Page 72 of Sealing the Deal

“OK,” I say easily. “Sounds good.”

She fixes her eyes on me. “What do you mean, ‘sounds good’?”

“I mean, I go grocery shopping,” I say. “Let’s do that.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Fine,” I admit. “I could go grocery shopping.”

“You want to spend the morning running errands with me?”

“I can’t think of anything I’d rather do more.” I pause, smirking. “OK, that’s a lie. I can think of something else I’d rather do more, but that involves you and me in your bed and definitely not running errands.”

“You really are impossible.”

“I’m taking that as a yes.”

Her smile falters just slightly. “You have too much work to do to hang out with me. What about the Stormhawks?”

I don’t hesitate. I pull my phone from my pocket, thumbs already moving.

GRAYSON: I’m taking tomorrow morning off. Don’t call me unless the stadium is on fire.

Donny’s reply comes almost instantly.

DONNY: Who is this? And why do you have my best friend’s phone?

I snort and slide the phone back into my pocket.

“And the East Harlem redevelopment?” Flic asks, watching me too closely now.

“Already handled.”

The truth is, I do have meetings. Calls. A father trying to get my attention. A dozen people waiting for decisions I have to make. And yet tomorrow all I want to do is spend the day with Flic. Running errands. Carrying grocery bags. Standing in a wholesaler aisle while she argues with a supplier.

Everything else can wait. The thought surprises me. What would it look like if I wasn’t always fixing, and saving, and building for everyone else? What if I lived for me? What if this was what I chose?

As Flic starts gathering her things, and I rinse out the last of the glasses behind the bar, it hits me that it isn’t just her I don’t want to part with. It’s us. Whatever this is between us. For so long, I told myself that wanting something like this was a weakness. A liability. Now it’s here. It’s mine. The word “impossible” hisses in the back of my mind. The only thing that feels truly impossible right now is the idea that I’ll ever be able to walk away from this woman.

THIRTY-TWO

FLIC

I think I might be sick. It has nothing to do with the beer Harper just pressed into my hand, or the roar of the crowd vibrating through the walls of the stadium, but from pure, unfiltered nerves. Excitement. Terror. All of it tangled together until my stomach feels like it’s doing backflips.

This is it. The Super Bowl. And the Stormhawks made it. After years of near misses, and a season where we didn’t play our best football, and months of fear and speculation over the future of the team, and the rocky start to Grayson buying the majority share. It feels impossible that we’re here, but it also feels earned. The Stormhawks have given the playoffs everything, especially Chase, who’s played the best football of his career.

I close the Red Zone and shove my phone into my pocket. I haven’t seen a single comment about Grayson today. Every post is about this game and this moment. Nothing has been fixed outside of it. The fans and the sponsors still want to see the commitment from Grayson and his vision for the team. And win or lose today, the Stormhawks still have a long road ahead before they’re anywhere near financially secure. I’ll be sad not to be by his side any longer, whispering my thoughts in his ear in meetings, but I trust Grayson and Donny. I believe they’ll make the right calls for this team, even when they’re hard ones.

Outside the glass, the stadium is grand and alive. Every seat is filled, a sea of color and movement stretching up and up. The noise rolls in waves of shouts and chants. The skybox is rammed. Shoulder to shoulder with friends, family, sponsors, and VIPs in designer outfits and perfect hair and makeup. I somehow managed to say a coherent hello to a female country artist I’ve adored for the last decade, resisting the urge to gush and ask for an autograph.

There’s still a nagging thought that I should be behind the bar of The Hay Barn, yelling at the TV. The Super Bowl always pulls in a good crowd, even in previous years when it hasn’t been the Stormhawks playing. Dylan, Jake, and Chase would come down to watch the game with the fans, buying rounds for everyone. Other players, too, drifting in and out, just guys watching football with the people who love them. And yet I don’t feel out of place here, either.

I glance around the skybox again. Front row seats are taken by the Huberts—Donny sitting between his mom and his grandfather, Don Hubert Senior, his posture proud, eyes fixed on the field. Mama is here, of course. She’s wearing a black pantsuit, working the crowd. A row back from the Huberts, Harper and Serena sit close, leaning in to talk, hands gripping sodas they’re barely touching. Dylan, Izzy, and Mad are watching from home tonight, and I can already picture Mad jumping with excitement.

I glance around the room for Grayson, only to find him moving to stand beside me, close enough that I can feel his warmth and the excitement buzzing through him just like it is me. He slides his hand into mine and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. Yeah, maybe I don’t belong here. But I’m happy. Happier than I’ve ever been.

Since Sunday night, since Grayson came back to my apartment and stayed, we’ve barely spent a moment apart. We’ve bounced between my bed and his hotel suite. When I’ve been at the bar, Grayson has tucked himself into a corner booth with two screens open, murmuring into his phone, eyes lifting every few minutes just to find mine. To smile. To remind me he’s there. Sometimes he’ll pull me into his lap and kiss me like he can’t help himself.