Page 68 of Sealing the Deal

The Trailblazers stadium rises out of the concrete parking lot like a blunt instrument. It’s functional, built for purpose not aesthetics. There’s no elegance to it, no architectural poetry. But the moment we step into the skybox, and the roar of nearly eighty thousand people slams into my chest, I understand that this is power. This is noise. This is belief. And I feel the fizz of nerves and the desire to win like a drum beat in my blood. Even Helena is quietly transfixed.

On the field below, helmets gleam under the lights. The Stormhawks in red. The Trailblazers in white, moving with the confidence of reigning champions who expect to win. I lean forward as the game kicks off, elbows on my knees as everything else fades away. At first, it’s brutal. The Trailblazers dominate the opening drive with short, efficient passes.

Flic groans from the seat beside me as they grab an early touchdown. The stadium erupts, the sound vibrating through the glass. “The trailblazer QB is reading our defense like we gave him a goddamn map.”

I glance at Flic as she stands, arms crossed, eyes never leaving the field. Fierce in her support. The only smile comes when the Stormhawks push back on our offensive drive. Chase throws with clinical precision. And every time we catch the ball, our offense takes hits that would flatten most men. The game is gritty and relentless.

By halftime, we’re still behind, and the Trailblazers are looking dangerously confident. Then something shifts in the third quarter. Both sides tighten their defense, but we grab some points, inching closer. In the fourth quarter, with under two minutes on the clock, Chase leads a final drive. It’s a chaotic mess of white and red as the Trailblazers swarm. We’re still down by three points when the ball reaches our wide receiver, and he’s streaking down the field. A linebacker crashes into him just as he dives, but he twists mid-air, absorbs the hit, and lands across the line.

Touchdown!

The skybox explodes.

Shouts. Laughter. Mama is crying. Donny has both fists in the air. and I’m jumping up and down beside him, lost to the celebration. The Stormhawks have just punched their ticket to the Super Bowl for the first time in ten years. And they’ve done it from the seventh seed. The underdogs of underdogs, as Flic called them. My team. I’m caught off guard by the emotion choking my throat.

In the middle of the celebrations, when no one is looking, Flic’s hand finds mine. I turn, and our eyes meet across the noise and movement. No words. No need for them. Just heat and a solid, undeniable certainty.

I don’t want to let go. Not now. Maybe not ever.

This isn’t about sex. It isn’t about a deal we made, or saving her bar, or even saving the Stormhawks. It’s about her hand in mine and the terrifying truth that it feels like it’s exactly where it belongs. For the first time in my life, I don’t want to fix anything. I just want. And what I want is her.

THIRTY

FLIC

The jet hums beneath my feet as we level out, Kansas City already disappearing into the dark behind us. Mad is curled up across two seats a few rows ahead, fast asleep, one red braid still clipped into her hair. Mama is sitting at the back of the plane, phone pressed to her ear, calmly fielding calls from Chase and Jake’s sponsors about appearances, already pivoting into Super Bowl mode like this is just another day at the office.

Behind me, Donny and Helena sit close together, sharing a glass of wine. Helena is laughing quietly at something Donny says. Harper and Serena stayed behind in Kansas to celebrate with Jake and Chase. I picture them with the rest of the team, somewhere loud and crowded and joyful, arms wrapped tightly around the men they love.

I turn back to the window, pressing my forehead lightly to the cool glass, the buzz of the win still humming in my veins. The game was brutal. Scrappy. Balanced on a knife edge the entire way through. We weren’t the better team out there. We were just lucky. It could have tipped the other way on a breath. One missed tackle, one dropped pass, and we’d have been out of the competition.

Instead, the Stormhawks are heading to New Orleans for the Super Bowl next Sunday. The thought sends a jolt through me all over again. I’ll be there to watch them play against the New York Steelguards for the biggest prize in football.

The seat beside me dips. I don’t need to look to know it’s Grayson. He slides close enough that I can feel the heat of him through the armrest. He passes me a glass of water without a word. Our fingers brush. I expect him to move away, but instead his thumb caresses the back of my hand.

The jolt is instant—a live wire snapping between us. “Careful,” I murmur. “You keep touching me like that and people are going to start talking.”

“Pretty sure they already are.”

I take a sip, then glance at him. “Did you enjoy the game?”

“I really did,” he replies. “The wide receiver⁠—”

“Rob Jenkins,” I supply.

“—right. When he cut inside before their defense could take him out? That was…” He searches for the word. “Impressive.”

I laugh softly. “You’re starting to sound like a fan.”

He smiles like I’ve given him the best compliment. “I’m starting to feel like one. Especially if it means my balls are safe from your trophy wall.”

I laugh. “The staple gun comes in handy for a lot of things.”

His mouth curves into a playful smile. “So, you admit the thought crossed your mind.”

“Briefly,” I say sweetly. “Very briefly.”

Our eyes meet. Hold. The air between us feels charged with a promise of more. I’m suddenly desperate for this flight to land. The day has been perfect, but I have a feeling the night is going to be even better.