Page 142 of Through the Flames
I squeezed through the crowd toward my seat, sandwiched between men twice my size wearing jerseys. The smell of beer and fried food hung thick in the air. My chest thrummed with adrenaline, and I clutched a soda I didn’t want.
Everything felt amplified — smell, sound, motion — like the world had been turned up to full volume.
It was nothing like tennis. On a court, everything had a rhythm. The bounce of the ball, the scrape of shoes on clay, and the quiet exhale before a serve were precise, controlled, and even polite.
Here, the chaos had no lines, no rules, and no respect for personal space. The crowd didn’t wait for a moment of tension; it screamed through it.
And then he appeared.
Jogging onto the field with the defense, helmet under his arm, his body all sharp lines and focus. The entire stadium erupted in cheers, but he didn’t flinch or look around. He was a blade unsheathed, a predator unleashed.
He lifted his head, scanning the stands, and just for a second, his eyes found me.
My stomach flipped so violently, I nearly dropped my drink. I felt the space between us collapse, a tether stronger than fear, stronger than distance.
The whistle blew, and the first snap cracked through the stadium.
Hunter moved like a shadow, silent and ruthless, every step calculated with precision. He blanketed his receiver, shoved him off rhythm, and suffocated the play before it had even begun.
When the quarterback finally threw deep, Hunter read it like he’d written the route himself. He cut under, leapt, and the ball smacked into his hands.
Fuck yeah! Interception!
Someone’s drink sloshed onto my shoes as we all jumped up simultaneously.
Hunter sprinted downfield, weaving through bodies and pumping his legs like pistons until they dragged him down near midfield. He popped up instantly, ice-cold, the ball tucked under his arm and his expression unreadable.
No celebration, no theatrics, just inevitability.
And then, once again, his eyes found me.
I clapped until my palms stung, screamed until my throat hurt. My whole body shook with adrenaline, with pride, with the sheer intoxicating truth of it. I was witnessing the manifestation of everything I’d followed him for, everything we had become together.
Then he was moving again, a blur on the field, but with intent. He vaulted onto the railing beside me, landing with precise balance, chest heaving, ball still tucked under his arm.
“Okay, you’re insane,” I breathed, laughing, heart hammering.
“I know. Your family must be rubbing off on me,” he said, leaning in close enough for me to feel the heat radiating from him.
I nudged him with my shoulder. “You literally just jumped onto the railing for me.”
“And I’d do it again,” he said, voice low, his gloved thumb brushing my cheek in that deliberate, infuriating way that always made my pulse spike.
I caught my breath, heart hammering. “I love you.”
“I love you too. Always.” His voice was hoarse and rough from exertion.
I laughed, breathless, leaning into him. “Dramatic much?”
“Yeah,” he admitted, a rare smirk tugging at his lips. “But you’re worth it.”
The roar of the stadium, the cameras and the chaos of the game all melted away. For one perfect, electric moment, it was just us perched on this railing, adrenaline still coursing, hands brushing, pulses thrumming.
Every sprint, every drop of sweat, every ounce of pain he’d endured felt like it had been for this moment.
He didn’t play for them.
He played forme.
