Chapter 5 "I play well when I know where my prize is"

Iris Reed

The sound waves coming from Novak University Stadium didn't just surround me—they were pounding against my chest, resonating right through me. Sitting in the first row of bleachers, I could feel the vibrations created by thousands of stomping feet under my cold metal seat. Above me, the lights of the stadium lighting the sky.

I tightened my grip on the heavy purple jersey Marshall gave me—the citrus scent, combined with the other more masculine aroma was making my stomach twist with nausea. The enormous white number 07 covered my chest, practically advertising that I was here for him. A couple of students seated behind me had already been pointing in my direction. I focused on the game field ahead of me, feeling my cheeks heat up.

Out there, the Novak Lions were running their final pre game exercises. Right at the center of the action was Marshall.

Despite the many big, intimidating bodies surrounding him, Marshall was noticeable. He was moving with grace, his broad shoulder blades square under his pads, his helmet resting in his arms. He was barking orders, directing the other players looking in total in control.

Suddenly, as if he could feel my eyes on him, Marshall turned his head through the chaotic sea of players and coaches, his dark eyes locked onto mine. He gave me a single, slow nod—the exact one he would give me in the car the gesture that said. Don't move.

My breath caught in my throat. I quickly looked down at my hands, my heart hammering against my ribs. He was insane. The things he had said to me back at the apartment that I was his crack, that he had been waiting three years for my brother to leave were spinning through my mind like a broken record. I was supposed to be a writer, someone who could see a plot twist coming from a mile away. But Marshall had completely rewritten my reality in a matter of minutes.

A loud horn echoed through the speakers, signaling the start of the game. The crowd erupted in cheers as the visiting team took the field. I watched as Marshall put his helmet on, his face fully concealed behind the dark visor. The man who had touched my jaw so gently an hour ago vanished, replaced by someone ruthless and starving for victory.

From the very first whistle, the game was brutal like war.

Marshall was exactly what the sports commentators called him: a machine. He stood in the pocket with total calm, even when three-hundred-pound defensive men were charging at him. He would wait until the very last second, find the smallest gap in the defense, and launch a perfect, spiraling pass right into his receiver's hands.

Every time Marshall touched the ball, the stadium exploded. Students rose to their feet chanting his name while cameras flashed from the sidelines.

But by the second quarter, the opposing team adjusted. They started targeting Marshall’s blind side.

During a third quarter, their defensive end broke through the offensive line. Marshall didn't see him. I rose half out of my seat, my hand flying to my mouth as the defender slammed into Marshall’s back. The sound of plastic pads crashing together echoed all the way to the front row.

Marshall hit the ground hard.

A collective gasp went through the stadium. For two seconds, he didn't move. My heart stopped beating completely as a sudden, irrational wave of panic washed over me, choking the air right out of my lungs. Get up, I thought fiercely, my fingers digging into the metal railing in front of me. Please, Marshall, get up.

As if answering my silent plea, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, shaking his head. He refused the hand of his offensive lineman, grabbing his own helmet and pulling himself to his feet. He limped slightly as he walked back to the team, but his posture remained rigid.

Before the next play started, Marshall looked toward the bleachers and searched the crowd until he found me standing there, clutching the railing. He shook his head slightly, a wordless command telling me to sit down and stop worrying.

I leaned back into my seat, my knees trembling. I hated him for having that much power over my emotions. I hated that my body had panicked at the thought of him being hurt.

By halftime, the Lions were up by a touchdown, but Marshall still looked battered. As the team jogged toward the tunnel for the break, he didn't go with them. Instead, he walked straight toward the section of the bleachers where I was sitting.

The crowd around me began to murmur probably wondering why Marshall was coming our way. Security guards moved to clear a small path as the star quarterback approached the railing. He stopped right in front of me, breathing heavily, sweat dripping down his temples and tracking through the dirt on his face. He removed his helmet, his dark hair sticking to his forehead.

“You’re pale, Little Reed,” he said hoarsely, still catching his breath.

“You are hurt Marshall,” I retorted, my voice shaking more than I wanted it to. “Are you okay?”

A small, genuine smile touched the corner of his lips—a rare sight that made him look human instead of a more like a machine operating on default. “I’m fine. It takes more than that to break me.” He leaned against the railing, looking up at me. “Are you doing what I told you? Are you watching?”

“It’s hard not to when you’re wearing a giant neon jersey with your name on it,” I mumbled, gesturing to the oversized jersey swallowing my petite frame.

“Good. Keep watching. The second half is going to get ugly.” He reached up, his large, gloved hand lightly tapping the top of my sneaker through the railing gaps. It was a brief, almost unnoticeable touch, but it sent a spark of warmth straight up my leg. “Don't leave your seat, Iris. I mean it.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I whispered. I couldn't, even if I wanted to.

He gave me one last, intense look before turning on his heel and sprinting down the tunnel to join his team.