19
906 Words
I didn't just walk down the stairs; I practically flew. Halfway down, I realized the strappy heels were a liability, a remnant of the "perfect" image Roman had dressed me in. Without a second thought, I kicked them off, leaving them abandoned on the concrete steps. I didn't care who saw. I didn't care that I was barefoot and out of place. I just wanted to reach him.
The security guards tried to steer me toward the official tunnels, but I dodged them, sliding through the gaps in the crowd, my black silk dress a stark, shimmering contrast to the jerseys and face paint surrounding me. The fans recognized me—or rather, they recognized the woman from the viral photos—and a wave of whispers and shouts followed me, but I tuned it all out.
When I finally hit the turf, the smell of crushed grass and ozone hit me. The field was a chaotic swarm of players, coaches, and media, but Roman was a lighthouse in the storm. He hadn't moved. He was still standing there, waiting for me, his expression one of absolute, unwavering certainty.
I didn't stop until I collided with him.
I launched myself at him, my arms wrapping around his neck, my legs locking around his waist. Roman caught me with a grunt of effort, his massive arms clamping around me, pulling me so tight I could feel the frantic thud of his heart against my own. He smelled of sweat, turf, and victory—a raw, masculine scent that made my head spin.
"You actually did it," he rasped, his voice vibrating through my chest. "You jumped."
"I told you," I breathed, my face inches from his. "I'm done with the safety nets."
Roman didn't say another word. He tilted my head back and crashed his lips onto mine. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was a conquest. It was a public declaration of war against every expectation placed upon me and every rule he had ever played by. Around us, the stadium erupted. The cameras converged, the flashbulbs creating a blinding white halo around us, capturing the image of the NFL's most notorious playboy claiming the one woman he was never supposed to touch.
I felt the world dissolve. There was only the heat of his skin, the grip of his hands, and the electric knowledge that I had just become the most hated and envied woman in the city.
Then, the grip on my arm shifted.
A hand, firm and trembling with rage, clamped onto my shoulder and yanked me backward. I gasped, losing my balance and sliding off Roman’s lap. I spun around to see a face I knew all too well.
Nolan.
He looked haggard, his eyes bloodshot and his face a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. He had made it inside. He was standing there in the middle of the field, looking at me as if I were a ghost, then shifting his gaze to Roman with a look of such intense hatred it felt like a physical blow.
"Get. Out. Now," Nolan hissed, his voice low and shaking. "Allie, I am not asking you again. You are coming with me before you destroy whatever is left of your reputation."
The silence that fell between the three of us was deafening, despite the roar of the crowd. The paparazzi sensed the drama and surged forward, their lenses zooming in on the family meltdown.
I looked at my brother—the man who had spent my entire life protecting me, managing me, and deciding who I should be. Then I looked at Roman, who had stepped forward, his presence towering and protective, his eyes challenging Nolan to try and take me.
I felt a strange, cold clarity wash over me. The "good girl" wasn't just gone; she was dead.
I stepped away from Nolan, moving back toward Roman. I didn't do it slowly. I did it with a deliberate, steady confidence. I reached out and slid my hand into Roman’s, our fingers interlocking.
"I'm not going anywhere, Nolan," I said, my voice clear and unwavering, carrying over the noise. "Stop trying to save me from a life I'm actually choosing. I'm staying with him."
Nolan looked like he had been slapped. He looked at our joined hands, then at Roman’s triumphant smirk.
"You don't know him," Nolan whispered, his voice breaking. "You think this is a fairy tale? He's going to break you, Allie. And when he does, don't you dare come crawling back to me."
"I know exactly who he is," I replied, leaning my head against Roman’s shoulder. "That's why I'm staying."
Roman tightened his grip on my hand, pulling me close. He looked at Nolan, his voice a smooth, dangerous velvet.
"She's not a project, Nolan. And she's not your responsibility anymore. Go home."
As Nolan turned and walked away, his shoulders slumped in a mixture of defeat and disgust, I felt a pang of sorrow—but it was drowned out by a surge of adrenaline. I looked up at Roman, and the look in his eyes told me that the game had just shifted.
We weren't just playing with fire anymore. We had set the whole world on fire, and as we walked off the field together, hand in hand, I realized I didn't want to put it out. I wanted to see how far the flames could reach.
- Writer
