Chapter 6 Never lose a game.

Iris Reed

The second half was exactly what he predicted: ugly.

The opposing team played dirty, throwing late hits and trying to shake Marshall’s composure. But they didn't understand him. The angrier they got, the colder Marshall became.

He found their weakness just like he said he would. He noticed a safety stepping a fraction of an inch too far to the left, and he exploited it, scoring two more touchdowns in the fourth quarter.

When the final whistle blew, the stadium exploded. Novak had won, 31 to 14.

Students began pouring onto the field to celebrate, but I stayed in my seat, overwhelmed by the sheer noise and movement.

I watched the chaos below, looking for the purple jersey with number 07. I saw him near the center of the field, surrounded by reporters and cheering fans. He was being pulled in every direction, but he looked completely detached from the celebration.

Then, he broke away from the crowd, ignoring a reporter holding a microphone, and walked straight toward the tunnel. He didn't look back up at me this time. He didn't need to. I knew the rules.

I stood up, my muscles stiff from sitting for hours, and made my way down the crowded stairs. Navigating the pathways of the stadium was confusing, but I eventually found the hallway leading to the players' private exit, just as Marshall had instructed before we left the apartment.

The hallway was quiet compared to the roar of the stadium, smelling of sweat. I stood near the exit doors, crossing my arms over the massive jersey, feeling incredibly out of place.

Twenty minutes later, the door to the locker room opened and Marshall walked out.

He had showered, his hair was still damp, and he was back in his normal clothes—a plain gray hoodie and dark jeans. He carried his duffel bag over one shoulder. The fierce, predatory energy he held on the field had now simmered down into a quiet, heavy exhaustion. He looked tired, the dark circles under his eyes were impossible to ignore now.

He stopped when he saw me then walked over, his heavy boots echoing on the concrete floor.

“Let’s go,” he said simply, reaching out to take my hand. His grip was firm, his palm warm against my cold fingers.

I didn't pull away. I was too tired to fight, and honestly, the warmth of his hand felt grounded against the lingering adrenaline of the night. We walked out to the parking lot in silence. The cool night air felt amazing against my flushed skin.

Once we got into his car, Marshall didn't start the engine right away. He dropped his bag into the backseat, leaned his head back against the headrest, and closed his eyes. For a long minute, the only sound was the quiet rhythm of his breathing.

I looked at him in the dim light of the dashboard. This was the man who kept me trapped, the man who threatened to call campus security on my own car. Yet, watching him now, completely deflated from the pressure of carrying his team, I felt a strange, dangerous tug in my chest.

“You played well,” I said softly, breaking the silence.

Marshall didn't open his eyes, but a faint smirk appeared on his face. “You sound surprised, Little Reed.”

“I’m just stating a fact.”

He turned his head, his dark eyes opening to look at me in the shadows. “I told you. I play better when I know where my prize is.” He reached across the center console, his fingers brushing against the edge of the oversized jersey I was still wearing. “You look good in my colors, Iris.”

My heart did that slow, heavy roll again. “Marshall, stop. You can't just say things like that.”

“Why not?” he asked, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register that made my skin tingle. “Because it’s true? Because you know I mean every word?”

I looked out the window, trying to find my footing. “Because it’s crazy. We aren't a story you can just write. You can't just decide I belong to you.”

Marshall leaned closer, his scent filling the small space of the car. “I didn't just decide it today, Iris. I told you. I’ve been playing the long game.” He reached out, his thumb catching a strand of my hair and tucking it behind my ear, his touch lingering against my cheek. “And I never lose a game.”

He pulled back, starting the engine, the roar of the car cutting off any reply I could have made. As we pulled out of the stadium lot and headed back toward his apartment, I felt a cold chill run down my spine despite the heater.

Marshall thought he was in total control. He thought he had built a perfect wall around me. But as I stared at the city lights flashing past, a tiny spark of rebellion flared up inside me. He thought my weakness was just curiosity so that he could use it to keep me trapped.

But a writer always looks for a way out of the script.

And as we drove into the dark night, I promised myself I would find his crack—and break out of his velvet shell, no matter what it took.