Intercepted (New Hope #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Her limbs start trembling, her skin erupting in goosebumps. I'm holding her entire weight by her hair, so I gently pull her toward me, her back to my chest. My lips at her ear, I whisper sweet words as she explodes with a guttural cry, her neck sticky from the shower.

My orgasm follows soon after, my entire soul seeping out from my cock. Mallory milks me, her channel contracting as she comes down from her high. I sink my teeth into her shoulder, light enough not to leave a mark this time.

And that's how Super Bowl Sunday starts for us.

After we've cleaned up and gotten dressed, we join the kids in the lobby and head to FedEx Field. The kids jabber in the backseat, telling Mallory and I about their morning, which was spent at the Smithsonian. Blake says he wants to be an archaeologist when he grows up. Yesterday, it was an FBI agent, and the day before that, it was the guy working the popsicle stand.

Our nation's capital is putting fantastical ideas in his head, all of which I have no doubt he could achieve. These kids are going places.

We park in the private garage under the stadium, which is reserved for NFL executives, high-profile audience members, and the two teams playing today—Seattle and Philadelphia.

I throw a baseball cap low over my eyes, hoping the fresh shave, worn jeans, and slew of children will make me unrecognizable. I'll know quite a few people in attendance, but I'm not worried about coworkers or friends. For Mallory's sake, I'm concerned about the sports reporters.

As we take the elevator to the private suites, Mallory gives my hand a squeeze, smiling sweetly. Aidan taps his finger on the metal doors, waiting impatiently for them to open. Blake is clinging to his Jalen Hurts jersey, a permanent marker placed artfully between his teeth. Grace scrolls through Cardi B's Instagram page, squealing when the rapper posts a live video of herself getting ready for the halftime show.

Our suite is decked out with leather couches, a small fireplace, three flat screens, and more food and drink than we will ever be able to eat. I crack open a beer, plopping onto a sofa to watch the game from the back of the room. Mallory furrows her brow, glancing toward the field, then me.

"I can't," I tell her, gesturing at the television, which is already streaming a live feed of the game. "Don't want the cameramen to see me through the partition."

It may take a few quarters, but eventually, those cameras will zoom in on the private suites. We're in between NFL Commissioner Randall Johnson and Tom Brady. Once they catch wind that I'm in the audience, Mallory and the kids will have their faces on national television for a billion Americans to see. It'll take all of two seconds for paparazzi to discover where we're staying, and then they'll be camped outside our hotel before we get back.

I don't want to put any of us under that level of scrutiny.

Mallory seats herself next to me, draping my arm over her shoulders. Aidan cracks a few pops open, joining his siblings by the floor-to-ceiling windows to watch the game live. Blake and Grace make themselves a nauseating spread of nachos, caramel popcorn, and chilidogs at the bar. I kiss Mallory's forehead, my eyes on the screen as the Eagles' kicker launches the pigskin toward the receiving Seahawks.

As the game goes on, I find myself smiling, enjoying the warmth of Mallory at my side, under my throwing arm. It's been so long since I've simply watched football for entertainment value. Even when our defensive team took the field, I was on the sidelines, tablet in hand, reviewing key plays. I was analyzing my mistakes and my triumphs, figuring out how I could get the ball further down the field.

Don't get me wrong, I love playing. The grass stains, the gritted teeth, the adoration, the comradery that comes with being a part of something larger than yourself. I love football with every fiber of my being, but I gave twenty-six years to this sport, ten of them professionally. I think it's time to let it go.