Page 88 of Breakaway Daddies

We lace up. We dig in. We shut everything else out.

What other choice do we have?

CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN

Jinx

I swipea neon pink streak across the loopy curve of the G in“WILL YOU GO ON A DATE WITH ME?”and sit back on my heels, eyeing the sign with a level of concentration typically reserved for bomb defusing or eyeliner on the first try.

The letters are kind of crooked, the paint’s a little too thick in spots, and there’s a glitter smudge where I sneezed halfway through the word “DATE,” but honestly? It’s perfect.

Chaotic. Emotional. Deeply unhinged in a way that feels extremely on brand.

If I’m going to make a romantic spectacle of myself in front of a literal stadium, I might as well do it with glitter and questionable typography.

I blow on the paint gently, like that’ll help it dry faster. The banner takes up half my living room floor, and my gecko has already pranced across it twice, leaving sparkly footprints like tiny disco stamps.

The kitchen floor is now a crime scene of glittery chaos. He looks proud. I respect the energy.

Grabbing my phone, I fire off a text to Ally and Kenzie before I can lose my nerve.

>> hey!!! can you ask the announcer & DJ if they’re cool with playing a very specific song during the last break at the game?? I have a plan. It involves mild public humiliation and possibly tears. mine. theirs. idk.

>> (also pls remind me this was my idea when i inevitably panic and try to hide under a hot dog stand.)

I hit send and immediately groan, flopping onto the hardwood next to the banner like I’ve just fainted from romantic delirium.

“Jessica Anderson,” I whisper to myself, draping the back of my hand dramatically across my forehead. “You glitter-crazed, romance-novel-heroine-acting lunatic. Whatareyou doing?”

But I know exactly what I’m doing.

I’m done sulking around like a ghost in my own apartment. Done crocheting emotionally turbulent scarves and pretending I don’t refresh their Instagram stories like a woman possessed.

I miss them.

I miss Thomas and his barely contained golden retriever energy, bouncing off the walls like he’s powered by Red Bull and dreams. I miss Bruno pretending not to care while practically seething with affection from every inch of his grumpy exterior. And Rowan…

God. Rowan. I miss him in that deep, slow, chest-aching way, like I set down part of myself somewhere and forgot how to function without it.

I miss the sound of them arguing about who left the protein shaker in the microwave. I miss the smell of bad cologne and liniment cream. I miss the late-night Mario Kart tournaments, the dumb inside jokes, the loud, ridiculous,beautifulchaos of all of it.

I miss us.

So, yeah. I’m painting a glitter bomb of a banner and asking three men out on a date in front of thousands of people.

Because life is short. Because I’m in love.

And hopefully they are, too.

Hopefully, they miss me as much as I miss them.

I miss Rowan’s grumpy morning scowl or Thomas burning eggs in the kitchen. Bruno’s jokes at the worst time.

It wasn’t just fun. It was real.

I didn’t think I’d want real. Ireallydidn’t think I’d want it all at once, from three chaotic hockey boys who barely know what day it is, let alone how to be in a relationship. But here we are.

Maybe this sign is over the top. Maybe the whole thing is wildly impractical and borderline embarrassing. But that’s kind of the point.

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