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It’s pre-game coverage, with commentators throwing around odds and statistics that make my head spin. With a small, knowing smile, Mrs. Fleming hands me a notepad from a nearby side table. It’s covered in neat block handwriting—notes about watching the game and a cheat sheet of football terms. I’d bet every penny in my wallet Archer wrote it out for me.
“Now that you’re settled, I’ll head out. I want to get home before kick-off! You enjoy the game, Miss Reed,” Mrs. Fleming says cheerfully.
She disappears within moments. Leaving me alone in this several-million-dollar house like I own the place. I shake my head, reaching for a bowl of kettle corn and settling back into the soft leather.
On-screen, the camera pans over the sidelines of the game, where players gather and stretch. I see that the Ospreys’ stadium follows the same motif Ronan seems to prefer for their home and office—matte-black, metal, modern frameless glass. All the seats are gaudy burnt orange, though; I smile, wondering if Theo picked the color.
The cameras snag their focus on Declan constantly. With black smudges under his bright blue eyes, he looks unfairly good. The big, broad shoulder pads under his black-and-orange jersey accentuate his narrow hips and powerful quads. And those tight pants. Good lord, they’re practically painted on.
Is it hot in here?
If he’s going to be such an ass, I wish he’d at least have the courtesy to be ugly, too.
“We all know Declan Howard came into this League with all the ammo he needed to become one of the greatest,” a commentator intones. “But since that first season ended in a disastrous championship performance, many have wondered if the Ospreys’ stellar performance that year was just a flash in the pan.”
I frown.
Another announcer picks up where the first left off. “I think most would agree that this is the season for them. Their last chance to come out swinging and show us all that they have what it takes here. Especially Declan Howard.”
They show him again. This time, he licks two of his fingers and grips the football before launching it down the sideline at a staffer in a polo shirt. I notice that all the Ospreys’ employees have the same short-sleeved, collared white shirt on. I’m picturing how gorgeous Archer would look in one when I spot the orange logo emblazoned on the ball boy’s chest.
The same one I sketched up for them. On national television.
I’m still in shock when my phone buzzes. A text from Ronan.
We’ll discuss your payment for our new team logo tonight, it reads. As if they owe me anything after everything I put them through. Everyone loves it. Thank you, little one.
The cameras show the team’s executive sky box next. It catches Ronan, in his same all-black suit, slipping his phone back into his breast pocket. He watches the field with a stony expression and dark sunglasses over his eyes. The announcer mentions his name, and a little graphic appears under his image, showing his title as the team owner and general manager.
He sees the camera pointed at him and barely flinches. But that one tiny drop of humor settles into the corner of his lips. And I somehow know it’s just for me.
Yep. Definitely hot in here.
I keep my eyes peeled for Theo and Archer on the sidelines, although I don’t expect to see the kind doctor—in fact, I suspect he goes out of his way to avoid cameras if he can.
The Ospreys are playing a team in red and white. I’m just about to check my notes for their name when I see a neon orange sign waving from our sideline.
Peaches, it says, Check under the couch.
Theo lowers the poster and smiles broadly. Everything south of my waist turns liquid at the sight of him.
My citrus-scented alpha is an absolute mountain in his shoulder pads. His biceps bulge as big as grapefruits while he thumps his chest and then points at the lens, his bearded mouth grinning wildly.
The male correspondent seems unsure how to explain what the audience just saw. He stutters some version of, “I guess Theo Matthews has someone at home watching. I wonder how that will affect his game.”
Turns out, very well. By the middle of the second quarter, he’s caught two touchdowns and made a couple of crucial blocks. The commentators keep saying his name, his stats climbing with every mention.
The game makes more sense to me as the minutes tick by. I can see what Ronan meant when he described Theo’s position. If Declan wants to run or throw the ball long, the big guy rushes forward to take on defenders. When Declan calls for a shallow pass, Theo breaks away and fights men off to get open.
I thought it would be hard for me to watch, but with Archer’s notes and the constant flashes of the Ash pack, I find the coverage riveting. I forget all about Theo’s note until halftime, when they replay the footage of him waving the poster, speculating about the guys and their prospects. I jump in my seat and reach under the sofa.
It’s a big bundle of polyester fabric. I shake it out and feel my face split in a grin.
An Ospreys’ jersey with the number 01 emblazoned on it. I turn it over to read the name on the back, and my heart skips.
ASH PACK.
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