Page 107 of Bitter When He Begs

“You were thinking it.”

Nate smirks, all teeth and smugness. “Well, yeah. But can you blame me? You’re practically vibrating.”

I flip him off without taking my eyes off the field. “Shut up.”

“Youshut up. You’re the one drooling all over Devereaux,” he says, elbowing me lightly in the ribs. “You’ve got that dreamy look on your face. The one where I know you’re imagining some very unsaintly things involving football pads and questionable positions.”

I groan. “You are the worst.”

“And yet,” Nate hums, sipping from the massive soda he bought from concessions earlier, “you still invited me.”

“I brought you because you said you wanted to support the team.”

“No, I said I wanted to support you watching your boy play, not watch you put your swoon face on,” he says around a mouthful of cheese and jalapeños. “It’s fucking embarrassing.”

“There is no swoon face,” I mutter, chewing on a peppermint candy like that’ll hide the way I’m fidgeting.

He lifts a brow, then reaches over to jab his finger into the middle of my chest where the seventeen sits bold and smug and perfectly stitched. “You’re wearing his number. That’s, like, fanboy level ten.”

“It’s a hoodie,” I say, refusing to look at him because I already know he’s grinning. “It was cold.”

“It’s not cold,” Nate deadpans, glancing around like he needs to make sure no one else is being conned. “It’s seventy-four degrees, and the sun’s out.”

“Bite me.”

“Nah, don’t wanna get Luca’s cooties.”

I elbow him, and he shoves me back. The nachos nearly die a dramatic death, and he catches them just in time, muttering about how I’ve always been the clumsy one between us.

“You realize your face is going to melt off the second you see him in uniform,” Nate says as he shovels another chip into his mouth. “You have no poker face. It’s disgusting.”

“I do so have a poker face,” I argue, even though I know I don’t. At least not when it comes to Luca.

He gives me a once-over. “You’re blushing now, and he’s not even on the field yet.”

“I amnot—” But the words die in my throat when the announcer’s voice comes through the speakers, booming across the stands.

“And now, taking the field, the Blackthorne Titans!”

The crowd explodes, and I shoot to my feet with the rest of them, even though my heart’s doing something stupid in my chest. Like dancing. Or trying to escape. Then they run out—tall, lethal shadows in black and gold, helmets gleaming under the sun, energy pulsing through the air like static.

And there he is.

Number seventeen.

My boyfriend.

I forget how to breathe for a second. Three months together, and he still gets meOliver Twist-type stupid.

More. More. More.

Luca’s talking to one of the coaches, nodding once, his blue eyes sharp even from this far away. His broad shoulders shift with every breath, muscles visible even under the tight compression shirt he wears beneath his pads.

God, he looks stupidly good. Which is so fucking annoying, actually. He should not be allowed to look like that and then actlike an arrogant menace who knows exactly how much power he holds.

Luca Devereaux should come with a warning label:Too Hot To Be Emotionally Stable. Proceed With Caution.

“You’re doing it again,” Nate sing-songs.

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