Page 165 of It Happened on a Sunday
When the man’s right, he’s right, so I do just that. We score twenty-one unanswered points in the second half.
And when it’s finally done, when the clock has run out and the trophy’s been presented, Sloane rushes the field with the other team WAGs.
I pick her up and spin her around and around, and the smile she gives me is all happiness and no pain and easily the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
At least until she leans in to kiss me and whispers, “Bet you can’t top that,” against my lips.
“Maybe not,” I answer with a laugh. “But I look forward to spending the rest of our lives giving it a shot. I love the hell out of you, Sloane Walker.”
“I love the hell out of you right back, Mateo Sylvester.”
And then I kiss her, really kiss her, and no other touchdown in my life has ever felt this good.
The love doesn’t end here…
