Page 48 of The Break Down

Not bots. They engage and participate and enjoy a healthy dialogue with each other.

It’s exciting.Amazing. And I am thrilled to be part of it.

The crowd’s thinning, the sun is low, and the heat’s still clinging to the Louisiana air like a second skin.

The Rovers won, barely—but that’s good in sports, right? The energy. The excitement. It’s electric.

Koa looked off in the first half. But he carried that second half like a man possessed.

No, not possessed.

Driven.

I watched him move across that field like he was on fire.

Focused. Relentless. Dominant.

Every tackle hit like a truck. Every pass had purpose.

He played like a man who had everything to prove—like the game meant something bigger than a win.

Like he had something to lose.

And when the final whistle blew, I knew exactly what—or who—was on his mind.

He hasn't looked at me once since walking off the pitch.

Not directly. Not even during the team huddle, or when they jogged off the field toward the lockers.

But I felt it.

That thick, charged tension buzzing under my skin.

Now I’m waiting outside the locker room, trying not to be that girl.

The one who gets handsy with the hot athlete while everyone else is packing up Gatorade bottles and talking stats.

But the second the door opens, and he walks out—wet hair, clean shirt clinging to his abs, jaw tight—my body reacts before my brain can.

“Koa.”

He stops.

Turns toward me like he was expecting it.

Like he was just waiting for the sound of my voice to pull him back from wherever he’s been.

And then he’s moving.

Purposeful. Straight for me.

A handful of hardcore fans are waiting outside those doors, vying for his attention.

But he walks past them.

Right to me.

I don’t get a chance to say anything.

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