You win

Sofia - Dinner

Westerman's body is ripped, more than I'd like to admit. I watch his muscles pulsate when he launches the ball with a quick, flawless pass. I mean, it's no surprise—I've seen him up close, with his popped biceps and defined shoulders, which are easily visible with any fitted shirt. I don't have to see him shirtless to know what's under there.

His leg muscles flex as he sprints down the field, avoiding tackle after tackle. He always knows where his teammates will be before they get there. The crowd erupts when he yet again assists a touchdown, finding his running man at the last second as he crosses the line.

"And that's game! UFN adds another victory to go five for six!"

I watch as the teams huddle up, and Stephan gets pulled to the side for a post-game interview. Like he needs the attention—it's hard to ignore the many faces with the letters 22 drawn on with blue paint. He pulls off his helmet, showing off his damp, messy hair that he somehow pulls off, again more than I'd like to admit, eye black smudged down his face, and his hands resting on his hips while his chest calms. He handles the reporter's questions with his usual confidence, playing the whole "there's no 'I' in team" spiel while flashing that dimpled smile that seems to have an effect on the reporter as well as the crowd.

"Stephan, incredible performance out there today. What was going through your mind during that last play?" The petite redhead, with a surprisingly assertive voice, asks through the microphone.

He wipes the sweat from his brow. "Well, it's all about teamwork. I saw an opening and trusted Demarcus to be in the right spot. He never disappoints."

The reporter nods. "You've been having an outstanding season so far. What do you attribute your success to?"

Stephan's eyes flicker toward me with intention. Well played. He continues, "Hard work, dedication, and a great support system. I couldn't do it without my coaches and teammates pushing me."

I roll my eyes at his humble-bragging. He's good; I'll give him that.

As the interview wraps up, Stephan jogs over to me, his grin widening. "Hey—" He's abruptly cut off as some of his teammates pounce on him, delivering a few ass smacks and helmet clashes for a job well done.

"Atta be, Westerman!" Demarcus Trent, their captain, calls out as he approaches. Noticing me, he quickly shoves the other guys away.

"You can spit game after," Demarcus says with a sly smile. "Don't want to leave Truman waiting for PGC." He gives Stephan a nudge before walking off, and my eyebrows raise.

"PGC?" I question.

"Post-game chat," Stephan explains, glancing at the rest of his team walking by. "I'll meet you outside the showers," he adds with a nod before following his teammates to the locker room.

As I head toward the lockers, I catch glimpse of Peter Marcus wearing a black hoodie with the baby blue stitched UFN logo on the front. He looks good. His hair, the same unique sandy brown color, falls just right, and his cheeks slightly sink in as he smiles. And it pangs my chest when I see who he's looking at—someone else, not me. The feeling worsens when our eyes catch for a millisecond, and he continues on like I don't exist.

+++

I've overthought this a lot. More than I should. I changed my outfit four times—four damn times—and I'm not even going to count how long it took me to put my hair half up, half down for the whole sweet girlfriend facade. I look down at my outfit and wonder if this is even good enough: mom jeans paired with some Boston clogs and a black knit sweater. Shit, it's a bit cropped. God, this is a mistake.