Chapter 14: Win
The final whistle was a bright, piercing shriek that unleashed a wall of sound. Svet’s ears rang with it. The Chargers had won, a last-second field goal slicing through the uprights, and the stadium became a sea of undulating blue and gold. On the field, players erupted, helmets raised, backs slapped in rhythmic celebration.
“They won! They actually won!” Alexa screamed, bouncing on her toes, her voice shredded by the noise.
Svet watched the chaos, her eyes tracking one number, one massive frame. Joe was in the thick of it, getting swallowed by a group of his teammates, a forest of giants. For a moment, she lost him in the scrum. Then he emerged, helmet off, his hair dark with sweat, a rare, unrestrained grin splitting his face as he embraced the quarterback.
He turned, scanning the sideline. His eyes locked onto hers from fifty yards away. She saw the intention clear in his stance. He started moving toward her, weaving through the jubilant crowd of players and staff, his path a determined line.
Her heart kicked against her ribs. This was it. The post-game moment she’d seen in a hundred movies. He’d sweep her up, it would be perfect, a story they’d tell—
A blur of long, platinum hair and a very expensive-looking cream trench coat intercepted him halfway.
Svet’s breath hitched. It was a woman, stunning in a sharp, surgical way—cheekbones you could cut paper on, lips glossed to a high shine. She threw her arms around Joe’s neck with a practiced ease, pressing herself against his sweat-drenched jersey, kissing his cheek loudly. A photographer, lurking nearby, snapped a rapid burst of shots.
Joe’s victorious smile froze, then faded into a mask of polite recognition. He patted her back loosely, a reflexive, distant gesture. His eyes darted over her shoulder, finding Svet again. He mouthed something—wait—and tried to disentangle himself.
But the woman held on, laughing, saying something into his ear, her manicured hand resting on his chest.
A cold, familiar poison bloomed in Svet’s gut. The cynicism she thought had melted over the past two days came rushing back, colder and harder. Of course. The ex-girlfriend. Had to be. The model, or the influencer, or whatever she was. The one from his other world. The one who knew how to navigate this field, these cameras, this life.
She took a half-step back, her face carefully neutral. “Let’s go,” she said to Alexa, her voice flat.
“What? No! Are you seeing this? That’s Elody. She’s a nightmare. Joe can’t stand her. Look at him, he looks like he’s being hugged by a spider!” Alexa protested, grabbing her wrist.
Joe finally extracted himself, his movements firm now. He said something short to the woman—Elody—whose lovely smile tightened at the corners. Then he just walked away from her, leaving her standing alone, a beautiful statue in the chaos.
He didn’t walk. He marched. Every long, powerful stride vibrated through the turf. His focus was absolute, all of it zeroed in on Svet. The noise, the cameras, Elody—it all seemed to blur and fade behind him.
He didn’t stop when he reached her. He didn’t say a word.
He simply bent at the waist, hooked one arm behind her knees, the other around her back, and lifted her off her feet like she weighed nothing. A startled gasp escaped her. The stadium lights, the roaring crowd, it all tilted and spun.
“Joe—what are you—” The words died in her throat.
He looked up at her, his face serious, sweat tracing paths through the errant streaks of eye black. “It’s only you,” he said, his voice a low rumble that she felt in her bones.
Then he kissed her.
It wasn’t gentle. It was an affirmation. A correcting of the record. His mouth was warm and desperate, tasting of salt and victory and what felt like relief. He kissed her like he was stamping out the last of her doubt, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other holding her securely against him. The world dissolved into the feel of his lips, the solid wall of his chest, the not-so-distant cheers that now felt like they were for them.
When he finally broke for air, he kept her aloft, their foreheads touching. His breaths were heavy. “You saw that?”
“Hard to miss,” she managed, her own voice unsteady. “Trench coat chic. Very dramatic.”
“She’s nobody,” he said quietly, fiercely. “A photo op. You’re the one I was running to.”
From the corner of her eye, Svet saw Elody turn on a viciously high heel and stalk away. She saw the photographer, grinning, pivot to capture them instead—the hulking lineman holding the blonde student aloft in a paint-stained sweater. A new narrative, written in real time.
He slowly, reluctantly, let her slide back down until her feet touched the turf. Her body felt electrified, humming. Alexa was grinning like a maniac, giving them two very enthusiastic thumbs up.
“You have post-game stuff,” Svet said, trying to regain some equilibrium, smoothing her sweater.
“I do. It’ll take an hour, maybe two. Meet me at the players’ lot? Gate C. I’ll text you the exact spot.” He brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek, his thumb lingering. “Don’t overthink. Don’t run.”
“I’m not running,” she said, and found she meant it. The poison was gone, burned away by the sheer, overwhelming certainty of him.
“Good.” He stole one more quick, hard kiss. Then, with a final squeeze of her hand, he merged back into the river of uniforms heading toward the locker room tunnel.
The noise seemed to rush back in, louder than before. Alexa looped an arm through hers. “Okay. So. That happened. My brother is apparently a possessive Neanderthal with spectacularly good timing. You good?”
Svet looked at the tunnel, then down at her own hands, which were trembling slightly. A slow smile spread across her face. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m good.”
But as they made their way out of the thinning crowd, she felt the weight of dozens of glances. Sanctioned sidebar. She heard a snippet of conversation from two girls holding phones: “...that’s Joe Alt…who is she?”
The bubble, she realized, was well and truly popped. What happened next was going to be out in the open. She pulled out her own phone, saw the beginning of a notification storm—DMs, tags. She silenced it and shoved it back in her pocket.
Let them look. Let them talk. He’d carried her through it. For now, that was enough.