Page 43 of Touchdown
A slow smile curved his mouth, the kind that always made my knees weak. “Say it again.”
I laughed softly, the sound shaky and full of relief. “I love you.”
His lips claimed mine in a slow, reverent kiss that was threaded with a promise that stole my breath in a different way. When he finally drew back, his thumb traced my cheek.
“Good,” he murmured. “Now your dad doesn’t have to worry anymore.”
I rolled my eyes, smiling through the lump in my throat. “Somehow, I doubt that.”
“Maybe not,” he admitted, brushing his mouth over mine again. “But I’ll spend the rest of my life proving he doesn’t need to.”
The words sent a flutter through my chest so strong it nearly hurt. But in the very best way possible, since there was no doubting the sincerity in his voice.
19
SAXON
The press conference was a shit show from the second I walked into the media room. It buzzed with anticipation, cameras flashing as the Nighthawks finalized the announcement. The team’s new PR hire—a cheerful, very pregnant woman with a rock the size of a golf ball on her finger—smiled as she stepped up to the podium. Rumors died in real time.
The press were packed in like sardines, and even with the cameras flashing and lights beating down like a damn interrogation room, all I could think about was Ivy.
I sat at a table in front of them all, my fingers twitching on my knee. I hated this shit. The forced smiles. The public relations dance. My jaw flexed as reporters raised their hands, eager to spin the next headline. One of them finally got called.
“So, Powell,” the guy began, leaning in with a smirk, “just to clarify—the woman in that photo wasn’t your type?”
My jaw ticked. “No.”
There was an audible pause, as if everyone was holding their breath waiting for me to expound. I didn’t.
Another voice finally cut in. “Then what is your type?”
I didn’t hesitate. “My fiancée. Ivy Fisher. She’s my type.”
The room exploded. Cameras clicking like a stampede, voices overlapping, questions flying, but I was already pushing back from the table.
I stood and walked out without another word.
Behind me, I heard a younger female reporter call out, laughing, “What about you, Raiden? Do you have a type?”
I didn’t wait for his answer. I just kept moving with purpose, focused on getting to my girl.
Lennox stood off to the side next to Coach Grady, his arms crossed over his chest. He peeled away with a smirk and fell into step beside me.
“Fiancée?” he echoed, the amusement clear in his tone.
I nodded.
He arched a brow. “She know that?”
“She does now.”
Lennox let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “You are something else, man.”
“You’re one to talk,” I deadpanned.
“True,” he agreed with a grin before turning on his heel and heading back to deal with the press.
The video had gone viral before I even reached the salon.
