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The final whistle blew seconds ago, and the Toronto Tigers just won.

The scoreboard flashes Tigers: 28 – San Diego: 17, and the roar of the crowd is deafening, waves of orange and black surging in celebration. Players embrace on the field, slapping backs, fists pumping in triumph.

But I don’t care about any of it.

Because my eyes are locked on one person.

Graham stands on the sidelines, his hands on his hips, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths, his blue eyes sharp, victorious. He looks exhausted, overwhelmed, and completely in control all at once.

And mine.

Without thinking, without hesitation, without a single care for the cameras snapping, the fans screaming, or the WAGs cheering behind me, I run.

Straight for him.

He turns just as I launch myself forward, his reflexes kicking in just in time to catch me, arms banding around my waist as I wrap my legs around him, breathless, giddy, victorious.

For a second, he just stares at me, his pupils blown wide, his hands gripping me tight like he has no intention of letting go.

Then, I kiss him.

Hard.

Desperate.

A claim, a promise, an inevitability.

It’s hot and breathless and entirely too public, but I don’t care.

Not about the crowd.

Not about the photographers.

Not about the way the entire team whoops and hollers like this is a bigger win than the one they just secured on the field.

Because Graham Callahan played the field, maneuvering his way through every obstacle, every near miss, every hard-fought battle—all to get me exactly where he wanted me.

And now?

I’m his.

I pull back just enough to catch my breath, my forehead pressed to his, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“I love you,” I whisper, for the first time.

His fingers tighten on my hips, his throat bobbing as his gaze softens into something deeper, something intense and endless and so full of want that it makes my stomach flip.

Then, his lips curve into the slowest, most devastating smirk I’ve ever seen.

“Damn right you do,” he murmurs, voice rough.

I laugh, rolling my eyes, but before I can respond, he tilts his head, his breath warm against my cheek.

“Guess that means I should start shopping for a ring.”

My pulse stutters.

I gasp softly, my fingers tightening in his shirt, my entire body burning from the way he says it—like he means it.