I lead the way to extract him from the madness, feeling very Secret Service and wishing I had an earpiece on. As we’re moving, my back goes straight when Quinton rests a hand on my shoulder to make sure we don’t get separated. And maybe it’s because I haven’t been touched by a man in many months—fine, years! Leave me alone!—but those sparks I feel every time he touches me seem to explode from his fingertips, causing my entire body to tingle.

And let me tell you, nothing makes you feel more pathetic than getting hot and bothered from the completely platonic touch of a man whose first reaction to you was only slightly below disgust.

When we’re finally out of danger from the crowd sucking him back in, he drops his hand and falls into step beside me.

“Are you ready for this?” I try to use small talk to distract myself from the electrical current still lingering.

“I’ve been waiting years for this.” He’s stretching his neck and cracking his knuckles. This is just another game for him, one he seems to be taking very seriously.

I look at his empty hands. “Did you write your speech down? Do you need me to go find your speech?”

“No speech.” He doesn’t look at me. His eyes are focused on the area we’ve designated as the stage. He points to his head. “It’s all in here.” He drops his hand to point at his velvet-covered chest. “And in here. I wanted it to feel real, not rehearsed.”

Even though he told me from the beginning he didn’t want me writing a speech, I hoped he’d eventually see the light and write one himself. Or you know, just do it to get rid of hearing me nag. I’ve been to enough events to know not having something on paper isn’t a good idea. But I’m keeping my fingers crossed the stubborn man standing in front of me will prove me wrong. And if he doesn’t, at least I get to say “I told you so.”

I give the signal to the DJ to introduce him once the song that’s playing has ended. And it’s like that simple motion causes Quinton’s nerves to skyrocket. His confident stance is now bouncing due to his tapping foot and all of his nervous energy is contagious.

“Relax, you’ve won a championship, this will be cake.” Really though, a couple hundred guests versus millions watching? How hard could this be?

But instead of my words lightening the mood, I think they do the opposite.

Actually, I know they do the opposite because instead of laughing, he shoots his hand out like a rocket and latches on to mine. He stares into my eyes for a second, fear written across every hard edge of his face. “But this actually matters.”