Page 88 of This Beautiful Lie
“Good job, Rookie! I knew I liked you.”
Dean glanced over from where he stood, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Mason, stop flirting. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
Mason only grinned wider. “If you’re feeling threatened, maybe you should step up your game.”
A few people on the sidelines laughed, and my stomach flipped—because Dean didn’t rise to the bait.
Instead, he shot me a quick, shameless wink, the kind that shouldn’t have made my knees weak, but absolutely did.
The air still crackled with it, heat lingering on my skin long after Mason jogged back to reset the play.
The whistle shrilled again, and just like that, the field snapped back into motion.
Thomas streaked forward like a bullet, Trisha guarding his side, and before Mason could even set up the play, Dean was there, anticipating our every move. He slipped past one of our guys, intercepted a pass clean out of the air, and took off downfield with the ball tucked tight against his side.
“Cut him off!” Mason barked as he ran, but Dean was too fast. Too focused. His strides devoured the grass until he planted the ball over the line, dead center between the makeshift goalposts.
Cheers erupted from the sidelines. Kids squealed. Someone whistled long and low.
Dean turned, sweat glistening on his forehead, and shot a grin toward Mason that was equal parts victory and taunt.
“God, I hate him sometimes,” Mason muttered at my side, though the spark of amusement—and maybe even respect—undercut his words.
Dean only shrugged, tossing the ball lazily back toward the center. Then his eyes found mine, and his grin softened—just enough to feel private, like it was meant only for me. Not triumph, not showmanship. Just him checking to see if I was still with him, still watching.
I pressed my lips together, trying to hide the smile that broke through anyway. Heat curled low in my belly, sharp with want, but threaded with something more dangerous. Something that felt like recognition. As if under all the noise and chaos, he was reaching for me—and I couldn’t stop myself from reaching back.
The next round, Mason pulled us into a tight huddle, breathless, hands braced on his knees. “Alright,” he said, eyes sharp, flicking toward Dean across the field. “He’s watching Viv more than the ball.”
A ripple of agreement went through the team—grunts, nods—like everyone had already noticed but me. My face went hot, but Mason didn’t give me a chance to react.
“We’re going to use it,” he pressed on, eyes cutting back in my direction. “Viv, I want you to stick to the right, pull him with you. Don’t fight it, don’t hesitate—just take the ball and make him chase you. That’ll open the lane.” He jabbed a finger toward Thomas, who was still catching his breath. “Thomas will travel straight through the middle. I’ll swing wide left. When Dean closes in on Viv, she pops the ball, and we drive past him. Clean and easy.”
Then his gaze found mine again, sharp but not unkind. “This works only if you don’t freeze. You have to trust me. Trust the play.”
My pulse hammered in my ears, the weight of the entire team’s eyes pressing down on me. I swallowed hard, forcing a nod—even as my stomach was tangling itself into knots.
The next whistle tore through the air, sharper than before. The play became rougher, bodies colliding right from the start.
“To the right!” Mason yelled. “Don’t slow down, no matter what you do!”
I ran. Legs burning, lungs screaming.
One. Two. Three people followed me?—
And then the hit came from the side. A body slammed into me, knocking me off balance. Another crashed against my shoulder, then another—suddenly I was swallowed by weight driving me into the dirt.
Pain shot through my knee, and all the air punched out of my lungs.
Then I heard Dean’s voice crack through the chaos like thunder.
He was there in an instant. One second, I was buried under a tangle of arms and legs—the next, people were being ripped off me as though they weighed nothing. His hands found me fast, sweeping over my arms, my shoulders, the length of my legs—his eyes raked over me, hands trembling with restraint, like he was desperate to know I was whole.
“Are you okay?” he asked, and something about his tone made my chin start to wobble.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
But then his eyes landed on my knee, where the blood streaked down my shin. For a heartbeat he just stared, shoulders heaving, the muscle in his cheek jumping like he was barely holding himself together.
