Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“Harper!” he calls at the end.
My shoulders tense, and I brace for it. “Yes, Coach?”
His glare smooths, a slow grin forming as he starts to laugh. “Good fucking job out there, son. Keep handing them their ass.”
The weight of failure falls away with his words. He doesn’t think I fucked up.
It was just one play.
I smile. “Yes, Coach.”
Someone grabs my shoulders and a few start catcalling, the mood lightening instantly, and fuck, I can breathe again.
Someone whistles low from across the locker room. “Yo, Harper!” Fernando shouts, jerky stick hanging half out of his mouth. “You didn’t tell us your girl’s a real-life Paris Hilton.”
I chuckle, half distracted as I swipe a towel over the back of my neck. “What?”
Fernando hops over the bench, making a show of sliding his ass down this one, grinning like a fool. “AU Inquirer posted last night: Looks like we’ve got a future billionaire on campus, Sharks.”
I’d have missed it if he didn’t read it, because my eyes are instantly drawn to the image they shared of her. She’s wearing a soft-blue sweater and jeans, walking across the quad, the giant Avix University on the building right behind her. The shot’s a bit of a side profile, her hair blowing, face turned just enough to catch her devastating smile.
It’s wide—so wide there are little creases beside her eyes.
I know the exact moment this picture was taken. That smile?
It was all for me. She was looking right at me.
The corner of my mouth twitches up, slow and smug, and my teammates start to laugh.
“Damn, son.” Fernando laughs. “You better lock that down.”
I just grin and tap my helmet. What none of them knows is I already have, and it’s got nothing to do with what she might inherit twenty or thirty years from now.
She won’t need a dime when the day is done because I’m going to earn our life for us one yard at a time.
Mase knocks his knee into mine, a smirk on his lips when I look up, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. He probably does.
Coach comes back in like a storm, clapping loud. “Let’s go. Pads on. Focus up. Let’s finish this shit strong.”
A collective “Yes, Coach” echoes across the space, and the locker room shifts. The jokes drop and the mood sharpens.
I roll my neck, stretching out the tightness in my shoulders, and push to my feet, following Mason out the door.
The team is jumping up and down, singing along to the music filling the stadium, and I bob my head, grinning like a motherfucker. I pull my helmet on, strap it up, and smirk at Brady when he gives it a little slap.
“Let’s go, my boy!” he booms, flexing his muscles with a grin.
Somehow, as we run out, the energy cracks the air even harder, rolling through my chest and down my arms.
You’d think it was the damn championship game, the way we’re all responding—everyone in the stands and those of us in uniform.
My eyes seek out my girl as the kickoff team takes the field, and there she is, tucked in beside Ari and Cam, her eyes locked on mine like she knew I’d be looking.
She lifts her hands in the air and does a little dance, and fuck, my whole chest warms. She can’t see my smile or my lips through my face mask, but I mouth I love you anyway.
And then I lift my hands high, clapping them three times in the air before extending them wide, as if to say This. I’m grateful for this moment right here. On this field, with these people in the stands watching. With you watching.
Her smile is fucking blinding, and I can feel the softness that I know her laughter is full of.
“This is for you baby,” I whisper. “For us.”
My eyes slide to the right, meeting my dad’s.
His smile is small, soft, and for a moment, it’s just us—me and the man who spent hours in the street in front of our house, teaching me how to catch. How to run routes.
The man who was always there, no matter what. Who is here now.
My nostrils flare as my emotions slip in, but all it does is hype me up more.
I nod—once.
A long sigh pushes past my lips, and I face the field.
This is it.
I feel no pressure. No nerves.
All I feel is downright determination.
The ref blows the whistle and it’s a turnover on downs.
Showtime.
I take the field, lining up on the opposite side for the second-half game plan—gotta keep them on their toes.
“Okay, my man.” The cornerback grins around his mouthpiece. “I see you. Let’s get it.”
A low chuckle leaves me, and I get ready. I know this dude’s stats.
He runs a 4.6.
My last recorded time was 4.3.
I smirk back, turning my attention to my quarterback. Mason nods and gets set.