Page 73 of Sealing the Deal

And even though I know it’s temporary—because after today, the season is over, and Grayson won’t be able to ignore New York forever—even though I’ve been bracing myself for the bubble of this little world we’ve carved out to burst, this week has felt somehow normal, too. Luxury and normality. His world and mine. I always thought they’d never fit together. But they do.

All thoughts of Grayson and the future are shoved aside as the game starts. The New York Steelguards, in their black and green, are fast and aggressive. They push down the field early, eating up yards, and my heart lodges somewhere near my throat as they punch in the first touchdown. The roar from their side of the stadium is monstrous.

Then it’s our turn. Chase is calm and controlled, threading passes through impossible gaps. Our receivers take brutal hits but get straight back up. Jake barrels through the line on a third-and-short that has the skybox on its feet, and when we score our own touchdown, I start to hope, to believe, maybe, we can do this.

It’s the kind of football that turns people into fans. Each quarter feels more brutal than the last. I shout myself hoarse, barely aware of the words coming out of my mouth. Grayson is right there with me, shouting too, groaning when a block is missed, pumping his fist when Chase scrambles out of pressure. I glance at him once, and smile to myself. This is the same man who didn’t know what a wildcard was a few weeks ago. Now, he’s living every snap.

By the fourth quarter, my nerves are shredded. We’re down again with minutes on the clock. We need six points. It’s our play, but we’re pinned deep in our own territory, backed up near our end zone. The kind of field position that makes commentators start talking about “respectable losses” and “great seasons.” I don’t want respectable. I want the win.

The snap comes clean. Chase drops back, scans, then throws for Jake. The ball sails just wide. Jake stretches for it, fingertips brushing leather. The ball wobbles, knocked loose in the collision with a defender, and hits the turf. My stomach drops through the floor. Steelguards swarm. Black and green everywhere. It’s over. I can barely watch.

Then somehow the ball is back in Jake’s hands. I don’t even understand how it happens. One second, it’s chaos, bodies crashing into each other, and the next, Jake is upright and running. The skybox explodes.

Our linemen pull across the field, receivers who weren’t even part of the play throwing themselves into blocks, keeping defenders from his reach, buying him space.

Jake tears down the field.

Past midfield.

Past the thirty.

The twenty.

I can’t breathe.

Five yards.

Two.

He hits the end zone.

Touchdown!

The sound that follows is unreal. The crowd loses their minds. It’s raw, unrestrained, and shaking the air itself. I’m on my feet, hands in the air as the field floods with Stormhawks players racing toward Jake, piling on him. Grayson is jumping up and down beside me, laughing, shouting, pulling me into his chest like he can’t contain any of it. The score flashes. We’re tied 24-24. The clock reads zero, but the game isn’t over yet.

Everything comes down to one kick and the extra point we need to win. JT walks onto the field like this is nothing. Like eighty thousand people in the stadium and millions watching on TVs in fans bars and at home aren’t holding their breath. Like the weight of Denver isn’t balanced on his right foot.

The stadium goes eerily quiet. The snap. The hold. The kick. The ball arcs up, slicing through the air at an angle that makes my heart stop, before sailing cleanly through the uprights. For half a second, the world freezes. Then all hell breaks loose. We’ve won. 25-24.

The Stormhawks have won the Super Bowl!

I’m crying. Laughing. Shaking. Grayson lifts me off my feet, spinning me as red and silver confetti cannons explode across the field below. It feels like no time at all before we’re piling down the stairs with everyone else, swept along in a tide of red jerseys and shouting voices. Music blares across the stadium. Red confetti rains down, sticking to hair and clothes and skin, and I don’t even try to brush it away. Players are everywhere, hugging, laughing, crying. Helmets are tossed aside. Cameras swarm. It’s chaos in the best possible way.

Serena breaks away from us and runs across the turf, her face lit up with pure, unfiltered joy. It’s hard to believe from the look of love on Chase’s face that they were ever just best friends. Then, instead of opening his arms, instead of pulling her into the celebration like I expect, he drops down to one knee.

My breath leaves my body in a rush. The noise seems to dull around us as Serena skids to a stop in front of him, hands flying to her mouth. Her eyes fill instantly, tears spilling onto her cheeks as Chase says something I can’t hear, holding up a diamond ring from a chain he must have been wearing around his neck during the game. This win and this moment planned. She nods, and he stands, lifting her off the ground. They kiss like the rest of the world has disappeared, and my chest aches so fiercely I think my heart might burst.

I turn and find Grayson watching me. His eyes are soft, intense. He steps closer, resting his forehead against mine, silencing the chaos around us. His hand slides to my waist, and when he kisses me, it feels like a promise.

When we finally pull back, Grayson’s mouth curves into that familiar smile. “There’s a party,” he says quietly. “I organized it. For after.”

“You did?”

“Of course. There’s always a party, right?”

I nod. “I just didn’t think about who organized it or that I’d go. What would’ve happened if we’d lost?”

“It would’ve been canceled. It’s why I didn’t tell you.” His eyes dance with mischief. “I knew you’d think I’d jinx the win.”