Page 141 of Through the Flames
While I pushed through marketing lectures feeling more like torture sessions than anything useful, I had something else pulling me harder than syllabi and group projects:tennis.
It was my constant.
Hunter found me a facility near campus that looked like a warehouse from the outside but was actually home to six gleaming blue courts illuminated by bright lights.
The air smelled of rubber and disinfectant as I walked on the polished floor. My sneakers squeaked with each step, and the sound of the ball hitting the strings echoed like a heartbeat.
It was sacred, my private ritual carved into the chaos of my new life.
Every day, I trained, practiced, and gave it my all.
Running drills until my legs burned, serving until my shoulder screamed, and hitting rallies against a ball machine set fast enough to bruise my palms. I pushed myself until sweat ran down my spine and my shirt stuck to my skin.
Until the voice in my head whispering, “What if you choke?” was drowned out by the rhythm of the game.
Each session was a negotiation between fear and control, a way to prove I was still myself, still capable of dominance, even in a life feeling like it had been rewritten.
Hunter was always there whenever his schedule allowed.
He sat on the bleachers, his hat pulled low, hands clasped, eyes fixed on me as if each swing were a reminder I belonged to him. Sometimes he timed my sprints; sometimes he handed me water.
Mostly, though, he was silent, vibrating with the same intensity he carried onto the field. Presence was his gift, and it wrapped around me like armor.
The first time I laughed and asked if he was bored, he just blinked at me. “You think I couldeverbe bored watching you?”
I flushed so hard I nearly tripped over my feet. Because he meant it, and I could feel it in the weight of his stare, like gravity had shifted, and the world made sense only when he was looking.
I loved it.
Hunter’s life was even more regimented than mine. Rookie season in the NFL wasn’t glamorous; it was grueling.
He was in a constant loop of practice, reviewing film, lifting weights, and traveling. He came home late, exhausted, and collapsed into bed with me, only to wake before sunrise and do it all again. I watched him survive each day as if it were a battle.
No matter how much the league demanded of him, his obsession with me never dimmed.
His possessiveness was subtle, yet unmistakable in the way he moved through my world.
And every time his name lit up my phone, I felt it like a jolt of electricity. Proof of a man wanting me so fiercely, he couldn’t stand to let me out of reach. It felt like I was finally permitted to exist unapologetically.
After everything I’d been through — the whispers, the slut-shaming, the way people in my hometown had reduced me to a rumor — it felt like a balm.
Hunter didn’t just see me, heclaimedme, and I let him without hesitation or fear.
The weeks blurred, both of us drowning in schedules. But the night before his first home game, I lay awake next to him, listening to his steady breathing, and stared up at the ceiling fan turning slow circles.
Tomorrow he’d step onto a field brighter and louder than anything he had experienced in college. Tens of thousands of people would scream his name tomorrow.
I’d be there in the stands, screaming the loudest. My pride throbbed in sync with my pulse, a physical ache of ownership and devotion.
The thought sent a shiver racing down my spine.
Forty Two
Ella
Game day at the Louisiana Lions home stadium was pandemonium.
The huge, luminous structure stood out against the backdrop of the sky. Banners rippled and music pounded, creating a deafening noise even before kick-off.
