Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
My eyes drop to the metal security latch on the inside of the box. Back up at her.
She knocks again, harder this time. “Hey!”
The crowd noise fades into static.
Everything narrows to the sound of her knuckles against the glass and the heat rushing back into my chest as she stands there, beseeching me in a jersey that’s about three sizes too big—with my number on it.
Leaning over, I push the heavy latch up so she can shove her way inside, mindful that security has probably already clocked her and now we’re on borrowed time.
The second it clicks, she blows through with a gust of cold air and chaotic determination, nearly tripping in her sneakers.
“Nova—”
“No,” she says, breathless, wide-eyed. Flushed. “You don’t get to talk yet. I talk now.”
I blink. “Okay.”
She points a finger at me—shaky, furious, but undeniably in love. “You left. You walked out. And I get it. I didn’t say what you needed me to say, and you probably thought that meant I didn’t feel it, but you were wrong.”
The entire stadium is buzzing. Cameras have turned. A slow, creeping awareness is spreading from section to section. Phones are recording. Whispers are growing louder.
My name flashes on the jumbotron, music beginning to blare as attention goes from the game, to us and the scene she’s creating.
Then to my shock, Nova cups her hands around her mouth and clear as day—projecting like she’s auditioning for the lead in a stadium-sized Broadway musical—she screams:
“I LOVE LUCA BABINEAUX!”
I watch as the cameramen swing their massive cameras to us and flash our faces on the jumbotron, front and center. The shot cuts to me, dumbfounded and still bloodied from my fight, as she declares her love for me.
The crowd loses it.
Gasps. Cheers. Screams of delight. Somewhere behind the bench, a blow horn blares.
“I LOVE HIM!” she shrieks again.
It echoes.
Hits the rafters.
“I love Luca Babineaux!” she screams. “I AM IN LOVE WITH THIS MAN!”
A chorus of awwwwwwwws. The crowd goes absolutely wild.
Followed by a tsunami of clapping. Screaming. One dude is standing on his seat, sobbing into a bucket of nachos.
And of course—right on cue—security rushes over, one of the guards shouting into his walkie. “We’ve got a Code Swoon—repeat, Code Swoon—section 102.”
Jesus Christ. What the fuck is a Code Swoon and why have I never heard of this before? It’s illegal for anyone but players to be in the penalty box and because of that, there are consequences.
“She’s with me!” I try again, voice louder this time. “She’s literally my—”
“Sir, step back,” one of the guards tells me with authority, holding up a hand. “This is standard procedure.”
They grab her by both arms—not aggressively, but firmly enough to indicate that love confessions mid-period are, in fact, against policy.
“She’s in violation of Regulation 12.4a,” the other guard replies coolly, like this is all very normal and not unfolding on a jumbotron for twenty-thousand fans—not to mention, a nationwide broadcast.
Nova doesn’t fight them.
Not physically, at least.
I feel helpless as they begin to drag her off.
“This is not what I meant when I said I wanted to go public—”
“Too late!” she sings, blowing me a kiss when they start pulling her back through the gate.
“I LOVE LUCA BABINEAUX!” she shouts, twisting dramatically between the two guards like a pageant queen being dragged offstage. She cannot be derailed from her goal. “I AM IN LOVE WITH THIS MAN AND I DON’T CARE WHO KNOWS IT!”
Nova—red-cheeked, windswept, my jersey hanging off her like armor—keeps shouting as they pull her up the tunnel toward whatever makeshift holding cell awaits.
“I REGRET NOTHING,” Nova yells, voice echoing through the arena like a battle cry. “I’D DO IT AGAIN!”
One last desperate shout over her shoulder: “I LOVE YOU EVEN WHEN YOU WEAR CROCS!”
Crocs? How dare she—I’ve never worn crocs in my entire goddamn life.
Then.
She’s gone.
Dragged into the tunnel like the beautiful, feral creature she is.
The crowd is absolutely eating. It. Up.
People are chanting her name. And mine.
I just stand there in the box, helmet off, blood still crusted under my nose, and laugh—because what else can I do?
A grin spreads over my face.
That’s my girl.
A complete maniac.
Mine all mine.
36
nova
Ihad no idea the arena had a jail.
Huh.
You learn something new every day.
Apparently, if you break into the penalty box and scream a full-throated love confession in front of a stadium packed with twenty-thousand people, they don’t let you go with a slap on the wrist and a wink. No. They escort you to stadium jail.
Which is exactly what it sounds like.
A holding room in the concrete underworld of the arena, lit by flickering fluorescent lights, the walls painted a shade of beige that does nothing for my complexion, now that I’m brunette.
Honestly, it’s offensive.
At least the old me—blonde me—might’ve glowed under this lighting. But new me? Post-confession, possibly banned-from-the-arena me?
I look unhinged.
Not cute.