She laughs, and damn it, I love that sound.
I really need to hang up before I walk onto the field under very, very unfortunate and uncomfortable conditions.
I sigh, tilting my phone so she can't see the very real effect she's having on me. "I gotta go. I'll call you later."
She hums, twirling her pen between her fingers. "Mmm, maybe I'll wear this outfit to our next tutoring session. You know, just to keep things…interesting."
I groan again, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Bye, baby."
"Later, hotshot." Her laugh is the last thing I hear before I hang up.
I toss my phone onto the bench, staring at the ceiling for a moment before muttering under my breath, "I am so fucked."
31
JAXON
Game day.
The energy is electric, a tangible buzz that vibrates through the stadium, through the locker room, through my veins. This is it—the last regular season game, our shot at a perfect record, my final chance to impress scouts before the playoffs.
Coach's pre-game speech is short, intense. He doesn't need to say much—we all know what's at stake.
As we run out onto the field, the roar of the crowd hits me like a physical force. The stadium is packed, a sea of school colors swaying and cheering. I scan the stands automatically, my eyes finding her without even trying.
Madison stands with Lyla, wearing my away jersey—the one I gave her after the last home game. My number is stretched across her back, my name above it. Something primal and possessive stirs in my chest at the sight.
She catches my eye and smiles, and just like that, I'm locked in. I’m ready.
The first half is brutal. Their defense is as good as advertised, their coverage tight, their line putting pressure on our quarterback every snap. I manage a few catches, but nothing big, nothinggame-changing. By halftime, we're down by three, the mood in the locker room tense but determined.
Coach makes adjustments, pointing out weaknesses we can exploit. I listen intently, mentally cataloging the defensive patterns I've noticed, the tendencies of the cornerback covering me.
"Montgomery," Coach says, his eyes locking on mine. "They're playing you tight. That safety's cheating your way every time. We need to make them pay for it."
I nod, understanding the implication. "Double move?"
He smirks. "Let's see if he bites."
Third quarter starts strong—we drive down the field and score a field goal, tying the game. The defense holds, forcing a punt, and we get the ball back with good field position.
And then, it happens.
The play call comes in: Falcon Right, Z Post, Y Drag. My route. My moment.
I line up wide, eyes focused downfield, mind clear. The ball is snapped. I push off the line hard, selling the corner route with everything I've got. One step, two, then a sharp cut inside. The cornerback bites, the safety hesitates, and suddenly—I'm open.
The ball spirals through the air, a perfect arc. Time slows. I track it, adjust my stride, and stretch out, fingers grasping leather just before my feet touch the end zone.
Touchdown.
The stadium erupts.
We pull ahead and never look back. The defense locks down, the offense finds its rhythm, and by the fourth quarter, we're up by ten with two minutes left. The other team is desperate, taking chances, forcing passes.
And then, with thirty seconds on the clock, I see it—the tell. The safety shifts his weight back, just like I told Madison. I adjust my route mid-stride, finding the soft spot in the zone, and our quarterback sees it too.
The ball is in the air before I've even made my break. I snag it out of the air and turn up field, one defender to beat.
