Page 123 of Bitter When He Begs

I roll my eyes. “Obviously. Now go win,” I say, pulling back, smoothing the front of his hoodie like it needs fixing.

He touches the side of my face with the back of his fingers, warm and soft. “Say it again.”

I blink. “What?”

“That I’m yours,” he says. “Say it again before I get on that bus.”

I roll my eyes but step close again, fingers brushing over the waistband of his sweatpants, then curling in. “You’re mine, Luca Devereaux. Try not to forget it.”

He grins like I just gave him a hit of something potent. “Never,” he says and then he kisses me—quick and rough, his mouth hot and possessive on mine like he’s leaving with a reminder burned into both of us.

His name is called again, more impatient this time, and he sighs, pulling away. Then he turns, walking toward the bus, joining his team. His shoulders are relaxed, his hands stuffed in his pockets, and I stand there—watching.

I stay there even after the bus starts rolling away. I stay until they’re gone. Until the lot is quiet again. Then I let out a breath and reach up to tug the hoodie tighter around my body. It still smells like him. Still feels like safety.

Still feels like mine.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I realize something I probably should’ve seen coming.

I’m falling.

Hard.

I’m falling for a guy I used to hate. For a quarterback with a bruised past and too many sharp edges. For someone who wrecked me before he ever touched me, and now somehow holds me like he never wants to let go.

I’m in love with Luca fucking Devereaux.

Luca

Thestadiumlightsburndown like judgment. They’re so fucking bright that it makes the whole world feel like a spotlight, every eye zeroed in on us like they’re waiting for someone to crack. My hands are braced on my knees, sweat pouring down my back, cleats biting into the turf while the last seconds on the clock die in a whisper. The whistle blows.

Final score.

We lose.

One fucking touchdown short.

Their side of the crowd explodes, and ours dies. The air gets sucked straight out of the goddamn stadium. I lift my head, chest heaving, jaw locked so tight I can feel it creaking. I’ve been hit hard, dragged to the ground twice, driven forward so fast I almost puked mid-play—but this is what knocks me down. Not a tackle. Not a hit.This.

A loss.

Our first of the season.

Right here in my fucking hometown.

The other team’s celebrating like it’s the fucking Super Bowl. Our guys start moving in slow, scattered lines toward the locker room, clapping each other on the shoulders, muttering half-hearted “good jobs” and “next times”. And no one—no one—says a single word of blame. Not to me. Not to anyone. We played like monsters tonight. Hard. Smart. We just got outpaced by three seconds and a wide receiver with springs for legs.

Still, I can’t breathe right.

I scrub my hands down my face and force myself to follow the others, slipping into the tunnel with that weird ringing in my ears—the kind that happens after a hit, but this time it’s all mental. I hear my name a few times from the crowd. Some familiar voices. A few “boos” from my own side. I don’t look up.

In the locker room, it’s mostly quiet. No slamming, no screaming, just the sound of wet towels hitting tile and water running from a dozen open showers. I go through the motions of stripping off my gear like I’m watching someone else do it. My body aches everywhere. There’s turf burn up my arm and a bruise forming on my ribs, but none of it hurts as much as the static in my chest.

Eli claps me on the back on his way to the showers. “You killed it out there, man. Don’t let the score fuck with your head.”

I grunt something like, “Yeah,” and duck my head under the water, letting it run scalding hot until it feels like it’s peeling my skin. I scrub fast and rough like I can wash away the frustration that’s been crawling under my skin since the second quarter. It doesn’t budge.

By the time we’re all dressed and getting onto the bus back to the hotel, the weight hasn’t lifted. It’s worse now.Heavier. I haven’t even looked at my phone. I know who’ll be waiting on the other end when it rings. Not Sage, even though his voice isall I need to hear right now. There’s always one person who calls first when I lose.

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