The field was absolute bedlam.
I pushed through the heavy double doors of the stadium tunnel, stepping directly onto the frozen artificial turf. The noise was deafening—a chaotic symphony of cheering fans, blaring stadium music, and the frantic shouts of reporters trying to secure post-game interviews.
Dozens of camera crews swarmed the center of the field, surrounding the celebrating players. But I wasn't looking for the cameras. I was only looking for him.
"Harper!"
The deep, gravelly shout cut through the noise like a thunderclap.
I spun around. Jace was pushing his way through a throng of teammates and reporters, his eyes locked onto me with a fierce, burning intensity. He was completely battered. His jersey was torn at the shoulder, his face was smeared with turf paint and sweat,
