I’m not sure if game on applies to football, but I give him a sly smirk that says it just before I reach up, brushing the tip of my thumb along his lips. The remnants of my lipstick are either gone or hardly visible in this light, but he doesn’t know that.

Then I look at Heath. “I’d never kiss and tell.”

Fitz is unfazed. Maybe it’s the bourbon, but there’s an aura of confidence circling him that sort of stuns me. I suppose if I looked that good in a tuxedo, I’d be pretty damn confident too.

“It’s nice to see him so focused on something off the field.” Heath turns to Fitz. “It’s a relief to know you have a life.”

Fitz chuckles and wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me into his side. It’s innocent enough, so I’m not sure why I have the feeling that even fully clothed, it seems like we’re testing the boundaries. But I’ve never been one for rules anyway. If I’m going to have a gorgeous fiancé whose love language is apparently touch, I suppose I should make the most of it.

I sip my champagne. “I’m probably the least interesting thing in his life, especially after the Super Bowl.”

With all the eyes burning into me, I’m not sure if what I say has grounds to stand on. But I go with it anyway. Because as much as there is more on the line for me in this deal, I have to uphold my end of the bargain. Fitz needs something too.

“We do hope to see you more at games once the season starts. And of course, we’d welcome you and your team”—Heath’s eyes flick over my shoulder, and I’m sure he’s looking at Agent Samuels—“and your family as well. I know your father is a lifelong Rebels fan. But I gather he’ll have his hands full in the fall.”

I twist the thin stem of the champagne flute and place it on a waiter’s empty tray. “Funny enough, my father always manages to squeeze in extracurricular activities⁠—”

“Would you excuse us? We need to hit the silent auction before it closes.” Fitz guides me to the back of the ballroom.

“I wasn’t done talking,” I tell him, annoyed.

“Maybe this isn’t the best place to air your family’s dirty laundry.”

“That’s what you think.”

He might be right. But I push back because there’s not one part of me that appreciates being told what to do, even by Fitz.

“You’re about to be my husband. Take note. I’d never get on my knees for someone who silences me.”

I’m about to step away from his hold, but Fitz’s arm tightens, pulling me closer so he can dip down to my ear.