From Contract to Vow

Chapter Twenty-Two: On the Edge

Peneolope' POV

The chill of the Roman evening cut through the stadium, but I barely noticed it. My body was tense, perched on the edge of my seat in the VIP box, the bruise on my cheek throbbing beneath the sunglasses Luke's parents had pressed into my hands, the black mask hiding most of my face. I couldn't sit properly; I was leaning forward, hands clenched around the railing, watching Colin move across the pitch with a controlled fury that made my chest ache.

Luke's parents, seated beside me, tried to keep their composure, but the anxiety was written across their faces. "This is brutal," Mrs. Newton muttered, wringing her gloved hands. "I've never seen them play like this."

"I've seen plenty of games, but this—" Mr. Newton shook his head. "They're machines, Penelope. All of them. Even your captain—he's pushing himself beyond what's reasonable."

I nodded, eyes glued to Colin. He was careful, calculating each tackle, but you could see the rage coiling in his shoulders. The way he hit, the way he moved, it wasn't just skill—it was controlled fury. And every time his eyes flicked toward the Rome Gladiators, I knew exactly who he was aiming that fire at: Thomas Phillips.

Earlier, during a particularly rough exchange, Luke had been slammed on his forehead. I'd nearly shouted at the ref, nearly dashed down there myself. But I couldn't. My feet were pinned to the stands, watching helplessly as Colin absorbed hit after hit. Every grunt, every stumble, made my stomach twist.

"They don't care about the pain," I murmured to Mrs. Newton. "Luke, Alex, Ethan, Daniel, Rafael... they just keep going. They don't care what it costs them. And him..." I swallowed. "It hurts to see Colin take those hits."

"He's focused," Mr. Newton said quietly, but I could see his concern too. "And he's angry. That's... a dangerous combination."

I pressed my fingers against my own throbbing cheek, the bruise pulsing as if in rhythm with my heartbeat. Mia was beside me now, crutches steadying her, her foot bandaged from earlier chaos, leaning slightly against the seat. She gave me a small nod, understanding the tension that tightened my chest.

The clock ticked down mercilessly. The score was tied. I hated it. Every second felt like a threat. I wanted this game over—not because I didn't want him to win, but because I didn't want him hurt any more. I'd seen the power of his tackles, the way he moved, the way he used every inch of his body to dominate, and I longed to yank him off that field, to carry him away myself if I could.

The teams were circling at their respective ends, plotting their final strategies. The whistle blew.

The Gladiators had the ball first.

I held my breath as Marco passed to Fabio, who lunged for the sideline. Rafael intercepted, weaving through the defenders, passing quickly to Alex. He ran, dodged, and then—hit. Hard. He stumbled but kept moving, passing the ball to me. Colin was close behind, coordinating the line, eyes scanning, calculating, ready to exploit any opening.

And then the collision happened. Thomas Phillips met Colin in the center, elbows and shoulders clashing. Colin took the hit but absorbed it, twisting his body to drive through. My stomach dropped when I saw Phillips elbow Colin near the eye.

"Colin!" I shouted, hands clamped over my mouth, muffled by the mask, my heart hammering.

He stumbled, a brief flicker of blood visible, and the referee blew the whistle. My eyes widened. Nurse Doyle darted onto the pitch, checking him, while the rest of the team circled him protectively.

Colin raised a hand, shaking his head slightly. "I'm fine," I knew he said without even looking at me. The words didn't reach me—they were swallowed by the roar of the crowd—but the gesture was enough. My hands flew to my chest, holding my breath, relief and terror twisting together.

The game resumed.

I could see every calculated step now, every feint, every drive. Colin met Phillips again, and my chest clenched. They collided, force meeting force, and for a moment it seemed Colin would be stopped. But he wasn't. He pivoted, used his shoulder, planted his cleats, and pushed through the line, past defenders who had underestimated him. Rafael and Daniel moved fluidly to block, Luke covered the flank, Ethan flanked Alex.

And then—Colin broke through.

The ball was in his hands. He ran. The pit seemed to stretch endlessly, every spectator holding their breath. I could see his face, sweat and determination, teeth clenched. The clock was running out, the tension unbearable. Phillips tried to intercept, but Colin sidestepped, planted his shoulder, and drove through with a power that left me breathless. The whistle blew. He scored.

The stadium erupted. I couldn't help it—I shouted, masking my relief behind my gloved hands. My body shook as I watched him round the last defenders, jog back toward his team, eyes locking briefly with mine. My chest swelled with pride and a flicker of fear that would never fully leave me.

The Royals regrouped. "London!" the chant rose from the stands, voices raw with excitement. "Royals!" The team echoed it, fists raised. "Treble!" And again: "Here we come!"

I turned toward Michelle and Lee, my hands gripping the railing. "I have to go to him," I whispered. They nodded, smiling. I ran, mask and sunglasses shielding my face, heading down toward the pit.

Colin saw me. His eyes flicked up, recognition cutting through the fatigue and fire. He didn't wait. When I reached him, I threw myself into his arms, feeling the heat of him, the sweat, the exhaustion. He held me tightly, just for a moment, before the reporters descended.

He gently pushed me back just enough to intercept questions, politely declining interviews, his calm composure a mask over the barely contained fire I had seen on the field. Ethan, Rafael, Luke, and Daniel fielded the reporters' questions, deflecting smoothly while Colin and I slipped away.

We made it to the locker room, hands intertwined. I let my head drop against his shoulder, letting my hair fall to cover my face even beneath the mask and Ethan's sunglasses.

I exhaled slowly, finally allowing myself to be relieved. All I wanted now was to go home.

And for Colin, quiet, grumpy, fired-up Colin Bridgerton, the fire was still there, smoldering beneath the surface, but for now, in this moment, he was with me—and that was enough.