Page 15 of Snatched
“No.”
“PLAY. IT.”
Fine.
I click it and the video loads.
There’s crowd noise and bright stadium lights.
Not to mention Colt in a navy-and-white uniform, number 14, running a perfect slant route. He’s fast. Ridiculously fast. The kind of fast that looks like the world is in slow motion and he’s the only one who didn’t get the memo.
The announcer says his name as a pass lifts in the air, and he catches the ball with this beautiful, effortless grace that makes my breath catch.
Damn.
“So he wasn’t just a football player,” Harper says. “He was, like,a player. On a pro team.”
I swallow. “He looks…young.”
“Hot.”
“That too.”
I click another video.
A highlight reel.
Him smiling in an interview.
Him signing footballs.
Him hugging teammates.
Then Colt landing weird on his knee.
I wince. “Ouch.”
Harper goes quieter. “That the injury?”
“Looks like it.”
Colt’s face on the screen twists in pain, then determination, then agony again as he’s helped off the field. I have a sudden, sharp urge to reach through the screen, pull that version of him off the turf, and tell him he’ll be okay.
Completely normal reaction.
Totally stable.
Not at all stalker behavior.
“Oh my God,” I say, slamming the laptop closed. “I need to be arrested.”
“You’re online browsing his résumé,” Harper says. “Not hacking the Pentagon. This is normal dating research.”
“It feels illegal.”
“Everything feels illegal to you.”
“Harper, I Googled my trainer.”
