I’m imagining the encouraging roar of a sold-out crowd when I feel an arm wrap around my abdomen. Suddenly, I’m weightless, flying through the air until I hit the ground with a soft thud. I’m breathing heavily, but Jace looks barely winded as he lands beside me. He rolls over so that he’s hovering on top of me.

“Nice catch,” he compliments, smiling broadly at me.

“You seriously tackled me?” I groan. “I’m going to be covered in bruises tomorrow, thanks to your attack.”

“Attack is pretty harsh,” Jace replies, still looking amused. “I know you’ve never actually seen a game, but this is how it’s played. You try to keep your opponent from scoring. It wouldn’t be very entertaining if we stood around cheering each other on.”

“Well, it’s not very fun having your arm dislocated either,” I retort, rolling the shoulder that took the brunt of the impact gingerly.

The movement shifts my torso closer to his, and I momentarily forget about the dull throb as I become keenly aware of every inch of my body that is currently pressed against Jace’s. Nervous flutters fill my stomach.

“As someone who’s actually had their arm dislocated, I would agree with that.”

“DAWSON!” suddenly echoes across the empty stadium.

“Shit,” Jace mutters under his breath.

He quickly clambers to his feet and offers me a hand. I take it, and am lifted from the damp grass, only to be greeted by the furious face of a tall, broad-shouldered man with a hefty mustache I assume must be the Lincoln football coach. Standing behind him is what looks to be the entirety of the football team, minus the player standing next to me.

“What in the hell are you doing, Dawson?” the coach shouts. “Is my morning practice interfering with your date? I don’t care how many touchdown passes you throw, if—”

I step forward, interrupting his tirade.

“I’m Vivienne,” I tell him. “And you are?”

The coach shifts his angry gaze from Jace to me in utter astonishment.

It’s obvious he’s a man accustomed to speaking uninterrupted, but unfortunately for him, I was raised to never show deference to anyone outside my immediate family. I let the innate sense of superiority bleed across my face as I watch him expectantly.

He opens and closes his mouth twice before he speaks again. “I’m Coach Alberts.”. His tone is still saturated with authority, but absent of the rage that was coloring his words before.

“I assumed that based on where we are, but what’s your first name?” I probe. “I’m guessing it’s not coach. Unless your parents were really set on that career path for you from the start.”

A few snickers sound from the players assembled behind Coach Alberts, but I don’t look away from our silent stare-off.

“Andrew Alberts,” the coach responds evenly.

“Nice to meet you, Andrew,” I reply. “There’s no reason to blame Jace for this. We had a bet going, and thanks to the competitive spirit you seem to foster in your players, Jace refused to stop until the winner was clear. I told him that based on his playing style, he should try implementing the Kamanski throwing technique. He insisted you know best. I suggested we meet before your morning practice so I could ask for your thoughts as well.”