Page 40 of Sealing the Deal

FLIC: Would love to.

CAL: I’m starting to think we can go all the way.

FLIC: Never doubted it!

We won. We crushed it!

The corridor outside the locker room at the bottom of the Baltimore Grimriders stadium is barely wider than my outstretched arms, and right now it’s packed shoulder to shoulder with family, loved ones, and agents, waiting to be the first to congratulate the Stormhawks on their win. I’m squashed among them with Grayson beside me, pretending every nerve ending isn’t on high alert from the warmth of his body so close to mine. Beside us are Serena, Harper, and Mama. Everyone is grinning and laughing. The smell of victory is stale sweat, industrial deodorant, floor cleaner, and pure adrenaline.

Behind the locker-room door, the team’s voices crash together in a loud, raucous, electric wave. I’m buzzing. Absolutely buzzing with the win and that I got to stand in the skybox and watch my team do what they do best, even if I have been messaging Sonia every ten minutes, too.

“That catch from Rob was nothing short of magic,” I say. My voice is hoarse from shouting, my palms sting from clapping, my cheeks ache from the smile I can’t wipe off my face. “I swear my heart stopped. If he’d jumped half a second later⁠—”

“But he didn’t,” Serena cuts in, practically vibrating, one hand pressed to the small swell of her stomach. Harper has her phone out, laughing as she and Mama absorb whatever news is hitting her feeds.

I flick a glance at Grayson, standing beside me. He looks a little unsure, a little out of place, but he wears the Stormhawks baseball cap well, his brown hair curling around the edges.

Harper jumps in then. “When Baltimore came back with those two touchdowns in the second quarter, I thought we were done for. The momentum completely flipped.”

Mama shakes her head. “No. We always had them.” She says it with certainty. “Coach Allen’s strategy worked seamlessly. Tightening their coverage and forcing the Grimriders to play wider than they wanted had them falling apart.”

“That fourth-quarter drive though,” I add. “Eight minutes off the clock. Eight. That’s how you break a top seed team.”

“And that throw from Chase in the third…” Grayson adds, a little quieter.

I turn to him, grinning. Really grinning. Happy we’re standing shoulder to shoulder in this cramped corridor, replaying a win that matters. One more win and we’re in the Super Bowl. In the back of my mind, I know I should be worrying about The Hay Barn. I should be thinking about next week, about inventory and bills. But right now, I just want to enjoy the moment. It feels disloyal but kind of fun too, now I know the bar is in safe hands.

“Do you have a newfound respect for throwing after being bested by a nine-year-old?”

The group around us shifts, and Grayson moves closer. I can see the flecks of light in his dark eyes, like fragments of gold, and catch the deep woodsy scent of his cologne. My stomach flips and a single thought shoots through my head. God, this man is hot.

“A nine-year-old who’ll be a rookie quarterback in ten years,” he murmurs in my ear, so close I swear for a second I feel his lips on my skin. “And yes, I do.”

I open the Red Zone and scroll through the comments under my post about our win. There are still a handful of angry mentions of Grayson. A few Go back to New York comments. A couple of links to Ashborne Holdings. But they’re buried. Most of the comments are about the game and the fact we’re one win away from the Super Bowl.

I turn my screen toward Grayson. He studies it for a second before exhaling, shoulders dropping. “If I’d known public humiliation was the secret to winning over Denver, I’d have done it weeks ago.”

I laugh, thinking of the video I posted from Dylan’s practice on Thursday. Grayson attempting to throw. Missing spectacularly. The kids howling. Him, taking it on the chin and laughing too. I hadn’t written much. Just: Turns out our new owner’s spiral needs work. I let the video do the rest. Grayson in the cold, being part of the practice. It sat beside Jake’s photo from lunch at Oakwood Ranch, Grayson at the table with the Sullivans. They did more than any polished speech or statement could do.

I’m under no illusion. We’re a long way from acceptance. One good week doesn’t undo the distrust that Grayson’s name carries. But it feels like a start. And that’s a hell of a lot better than where we were last week.

Grayson’s still smiling as he looks down at me and our eyes meet. His expression is no longer guarded or teasing. Just warm. I’m suddenly aware of how close we’re standing—the heat of his body pressed to mine in the crowded corridor—and that charge between us that makes my pulse race.

But just as suddenly, he steps back, finding space where there wasn’t any, adjusting his jacket, gaze looking to the door. It’s not the first time he’s pulled back from me either. It’s like there’s a line he refuses to cross, and every time we get a little too close, he shuts down. Even though it leaves my head and my body reeling, I tell myself I’m relieved. Grayson might not be the villain I thought he was, but we still come from two very different worlds. And I still can’t get a read on him, and that frustrates the hell out of me.

I’ve only known Grayson for two weeks. In another two, our deal will be done. I’ll be back behind my bar where I belong, and there’ll be no reason for us to keep crossing paths. He hasn’t said what comes after the playoffs—how much time he’ll spend in Denver versus New York. It’s another part of himself he keeps locked away. Alongside whatever happened with his father and sister that taught him how to stay so closed off. There’s a lot I don’t know about this man. Like whether he feels the same attraction I do when our bodies brush by accident.

The corridor erupts in cheers as the players spill out, all broad shoulders and noise and adrenaline. We’re crushed together in seconds, my back pressed flush to the hard lines of Grayson’s chest. Heat blooms low in my core, and I lean back a little more, wanting his touch even though I know better.

An hour later, we’ve said our congratulations and our goodbyes, and Grayson and I head out of the stadium into the late afternoon. Weak sunshine. Cold air. We’re nearing the town car when angry words slice through the quiet from somewhere close behind us.

“Ashborne scum.”

Grayson tenses instantly, his hand brushing the small of my back as he shifts closer to my side. His pace quickens, subtle but deliberate.

“Keep moving,” he says under his breath. “Get to the car.”

“I lost my job and my home because of your greed.” The voice is closer now. Only a step away.