazines.