The Rivalry

Somehow, on the war-torn field amongst all the people, I spotted Jay’s helmet. Cameras were extended up above the crowd, trying to take pictures, and I pushed my way through, fighting to get to him.

“Jay!” It’s not like he could hear me over all the screaming, but I didn’t know what else to do. I wormed my way deeper, trying to stay low and move fast. Every second more people poured onto the field and soon I wouldn’t be able to move at all.

Students climbed the goalposts. They jumped on them and tried to bring them down.

“Jay!” I screamed again. I’d gotten close, judging by the circle of cameras, but I couldn’t see him anymore. “Jay Harris!”

A hand shoved between two people, as if searching for something. I looked down at the blue and yellow glove and grabbed on. It retracted, pulling me along until I squeezed between the people and was suddenly face-to-face with him. Well, more like face-to-chest, staring at the blue jersey with the number eighty-eight printed in yellow. I looked up.

Jay pulled off his helmet and grinned. The eye black on his face was smudged with sweat. His forehead was red from the pads inside his helmet and he was still out of breath, but it didn’t stop him from pulling me up into his arms. He crushed his lips to mine.

I felt like I was floating. No, wait. When he lifted me, I wrapped my legs and arms around him, clinging to his shoulder pads as his powerful kiss slayed me. It was over too soon, but he pulled back just enough so I could stare into his deep eyes.

“I love you,” he said.

The world slowed to a stop.

My gasp was quieted under his lips as he kissed me again, but the Michigan fans’ sharp sounds of horror were very loud. The flashes of the cameras were so bright and constant, I could see them behind my closed eyelids. I didn’t care. I never wanted to stop kissing him.

Yet I broke away, more breathless now than he was. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

I’d been teasing, but he was completely serious. “No, I’m not. And why do I need to make you feel better? The team you were rooting for won.” He dropped a quick kiss on my stunned lips. “I saw you.”

“You saw me when you were running for that touchdown. Right.”

His eyes were full of love. “You might be small, but you’re kinda hard to miss.”

“Whatever.” I tightened my arms around his shoulders, trying to ignore all the people who were gawking at us. “I love you. I was cheering for you, not Michigan.”

“Cold day in hell, huh?” He laughed.

“Well . . .” I placed a hand on the side of his face and leaned in for another kiss. “It is snowing.”

Epilogue

FIVE YEARS LATER: KAYLA

A bead of sweat rolled down between my shoulder blades, and I tried not to melt in the glaring sun. It was eighty degrees outside, but it was hotter than the surface of the sun here in the stands. I glanced at the Chicago Bears fans around me. No one else was sweating like I was. Didn’t they feel like they were in an oven?

“Kayla.”

I turned toward the aisle and smiled brightly. “Frank! Glad you could make it.”

Sports agent Frank Rosenthal moved into the empty seat beside me, looking so different when he wasn’t in his power suit. He was still dressed nicely in a crisp shirt and slacks, but he’d rolled his sleeves back and left the top two buttons undone.

“Where’s your tie?” I joked. “You aren’t working today?”

Frank laughed lightly. “I’m here for Jay.”

“Right. So, while you’re being ‘here for Jay’ at the postgame, you won’t accidentally sign a few new clients?”

I loved teasing him. Frank wasn’t just a nice guy, he was a great agent, and it seemed like whenever he came to one of his client’s games, he always left with two new ones. But Jay got plenty of personal attention. His agent had even shelled out twenty grand of his own money to get Jay into an excellent combine training camp.

The investment paid off. Jay got drafted in the first round.

He’d spent two seasons playing in Seattle before he was traded here to Chicago, and then my husband started to get hot. He’d made the transition from college to pro easily, and he was growing under Chicago’s new offensive coordinator.

“If Crawford wants to strike up a conversation,” Frank said, pretending to act casual, “I’d oblige him.”

Like Jay, Tariq had also been drafted in the first round to another team, and then traded here to Chicago, making them teammates. It was bizarre the first game I’d seen them in the same uniform.

“And I’m not wearing a tie,” Frank added, “because it’s hot as hell out here and someone didn’t want to sit in the suite with the other wives.”