Page 37 of Remember Me

“You're dancing,” Jackson said into my ear, his voice amused but professional enough that anyone watching wouldn't catch the intimacy in his tone.

“Can you blame me?” I shot back, grinning at him over my shoulder before returning my attention to the stage.

Bailey launched into her latest hit, the one that had been at the top of the charts for eleven weeks straight. The crowd went wild and thousands of lights illuminating the stands like stars. I'd been nervous about this event for weeks with all its implications, but in this moment, I felt nothing but pure, unadulterated joy.

When the song reached its climax, Bailey hit an impossible note as fireworks exploded overhead, perfectly timed with the music. I felt my heart swell, my breath catching at the sheer spectacle of it all.

“This is incredible,” I said into my mic, knowing we'd use this footage for the intro to my segment. “Bailey Hill is giving the performance of a lifetime here at Super Bowl LIX.”

As the final song ended with another explosion of fireworks and light, I turned toward thecamera, slipping effortlessly into my professional persona despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

“That was Bailey Hill, everyone. Absolutely breathtaking.” I glanced back at the stage where the crews were already breaking down the elaborate set with military precision. “Stay tuned, as we might just get a few words with her after this.”

Jackson lowered the camera, giving me the signal that we'd stopped recording. His smile was proud, a little impressed, and something else, something heated that made my stomach flip despite having been together for years now.

“You killed that,” he said, stepping closer. “Didn't miss a beat even with Bailey ten feet away.”

“Pure professionalism,” I replied with a laugh, though we both knew I'd been barely holding it together.

The field was hectic as the halftime show equipment was cleared and the teams began returning for the second half. I spotted Tanner and Devin among the Crossbills players warming up near the sideline. Jackson noticed them too and waved to catch their attention.

“Hey!” Jackson called out, motioning them over. They jogged to the sideline, helmets in hand, looking simultaneously focused and amped up from the break.

“Great first half,” Jackson said, bumping fists with both of them. “You guys are crushing it.”

Devin grinned with all the confidence and swagger you’d expect from one of the best defensive lineman in the league. “Just wait for the second half. We’re going to keep pushing.”

Tanner, on the other hand, looked... different. Intense in a way that went beyond normal game focus. His eyes kept darting to the luxury boxes above us, and there was a tension in his jaw I'd never seen before.

“You good?” Jackson asked him, evidently noticing the same thing.

Tanner nodded, seeming to come back to himself. “Yeah. I'm good. Better than good.” A small smile played at his lips, the kind that suggested he knew something we didn't. As if we didn’t know what his plans were for after the game. “We've got this.”

“Hell yeah, you do,” I said, genuinely meaning it.

A coach called their names, and they jogged back to the team, Devin slapping Tanner on the shoulder as they went. Jackson watched them go with a thoughtful expression.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out.

“We’ve got to go. Bailey’s publicist says I get ten minutes with her right now.”

Jackson's face split into a huge grin. “Where?”

“Tunnel entrance, east side,” I read, already moving, adrenaline making my steps quick and light. “In five minutes.”

We navigated through the sideline crowd with Jackson's hand at the small of my back, guiding me through the chaos. My mind was racing, mentally sorting through the questions I'd prepared, trying to decide which ones to prioritize given the limited time.

“You've got this,” Jackson said as we approached the tunnel. “Just like we practiced.”

I nodded, taking a deep breath to center myself. This was my moment, the opportunity I'd been working toward for years. Bailey Hill wasn't just a singer; she was an icon, a voice of our generation, and I was about to interview her on the biggest stage in sports.

The interview went by in a blur. Bailey was everything I'd hoped—gracious, articulate, funny, and disarmingly normal despite her superstar status. We talked about her performance, her upcoming album, her fashion line. The ten minutes stretched to fifteen as we fell into an easy rhythm of conversation.

When it was over, her publicist pulled her away to another obligation, but not before Bailey squeezed my hand and said, “Great questions. Not the usual bullshit. Hit me up next time you're in LA.”

I maintained my composure until she was out of sight, then turned to Jackson with wide eyes.

“Did that just happen? Did Bailey Hill just tell me to hit her up in LA?”

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