“It's the seats. The air is too thin up here.” I squint down toward the field. “The reason that you like these seats up here is because you’re lightheaded and possibly unconscious during most of the game, making all the shitty plays seem like a bad dream.” I stretch out my legs. “Worse there’s no leg room.”

“You’re supposed to stand,” she chides with gentle mocking. “You can’t sit while the mighty Warriors take the field of battle.”

I laugh. When she grins back at me in return I feel winded, and not from any exercise I’ve done this morning.

“I think it’s okay to sit during timeouts,” I manage to joke. I’m glad I’m sitting down, because if I’d been standing when she threw me that smile, I’d have fallen over.

“I can’t see you resting much.”

“I may have been a headache for my mom,” I admit.

Another smile, only a little one this time, tips the corner of her lips. I guess the idea of me being a hellion amuses her. I fold my hands behind my head. From my vantage point, I appear a little under a foot taller than her.

“You been here long?”

“Long enough to get worn out watching you run the stairs.”

My routine is five times around the field, and then up and down the stadium steps for thirty minutes. She must have been here a while. At my raised eyebrow, she merely shrugs, but the light pink that shows up on her cheeks gives her away. Warmth having nothing to do with the early morning sun settles over me. I’m not the only one feeling something here.

“Running these steps is good for my heart. As a bonus it sweats the stupid out of me.” I wink but then realize I’m wearing my aviators and trucker hat so that action is for nothing. For the best, really. Winking can be a douchebag move at times.

“Do you have a lot of stupid to sweat out?” She holds back a laugh.

I grin back. “It regenerates every day.”

This delights her and she finally allows the stifled laugh to escape. I can only stare at her for a second or two before I have to look away. She’s so goddamned beautiful it’s getting hard to sit here without looking like a total perv.

“They say admitting the problem is half the solution,” she agrees.

“The running is to get rid of the other half.”

At six fifteen, the sprinklers come on, spraying the turf. The artificial grass doesn’t need the irrigation to grow but it cools down the field and reduces the turf burn. An idea surfaces and I push to my feet. Leaning down, I hold out my hand. “Race you to the bottom.”

She stares at my big paw and then into my aviators. “I can’t.”

“No one will know.” And if they find out, no one will protest. After all, what will the team do? Suspend me? I wiggle my fingers. Come on.

She sighs and taps her knee, the one with the scar. “I really can’t race you. My knee might give out. I’m fine on flat surfaces, but running down a hundred rows would be asking for something bad to happen.”

Aw, fuck. That was stupid of me. “Then walk down with me.” She hesitates. “I’m not leaving until you slide on the field with me.”

“Gosh, what a wonderful and charming invitation.” She rests her hands on her hips. Whether she intends it or not, the action frames her perky tits nicely. I use the cover of my sunglasses to appreciate how generous the good Lord was with her.

“You know you want to,” I coax.

She purses her lips. The way that the center plumps out makes me bite my lower lip, to stop myself from leaning forward to see how that ripe bit of pink flesh would feel sucked into my mouth.

In a quick move I don’t see coming, she vaults the seat backs in front of us and races down the steps. Bad knee, my ass.

I clamber down behind her, and although I could overtake her, I hover in the background ready to catch her if she falls. Except I get the sense she’d rather have a hot poker up her ass than ask me for help.

“Slowpoke,” she says, full of smiles, when we reach the field.

“Did you hustle me?” I ask in mock indignation.

“Yup,” she replies without a shred of remorse. “Does that mean the turf contest is off?”

“No way.” I pluck the T-shirt out from the waistband of my shorts and tug it on. She makes a sound and I like to think it means disappointment, but since wet grass burn is no laughing matter, I cover up. “Longest slide wins,” I tell her. I swing my arms in warm up.

“What am I winning?” she asks.

I grin at her cockiness. “I’ll let you run with me tomorrow.”

“I can’t wait to lose then.” She rolls her eyes.

“Personal pride, babe. That’s what we’re competing for.” I’m not making dumb bets. I don’t need a bet to get what I want. After we’re done here, I’ll take her out to breakfast and find out everything about her. This is for the fun of it, because I want to see the longing in her face satisfied.

“You first then. I don’t want you to accuse me of cheating.” She nudges her shoulder against my arm, and that small, innocent contact is like a cannon right to my nervous system. I’m on the edge of obliteration but I want more. Now is not the time. The compression shorts under my running gear can only hold so much in.

“Don’t be sad when you lose. I’ll take you out for breakfast either way,” I reassure her and then take off before she can turn me down. At the twenty, I launch myself and slide a good seven yards.

“That’s not enough for a first down,” she yells from the end zone.

“Let’s see what you got!” I holler back. Rolling over onto my side, I prop myself up on an elbow and gesture that it’s her turn.

She places one foot in front of the other and swings her arms a few times for momentum. She sprints down, leaping forward and then slides to a stop about a foot past me. Damn. I drag her back by the ankle so that her face is next to mine.

Drops of water cling to her grinning face. I lean forward, ready to lick the moisture from her face but I stop myself when she winces.

“Your knee okay?” I ask, worried that she’d hurt herself.

“It’s fine.” Her chest rises and falls as she gathers her breath. I have to force myself to look away. Rolling on my back, I listen as her breath evens out.

Apparently the universe’s gift requires some work. I’m not afraid of hard work. As the great Vince Lombardi said, only in the dictionary is work preceded by success. Rolling on my back, I stare up at the gorgeous blue sky and revel in the fact that what I’d waited for arrived.

“So you love football, huh?”

She shrugs and turns her face to hide her smile. “It’s okay.”

Yeah, and I’m not Knox Masters, decorated defensive end, captain of the Western State Warriors, and projected top ten NFL draft pick.

2 Ellie

I should get up and leave. Actually, I should get up and sprint the hell out of Union Stadium like we’re in The Dark Knight Rises and Bane himself is blowing up the field. But I can’t. There’s a magnet fastening me to the wet turf—a magnet named Knox Masters. It could be that I’m shocked into passivity. I’ve been around football players my whole life, and not one of them had the gravitational pull of Masters.

“I need to go. Thanks for the run.” I push to my feet. I keep the words I won to myself. They’d be a red flag to his bull stomping.

“Won’t let me have a rematch?” He pushes onto an elbow and I have to force myself to look away from the damp fabric clinging to his chiseled abs. Why couldn’t he be a little round around the waist like some linemen? Does he have to be good looking and talented? In the football world, grown men get excited hearing his name. Here at Western, he’s the ruler of all he sees.

He doesn’t need to have a face that would fit in on a runway. I’m surprised someone hasn’t broken his nose yet, if not out of jealousy then sheer frustration that one guy has been given so much.