Page 654 of One More Kiss

More Than a Memory

Dee Lagasse

Chapter1

The bitter iron-liketaste of blood hits the tip of my tongue.

It causes me to release the hold my teeth have on my bottom lip. Bunched tightly, I bring my fist to my mouth, fighting the urge to chew on my newly manicured bright red nails.

The tips of the acrylic nails dig deep into my palm as I watch out the glass window of the private box.

“Come on, baby.”

Inhale. Exhale.Repeat.

Someone to the right of me squeezes my arm gently, but I can’t bring myself to look over to see who it is. Offering a small smile instead, my eyes fixate on the field below. Zeroing in, I find him.

Number sixteen.

Milo Perry. New England’s record-breaking tight end—who just so happens to be my boyfriend.

He’s in position at the eighteen-yard line, ready for what happens next. Whatever that may be.With just thirty-nine seconds on the clock, it all comes down to this play. It’s make or break. Go big or go home. As in legitimately go home. For the rest of the season. Until next year.

Or… we could win this and go to the Super Bowl. The Super Bowl. And by we, I really mean, Milo and his teammates.

I would sit my ass at home and watch from the couch like the millions of other people if it meant my baby was on that field playing in the biggest game of his life. Again. This wouldn’t be the first time he was in the Super Bowl. It wouldn’t be the first time they won it either.

But none of that matters. Not right now. The only thing that matters is what happens in the next play. They need to do something in the next thirty-nine seconds to even think about what comes after tonight. We’re down by four. This next play needs to result in a touchdown to win. Someone on our team needs to have the football in hand, in the end zone, and it’s done.

The stadium shakes from the screams outside of the box. Everyone in the box, except me, joins in cheering loudly, hopeful the outcome ends in our favor. Sucking in a deep breath, my eyes follow the perfect fourteen-yard snap from the quarterback to Milo, who was already waiting, just where he needed to be at the four-yard line. With ease, Milo clutches the ball into his chest and runs backwards into the end zone, securing the win.

Instantly, tears spring to my eyes as I watch the celebration on the field. Lifted by his teammates, I swell with pride as Milo makes his way to the side of the field where he pulls off his helmet. A slew of coaches beeline toward him, players hug, high-five, or pat him in acknowledgement as they pass.

He did it.He really fucking did it.

With a wet face of her own, Milo’s mother, Sandra, pulls me into a bear hug before nodding down to the field below. Without a single word exchanged between us, she knows exactly where I want to be when the clock runs out. Flashing a smile, she turns back to the group in the box, waiting for the next play. As she takes the spot between her husband and my younger sister, I don’t hesitate at the cue of her silent blessing to go on ahead of them.

While everyone else in the stadium waits anxiously as the kicker sets up to try for the extra point, I sprint down to the front of the stadium. There is a small crowd, mostly press, gathered in front of the group of security guards, waiting for admittance to the field. The loud shots of the confetti cannons boom, and the stadium erupts in celebration. After checking to make sure each person has the appropriate field pass, the security guards begin letting people onto the field.

Tapping my thumb on the side of my thigh as the reporter in front of me fumbles in their bag for their pass, I sigh. It’s not their fault I’m anxious. This is their job. They aren’t rushing down to kiss the love of their life.

After the longest twenty seconds of my life, the reporter flashes his pass and makes his way onto the already crowded field ahead of us. Quickly turning my pass around from the lanyard that holds it, the tall, stocky security guard nods in approval, allowing me access to the field.

Breaking into something in between a jog and a run, I duck and weave in and out of the crowds of reporters. I know they’re only doing their jobs, but until I started dating Milo, I never realized how cutthroat the press can be. As soon as they can, they’re pushing their way to the players, shoving microphones in their faces. I don’t think I could deal with press the way these players do. I have a tough time keeping my mouth shut now, and I’m just a player’s girlfriend.

I don’t mean that in a derogatory sense. I’m not just Milo’s girlfriend. I’m also a vet tech, a daughter, a sister, a friend. And as a local girl, I’ve been a fan longer than Milo’s been on the team. I think that’s what earned me respect right out of the gate from so many of his teammates. I know my football. More than that, I know my New England football.

Every player I pass acknowledges me. I make sure to wave and offer congratulations, but I don’t stop until I see Milo talking to a reporter from The Boston Globe. Before I say anything or make my way over to him, I pause and take a second to savor this moment.

The once perfectly spread black globs of grease under his deep brown eyes are now smudged and smeared across his face. Jet-black hair is now hidden underneath the bright white baseball cap on his head. The navy-blue jersey that reads Perry on the back is untucked and folded up halfway, hiding half of the white block lettering of the #16.

I don’t get long to soak him in before his eyes break away from the reporter and he raises his index finger indicating he needs a moment.

“Lochlyn.”

As soon as my name leaves his lips, I run the last few feet between us and leap into his arms, wrapping my legs around his waist as soon as my arms are around his neck.

“You did it!” I squeal, tears freely falling once again. “Baby, you did it!”

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