The Hardest Fall

“Oh yeah. Sorry, I fell asleep before you made it up to the room—he pretty much killed me.”

I leaned forward a little to take another look at Cash. I could admit he wasn’t awful or anything like that. Five nine to Miriam’s five five with an okay body—though in comparison to Dylan and all the other players on the field, he was basically skinny—and fingers long enough that you felt obligated to do a double take, he had longish wavy hair that curled around his ears, brown eyes that moved around restlessly, and thin lips pressed into a straight line. Different strokes for different folks, I supposed. There was nothing wrong with his look, but the way he acted like he was working on a story for the Times would start to get on my nerves if I had to spend one more day around him.

Right as I was about to say something else, I felt hands on my waist, and a second later I was flying through the air as I shrieked like a banshee.

“Look what I found,” someone sing-songed behind me as I tried my best to grab the hands that were clamped around my middle. Thank God the strap of my camera was wrapped around my wrist, saving it from flying across the field.

Recognizing the voice, I looked over my shoulder and down.

“Trevor?”

“That’s me,” he replied with a grinning face.

“Trevor, what the hell do you th—”

My words turned into another scream when he maneuvered—or more like abruptly flipped—me around until I was holding on to his neck, cradled like a baby in his arms.

“What’s up, buttercup?” he asked, his shit-eating grin still in place. I was pretty sure he’d been born with that smile, or another possibility was that he had worked on it in front of a mirror for years until he perfected it. “I’ve been watching you the last ten minutes. I couldn’t believe my eyes.”

“Let me down, you idiot,” I swore, out of breath.

“I’ll do just that once I get you away from enemy lines.”

I growled at my childhood friend, but it didn’t seem to have the desired effect on him; it never did. Gripping his shoulders for dear life as he sprinted away, I looked over his shoulder and my eyes zeroed in on one person.

Dylan.

All his teammates were filtering into the tunnel to get back to the locker rooms, but he was standing still, one hand holding his helmet by the fingertips, the other on his waist. I wanted to give him a wave or a smile, but he was looking at me in Trevor’s arms with a face carved from stone, his jaw set, expression completely closed up.

Something tightened in my chest, squeezing at my heart.

I slapped Trevor’s shoulder twice.

“Trevor, stop. Trevor, you have to stop!”

He must’ve heard the urgency in my tone because we finally came to a halt. Gently, he put me down back on my feet, and my eyes stayed on Dylan the whole time. I watched him take a step toward us, and then another, and another. My heart pounding just from seeing the determination on his face, I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. Something was about to happen—or was happening already—and my heart was flipping out on me. Trevor said something to get my attention and touched my shoulder.

My brows snapped together and I murmured a distracted, “What?”

Was Dylan jealous?

When he started a light jog toward us, I felt all the hairs on my arms stand up. I gave Trevor a quick glance.

“Can you give me a minute?”

He glanced back at what I was looking at, and I was already walking to meet Dylan halfway. The need to go to him had come out of nowhere. Maybe it was the way his hard eyes locked onto mine, daring me to look away, or maybe it was something about the controlled way his body was moving. God, he looked so good in his uniform, almost as good as he looked when he worked out in our kitchen half naked…almost. He looked larger than life, bigger and better than anyone else warming up on the field.

Before I had taken four steps, Chris blocked Dylan around the thirty-yard line. He rested his forehead against Dylan’s, squeezed his neck, and guided him toward the tunnel. Dylan frowned at him then shook his head once as if coming out of a trance. Then he was nodding and jogging alongside his teammate.

When he disappeared into the tunnel, I turned back to Trevor with a sheepish smile.

He raised an eyebrow, which only added to his signature cocky look. “Did I step on some toes?”

“What? No. What are you even doing here? I thought you were in Boston.”

“Yeah, I was, but I transferred here this year. You dating number twelve? That Reed guy?” he asked with a flick of his head toward where Dylan had disappeared to.

“No. He’s just my friend.”

After giving me a long, thorough look, he spoke again. “If you say so.” His big smile back in place, he gave me a playful shove. “Look at you, buttercup. I haven’t seen you in two years and this is where I find you? I missed you.”

“Don’t call me that,” I grumbled as I shoved him right back.

“Still so cute. What the hell are you doing here then? Came to watch your boyfriend get his ass handed to him by me?”

“I told you, he’s not my boyfriend.” I lifted my camera as if that would answer his question. “I’m on an assignment, taking shots of the team.” And because I didn’t like him talking about Dylan like that, I added, “And don’t be so sure whose ass will be getting kicked. They’re amazing.”

I actually had no idea if they were. All I knew was that Dylan was amazing.

His eyebrows shot up. “Are they now? And did you become a football expert because of a certain someone?”

We heard someone shout his name, and Trevor looked over his shoulder. “Shoot. Okay, I have to get back.” Grabbing the heavy camera out of my hand, he lifted it up in the air as if to take a selfie. “Come on, I want a photo of us together. I have a prettier face, and you need something better to look at than those baboons.”

“It’s off, you idiot.” I laughed when he couldn’t quite manage to figure out how to work it.

I turned the camera on and let him pull me to his side so he could get a shot of us together. When we heard his name called again, he thrust the camera back into my hands.

“Here, take it. Email me—both the photo and your number. I don’t have yours, so you better send it my way.” Jogging backward, he kept talking. “Don’t forget, Zoe bug. Better yet, I’ll email you my number and you can text me.”

“Okay!” I yelled back, smiling.

When he was close enough to his coaches, one of them hit him on the back of the head and his grin got bigger.

“Okay!” he yelled one last time, and then he was out of sight.

* * *

Our team was winning—Dylan’s team. I didn’t know exactly when it’d become our team in my mind, but I was swept up in the rush of the game and the magic of being in the stadium. Sure, maybe I didn’t get what was happening most of the time, but I was right there with them when everyone was cheering, yelling, or swearing. Even being close to Mark hadn’t managed to kill my excitement.

And Dylan…he was a beast. The way he ran away with that ball, his speed, the way he ducked and dodged and rolled and twisted and everything else he did—I was mesmerized just watching him.

It sounds weird to say out loud, but he felt like mine. I knew how he looked in the mornings, knew pretty much every muscle in his upper body. I hadn’t touched them or anything like that, but they were burned into my brain. I knew what he liked to have on his pizza, which was very important. Extra cheese, pepperoni, and black olives was his go-to, and he didn’t look at me like I was an alien because I liked pineapple on my pizza.