Chapter 1
Fifty-five thousand fans. A sold-out stadium. This was something different entirely, and Jamie felt the pressure pressing down on him, leaving him with no air to breathe.
The tunnel was an echo chamber of concrete, loud, cramped, and suffocating. Around him, armor clashed as players slammed their shoulders against the walls, the vibration traveling straight into Jamie’s teeth. Smoke machines choked the air, and the bass from the booming music thudded through his cleats.
Louis wouldn’t be here tonight. He wouldn’t sit in the stands, cheering for him. None of them would. Not his high school friends. Not his family. They were all thousands of miles away, watching him on a screen.
He had tried to keep in touch, but the six-hour time difference was ruthless. Either one of them was working or sleeping. This was not how Jamie had thought things would go.
He had gotten a text, at least, shortly before the game.
Good luck, Captain.
Jamie had hoped for more, but lately Louis had been keeping his distance, only curtly replying to Jamie’s countless pathetic messages.
One person would be there, though. One person would stand in the selected area reserved for family and friends, waiting for him to stop by before the game for some motivation and an encouraging kiss.
The music hit its peak. Their cue. The gates opened, and the players stormed the stadium as a sea of burgundy, silver, and white flooded the field. This was his debut. He couldn’t fuck it up. He just couldn’t. The speed shock of Division I was hitting him all at once.
He would lead them to victory. He had no doubt. He might suck at life, but he was good at football.
The crowd erupted as the stadium lights relentlessly beat down on the turf, glaring against the matte silver helmets. Here he was. Burgundy poster boards blurred in the stands. His number seven was everywhere—plastered across student chests, painted on cheeks. They didn’t know him. They only knew the recruitment stats Coach Evans had sold to the press.
Sterling had insisted on Jamie keeping number seven. He already had a brand attached to it from high school. He would write history wearing it; of that, the staff around Evans seemed certain.
Jamie began his warmup drills. He could feel the cameras aiming at him, tracking his throwing hand, and wondered what the commentators were saying about him.
Jamie Montgomery, the cowardly little faggot who was too much of a pussy to stand up for the man he loves.
Loves. Yes. Jamie loved Louis.
His vision threatened to blur, and he pushed the thought aside before walking with his teammates toward the stands.
“Hey, gorgeous,” a soft, by now familiar voice said.
Taylor put a gentle hand on Jamie’s face. “I truly believe in you. You will so rock this. Are you doing okay?”
Jamie nodded wearily, then shook his head. “No. But it is okay. Thank you for being here tonight.”
“Of course, silly. Where else would I be if not here by your side?”
She pressed a soft kiss to his lips. He always tasted so clean. She wondered how he pulled it off—no matter what time of day, he smelled like he had just stepped out of a steaming shower and stuffed his mouth with freshly cut peppermint leaves.
She didn’t like boys. She never had. But Jamie was safe, and she liked Jamie. The new feeling of a dumped-out basket full of butterflies in her stomach whenever he was close startled her, the sudden turmoil catching her off guard. Especially when he looked this fragile. He was always dressed when they met. She hadn’t even once seen him shirtless. He respected the promise he had given her that cold October evening last year.
“I got to go. I’ll see you after the game?” he asked, gripping his helmet.
“I will be here.”
She kissed him one last time. She had to. It was for the show. Their public cover. Their reputation.
But was it really?
For a split second, Taylor considered letting her tongue softly part Jamie’s lips to see what he felt and tasted like inside his mouth, but she decided against it. It would break their oath and destroy his trust. And probably not lead to victory, but defeat. They spent a lot of time together now, and she had learned how to look behind his facade. She had seen how easily he could get thrown off.
“Taylor, let the man go. He has to win a game,” Coach Evans said, slapping Jamie encouragingly on his shoulder pad. “Afterwards, he will be all yours, right, son?”
“Yes, sir. Of course,” Jamie replied politely, adjusting his wristband play card.
He turned his back on the crowd and headed straight toward the center of the field, his eyes already scanning the sideline to lock onto Coach Reynolds’ opening offensive signals.
“And leading the Spartans offense today... making his Division I collegiate debut... true freshman, number seven... JAMIE MONTGOMERY!”
Jamie cringed as his name echoed through the stadium, the massive Jumbotron screens freezing on a giant close-up live feed of his face. Fifty-five thousand people were staring directly at him. There was no time to blink, flinch, or show the panic clawing at his throat without the entire stadium seeing it.
