Giana shook her head, clasping her hands together as she turned to face me. “Can we just run through it one more time?”
“I told you we needed more practice.”
She waved me off with a face that said yeah, yeah before waiting for my cue.
“We’ll walk in together, holding hands, and get a little close. Start up the whispers,” I reminded her. “After practice, you’ll meet me in the cafeteria.”
“And I’ll make a big scene, running to you and congratulating you on making the team.” She paused. “And you’re sure you’ll make it?”
I gave her a flat look.
“Fine,” she waved me off. “And then… we… kiss.”
Her cheeks tinged pink.
I smirked. “Then, we kiss.” I paused, arching a brow. “You sure you don’t want to practice that part?”
She rolled her eyes. “You wish.”
“I’m just saying. Might ease the nerves.”
Giana ignored me, blowing out a breath and rolling her lips together before she finally stopped wringing her hands and straightened her shoulders. “Okay. Let’s do this before I pass out, or throw up, or change my mind, or all of the above.”
Her hand shot out for mine, and I smiled, intertwining my fingers with hers. As soon as I did, her breath hitched, like even just holding hands was new to her.
I leaned in and whispered in her ear.
“Fake it til you make it, Kitten.”
She flushed, looking down at the sidewalk as I tugged her toward the stadium doors. Something similar to nerves bubbled in my chest, too, as I scanned my ID badge, and then we both slipped into performance mode.
In the last two weeks, we’d been so busy we’d barely had time to sleep, let alone come up with a game plan for the little deal we made. Fall camp was brutal, a blur of daily practices that bled into weight training and meetings and watching film. Giana was caught up in her own busy season, fielding reporters and managing the media circus every day, which left only late at night before we both passed out for us to discuss what would come next.
I convinced her that Depth Chart Day would be the perfect day for our couple debut, and she agreed — but that was about it.
Other than her holding true on leaving me alone media-wise, and me holding true on getting myself together enough for the interview I knew I had waiting for me at the end of today, we hadn’t discussed much. We’d planted seeds, sure — lingering in the locker room after practice, walking together on campus, but today…
Today, everyone would know, and the game would begin.
Giana’s hand trembled a bit in mine as we pushed through the doors, the hallway that led to the locker room empty and quiet. I could hear the soft sounds of voices and the distinct clattering of pads and cleats down the hall, and I knew before we got there that everyone would be in their head today.
By the end of practice, we’d know who made the team, who was starting, who was backup, and who was gone.
Chart Day was huge. There would be coverage for it all day on every sports channel, everyone in the nation who gave a shit about college football watching and assessing. Even when I was in high school, my teammates and I would make bets and watch to see if we were right when it came to who started for our favorite teams.
We’d also dream about it being us one day with that number one spot.
Giana and I had made it all of fifteen steps when Leo Hernandez spilled out of the athletic cafeteria, a half-eaten muffin crumbling as he took a massive bite of it and hustled toward the locker room. But he stumbled, doing a double take when he saw me with Giana. He nearly crashed into the wall as he gaped over his shoulder, his eyes widening at where our hands were laced together before they glanced up at me.
But he just grinned, took another bite of his muffin, and jogged the rest of the way down without a word.
“Breathe,” I told Giana, squeezing her hand as we approached the doorway.
I’d planned the set up just right, knowing there wouldn’t be enough time for questions from the guys before we’d be called on the field. This was just a little taste to get them talking, to get the word back to Maliyah — who would be on the field with us and the rest of the cheerleading squad for the first time this season.
I hadn’t seen her since the breakup.
My stomach lurched at the realization that that streak would end today. I’d have to face her while also holding my shit together on one of the most nerve-wracking days of the season. I had no doubt that I’d made the team, but that didn’t make the nerves any less — especially when I knew my ex would be there watching when Coach hung the chart.
When Giana and I made it to the arch of the open locker room door, I lifted her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to the back of her palm.
“See you after practice,” I whispered against her skin, and I didn’t know if she faked it or if it was real, but the shy, seductive smile she threw back at me was pure art. She ducked her chin, squeezing my hand once before she peeled hers away and jetted down the hall to where the admin offices were.
I watched her go, smiling, and when I turned to head into the locker room, at least a dozen eyes were watching me.
Some had the decency to look away when I realized they were staring, pretending to re-tie their cleats or stretch or whatever they were doing before I showed up. But others couldn’t be bothered, like Zeke Collins and his girlfriend, Riley Novo, who were both watching me with mirrored expressions of concern. Holden was doing the same, and meanwhile, Kyle Robbins wore a shit-eating grin.
“Well, well,” he said, popping over to throw his arm around my shoulder. “What’s going on there, Big C? You going steady with the skirt now?”
I shrugged him off like I was annoyed, but also planted a sly smile on my face that only made him more eager to pry information out of me. Fortunately, my timing was spot on, and our assistant head coach gave a short blow of his whistle to let us know it was time to make our way out onto the field.
I was last out, letting everyone file past me as I quickly pulled on my practice jersey and cleats. Then, I jogged out with my helmet in hand.
And for the moment, Giana and Maliyah were the absolute last things on my mind.
I didn’t even glance at the cheerleaders already warming up on the sideline as I jogged out with the rest of the team, all of us gathering in the center of the field where Coach Sanders was waiting to give his pre-practice speech. I slipped into the familiar, comfortable zone that only existed on a football field for me. The smell of the turf invaded my senses, the feel of it beneath my cleats like coming home after a long day, and when I took a knee next to one of my fellow defensive backs, focused was all I felt.
Where Coach usually had to blow his whistle to get us all quiet before practice, no one was talking today. We kneeled around him, one hand on our knee and the other on our helmet as we waited.
Coach Sanders was one of the best in the nation. He’d made waves in his short tenure at NBU, turning a team around that had a consistent losing record and hadn’t seen a bowl game in decades, to being a top contender again for the first time since the 90s. The fact that he was in his early thirties only added to how impressive that was, and the truth of the matter was that I didn’t care that he was a dick most of the time, that he was severe and almost never gave out compliments.