When we filed off the field with the crowd going wild, I waved my pompoms together and struggled to catch my breath. My heart was pounding in my ears, lungs strained, but I was so giddy I practically floated to our spot on the sidelines.
And as it happened, I floated right past Braden Lock.
I knew it was him by the number on his chest, by the build of his body, by the way he carried himself through warmups and stretches in the familiar way he had all preseason. My favorite parts of him were hidden beneath his helmet, but I saw his gaze through the mask — laser focused, in it to win.
I willed him to look at me, as if I had some kind of power over the universe. If I did, then it was certainly broken. I’d been trying to coyly get his attention for weeks now to no avail. It was like he decided during the preseason that I was a distraction he couldn’t afford to have.
He hadn’t so much as looked at me since.
And in my gut, I knew that was likely the case. He’d told me as much. I wouldn’t claim to know everything about him, but I knew enough to understand why football mattered so much to him, why this career weighed more than I originally thought. Maybe I’d been a little judgmental; assuming he was rich, assuming he was just another cocky athlete playboy, assuming he would want to get in trouble just as much as I did.
Braden Lock didn’t fit inside the box I’d tried to shove him into.
Sadly for me, it only made me more drawn to him than before.
Blinking, I focused on my own job, the one I’d auditioned for and fought so hard to get. I waved at fans, joined in with my team when our captain started a dance, and felt that energy buzzing through me like a current as we drew nearer to kick off.
When I turned to face the field with the rest of my team to watch the first play, my eyes floated to Braden again.
He was on the sidelines as our defense took the field, his helmet off for the moment. His hair was already damp from warmups, the eye black smeared under his eyes doing something for me that I couldn’t quite name.
Look at me, I begged again.
And then my prayer was answered.
Braden blinked, and as if it was in slow motion, he angled his head toward where the dancers were, like he was trying to talk himself out of his next move.
But his eyes swept from the turf up to where we stood, and in a flash, those honey eyes found me.
The stadium disappeared.
Sixty-eight-thousand people, the music, the announcer booming through the speakers — all of it dimmed to static in the background as that gaze locked onto mine.
There it was again — that exposed wire.
Only this time, I didn’t pull back fast enough to stop the damage.
I felt my nerves frying, my muscles seizing, saliva pooling in my mouth.
The heat from that distant gaze alone was enough to make me feel stripped bare. My pulse stumbled, my stomach flipping like I’d just stepped off a ledge.
Now I found myself wishing Iwasstripped bare — preferably by him. I wondered if he’d strip himself first, or if he’d let me have the pleasure. Honestly, I hoped for the latter. I longed to peel that sweaty uniform off him slowly, to feel the jersey slick against my wrists as I slid my hands under the hem and pushed it up and over his head.
Like he could read my thoughts, Braden’s face reddened, his throat tightening around his next swallow.
Then he tore his gaze away, the sound of the stadium rushing back to me as my senses tried to right themselves.
He didn’t look at me the rest of the game.
And for some reason, the roar of the crowd didn’t hit quite the same after that.
Braden
“Great game, Lock.”
The voice came behind the pounding of a hand on my chest, and I almost didn’t register the smiling face the voice belonged to. It was Victor Clemens, our wide receiver coach, a broad-shouldered man in his late fifties who beamed at me as he passed.
It was a fleeting comment, one said with goodwill, and yet it left my stomach sour.