The camera finally moved away from him. Jamie pulled his helmet down, the dark visor snapping into place and hiding his eyes from the stands. He joined the offensive unit as they broke the sideline huddle and trotted across the white yard lines together.
Jamie stood in shotgun formation, his fingers settling against the leather. The noise from the stands was deafening, drowning out everything around him until he could barely hear himself think.
“Blue eighty! Blue eighty! Set... hut!”
The snap flew into his hands, crisp and clean.
Jamie took a rapid five-step drop. Instantly, the pocket collapsed. Silas Thorne missed his block at left tackle, and the New York Empire’s star edge rusher tore through the gap. Before Jamie could even track the route downfield, a violent impact struck him from the blindside.
He hit the ground hard. The air left his lungs in a violent gasp as the turf burned his bare forearm.
I do not like brutal American game with ball like egg. Is like car crash, yes? With bulldozer! Non, stupid brutal car crash game.
Jamie closed his eyes, and for a second, he could see Louis standing over him, looking down in that highly disapproving way with his arms crossed. The French boy raised an eyebrow.
Must I always worry?
Welcome to Division I, Jamie thought.
By the end of the first quarter, the scoreboard read 10–0. The home stadium had become a pressure cooker.
On the sideline, Coach Evans stood with his arms crossed, his gaze unyielding as he watched his freshman quarterback sit silently on the bench.
“Look at me,” Gavin Mercer commanded, stepping in front of Jamie as the second quarter began.
The senior left guard grabbed Jamie’s shoulder pads, anchoring him.
“The line holds now. Trust the shield, Seven. Throw the ball.”
Gideon Cross barked the adjustments at the line of scrimmage. When the ball snapped, Gavin Mercer delivered a fierce block that leveled the oncoming defensive tackle.
The pocket stayed clean.
Jamie stepped up. His throat was dry, but his arm acted on pure instinct. He fired a rapid slant over the middle. Jude Brooks snatched it out of the air in open space, picked up eight yards, and moved the chains. The rhythm clicked. Three plays later, Rowan Miller pounded the ball downhill into the end zone.
By halftime, the Spartans had closed the gap to 17–14.
The real test came with exactly 1:45 left in the fourth quarter. The Spartans trailed 24–21. No timeouts.
Jamie was drenched in sweat as he looked toward the sideline. Coach Evans and Coach Reynolds signaled the play frantically, their arms cutting through the air.
He stood under center. For once, the noise around him seemed to disappear as he scanned the Empire secondary. The safety was creeping down into a tight man-to-man coverage look. It was a gamble, practically inviting Jamie to test the deep field. He changed the play at the line, shouting the audible over the roar of the crowd.
He took the snap and dropped back. The right side of the offensive line buckled under a fierce blitz, but Jamie stepped directly into the pocket. He brought the ball back, planted, and launched it deep down the right sideline.
Tristan Hayes took off, burning his cornerback by two steps. The ball tracked over his shoulder, and Hayes hauled it in at the goal line.
The stadium exploded.
The final whistle blew.
Sterling Spartans 28, New York Empire 24.
Jamie disappeared underneath his teammates before he had time to process what was happening. Hands slammed against his helmet and shoulder pads, voices screaming around him as the stadium celebrated their opening-game victory.
They had won.
They had secured victory in the opening game, and there was no one here he truly wanted to share it with.
He had never liked the victory bonfires at the desolate Santa Barbara beach much, but right now, he would have given anything to be there. To celebrate with his friends. His sister. Louis.
What Jamie didn’t know was that his parents and Hetty were popping champagne at home, waiting to call and congratulate him on his successful first game. He didn’t know Louis was sitting alone in his dark Paris home, staring at a stuttering international stream so he wouldn’t miss a single snap, saving every broadcast to a hard drive. Louis was with him for every single step, even if Jamie didn’t know it.
Jamie didn’t know that Lea had already texted him either, thanking him for the opportunity he had given her and mentioning that she planned to visit soon.
For now, there was only the turf beneath his cleats, the shouting fans, his new life, and his official girlfriend.
Coach Marcus Evans strode across the field through the media swarm. Flashing lenses blinded Jamie, microphones shoved toward his face, and reporters shouted questions he didn’t know how to answer.
The noise was making him dizzy.
Evans placed a hand on Jamie’s bruised shoulder pad and gave him a single, intense nod.
The decision had been validated.
The starting spot belonged to number seven.
