Focused: A hate to love sports romance(71)

"Now," she said, "let's recap."

"Okay." I stepped closer to her.

"I'm your girlfriend."

"Yes." My hands found her hips.

"You're my boyfriend."

"Mmmhmm." My lips found the soft curve of her neck.

"W-we're finally alone. With no cameras. Or microphones. Or family members under the same roof." Her fingers pushed under the soft cotton of my shirt, and I hissed when she trailed them along the edge of my shorts.

"That's correct." I bit down on the delicate line of her collarbone, soothing it with my tongue when she moaned.

"You love me," she said quietly.

I pulled back and held her gaze steadily. "I do."

"And I love you," she finished.

My voice was rough when I was finally able to speak. "Yeah."

"That's good. I like all of that."

I smiled. "How should we celebrate? Every big win needs a big celebration."

"Like …" She dropped her voice like a sports announcer. "You just won the Super Bowl, what will you do next?"

"We're not going to Disneyland, sweetheart," I promised. But the fact that she could bring me to the edge of laughter in a moment so laden with sexual tension, so rife with want and desperation to take, take, take, was how I knew that Molly was the exact right person for me.

She inhaled with a satisfied smile pulling up the edges of her lips. "Take me to your big bed, in your big room, because we are about to break it in, Noah Griffin."

I swept her in my arms, relishing in the happy shriek that left her mouth. "You're the boss."

We stayed there all day and all night, only stopping briefly for food. A shower. And endless conversations. The playbook was probably still lying open in a useless heap on the dining room table. But that was the point.

I couldn't have scripted this, couldn't have planned it, couldn't have controlled it.

Because sometimes, the best things in life come straight from your blind side.





Epilogue





Six months later





Molly





“Oh sweetheart, did you see this one?” Grandma Griffin tossed the Us Weekly into my lap as she passed the couch. “You’re way too pretty for my grandson.”

Noah groaned as I flipped to the article she’d dog-eared. “Another article?”

I elbowed him. “People love us. We’re cute.”

It was a quick mention. Never in a million years would I have anticipated having a corner of a magazine page dedicated to me and my hot boyfriend and our red-carpet style.

Amazon had gone all out for the All or Nothing season featuring Noah, and to my never-ending surprise, me. Instead of red, we’d done a black carpet, so that my red dress would stand out. And it had.

It was a picture I’d seen a lot. Instagram users seemed to like that particular one. Noah had his tux-clad arm wrapped tight around my waist, head bent toward me, and his nose pressed against my temple.

I was smiling widely, my shoulders angled toward him, and a hand placed against his chest. The Grecian-style dress that I’d chosen was a vivid scarlet that draped over one shoulder and was cinched tight around my waist with a gold belt. What the camera couldn’t see because the length of the dress swept the floor were the spiky gold heels that had only lasted as long as getting our picture taken.

By the time we were in the theater for the screening of the first episode, I’d slipped into some nude flats.

It was our first night as a couple in the spotlight, and social media exploded with the release of the full season of episodes documenting our love story. Since Rick hired me before I even finished pitching myself, I was involved in crafting the finished product of our story from beginning to end. And it was damn good television, if I said so myself.

The last episode was my favorite, the one we’d shot during their final playoff game, which they lost 28-21. It encapsulated everything about Noah and me that I loved so much. Before the cameras moved to follow us through the game, it caught some sweet, quiet moments when he helped me unpack my things. I loved Isabel, but living with Noah was way more fun.

When the quiet moments were done, and we saw him play his heart out for four quarters, only to have the opposing defense stop us five yards shy of the end zone as the clock ran out. The devastation and disappointment on his face still made me cry, as it had that day. It was still hard for me to watch even though we were a few months removed from it by now. But the viewers loved it.

They loved how real we were with each other. They loved that the footage of me at the end of the game was just as emotional, that my sorrow for him was so obvious as I sat in the stands with the other disappointed Washington fans. It was what made the closing scene so poignant.

Me climbing over the barrier and into his waiting arms. Him, sweaty and disheveled and dirty, lifting me into a tight embrace on the chaotic post-game field. And he smiled.

Not a sad smile.

Noah Griffin smiled like he’d just won.

His grandma, our host for the week, told me she’d watched every episode three times. She kept every article that mentioned us and made sure to show me each and every one.

“You ready, son?” Noah’s dad asked from the kitchen.