Ellison Michaels seemed to be expecting me when I marched into her office the morning before our big home game against Notre Dame.

She didn't even twitch when I slid my field pass across her desk.

"I respectfully resign from football coverage," I announced. "I've talked to Joey already. He's got a sophomore he can take under his wing. But I'd like to let you know that I'll no longer be helping him."

Ellison sat back in her desk chair. It didn't creak.

She'd gotten a new one.

In the wake of President Sterling stepping down—which had been less of a voluntary bowing out and more of him being nudged off the cliff by the prongs of pitchforks against his ass—the university had tried to do some damage control. This included a public statement in support of the Daily and a hefty donation to our facilities.

There were new bean bag chairs out in the media center, which smelled of fresh paint and soft serve. The desks were lined with new computers.

Ellison's office was still dingy as ever, since she'd made sure the bulk of the funds were allocated to communal spaces.

But she'd gotten her chair.

"I understand your decision," she told me with a nod. "I realize there's a conflict of interests."

That was a very professional way of saying I know you're dating the quarterback and I don't want to read transcripts of you two flirting.

"That's fair," I said.

"So what should I expect from your next article?" Ellison asked.

I leaned a hip against her file cabinet.

"Well, I have this friend," I began, "an old coworker, actually, who used to be in beauty pageants and then moved out to LA to start acting, but she ended up hating it. She's a bartender at a country club, now, and she got a lot of flack from her last boss about the fact that she'd only graduated high school. So I was thinking I could write a piece on women in the workplace who face prejudice for not having college degrees."

Ellison's smile was as proud as it was unsurprised.

"I look forward to ripping apart your first draft," she said warmly.

"I'll try to start it before the deadline," I replied.

❖ ❖ ❖

Despite the pomp, prestige and air conditioning in the press box, I'd missed sitting with Hanna.

I much preferred watching football from the stands. I found magic in the rumble of the bleachers when music blasted over the loudspeakers, in the smell of cheap beer and overpriced hot dogs, in the school chants that raised goosebumps on my arms when a choir of thousands of voices belted them out.

The scent of beer was particularly strong today considering Hanna had spilled some down the front of Andre's jersey while attempting her first ever keg-stand.

"Eh," Hanna said with a shrug as we waited for kick-off, "it'll dry eventually."

I'd passed my old reliable Gameday outfit to her when Bodie had presented me with one of his old jerseys a few days before the game, with a monologue he'd clearly rehearsed about respecting my choice if I wanted to keep wearing Andre's jersey, since he was my friend and Bodie respected that.

"Well, obviously I'm wearing yours from now on," I'd told him. "You're my boyfriend, aren't you?"

There hadn't been much conversation after that, since Bodie had tackled me onto my bed and devoted himself to kissing every inch of my face while I laughed and squirmed under him.

Notre Dame won the coin toss.

Hanna and I booed out our disappointment along with the rest of the student section.

Notre Dame went on the offensive and, after a few short minutes, scored a touchdown without much trouble. But whatever disappointment I felt vanished when our offensive line took the field.

Bodie was starting.

I wasn't that surprised. We'd gotten an A on our group presentation. It couldn't cancel out that first zero he'd gotten on the reading quiz, but it definitely bumped him up to a passing grade. I'd helped him draft an email to Gordon explaining that, in light of this academic improvement, he wanted to discuss his playing time.

Apparently, the conversation had gone well.

Hanna tossed an arm around my neck and squeeze me to her side.

"That's your husband!" she yelled.

Perhaps the only thing that could top the sight of Bodie St. James, my husband, in the starting line-up was the absence of Kyle Fogarty, who sat at the end of the team bench, brooding and chugging Gatorade.

❖ ❖ ❖

Almost every collegiate sports network in the country had predicted the Notre Dame would crush Garland. In the absence of Truman Vaughn's explosive coaching and ruthlessly bold plays, our team was nothing. This is what people told us.

The first quarter seemed to confirm the theories.

But Chester Gordon was a smart man. He knew he had Andre, who wasn't as physically dominant as Fogarty but was far quicker on his feet, and he knew he had Bodie, whose strong arm meant he could rack up passing yards if he had a target who could get down the field fast enough.

So, by the end of the third quarter, the game was tied.

A strange and wonderful buzz of energy bloomed in the student section.

I saw it in our smiles, heard it in our cheers, felt it in the crackling hum of excitement.

We were going to rush the field.

It might not even matter if we won or lost. The closer the clock ticked to the end of the game, the more we all seemed to realize that the blowout everyone had predicted was not coming. We were holding our ground.

The fourth quarter ended with the score tied.

Overtime.

We were all on our feet, alternating between bellowing out encouragement, lamenting bullshit calls when we didn't agree with flags on plays, and being too busy biting our fingernails to make a sound.

With less than twenty seconds on the clock, we'd managed to get within 25 yards of our opponent's end zone.

If Truman Vaughn had been in the stadium, he would've tried something slick. Some big, over-the-top play that ended in twisted ankles, sprained wrists, and a heroic touchdown.

But Chester Gordon was a very different coach.

He called out the field kicker.

And so, when the final whistle blew, Garland had won by three points.

The student section erupted.

It didn't surprise me when the first row of celebrating kids hopped over the retaining wall and onto the grass. Hanna and I joined the stream of kids climbing over seats and rushing down the aisle, laughing as we clutched each other's hand for support and tried not to fall flat on our faces.

Out on the field, the crowd was a hot crush of bodies, everyone cheering and laughing and holding tight to their friends. Hanna and I pushed deeper into the chaos, accepting high-fives from people we'd never met and bouncing along to Garland's fight song.

Katy Perry's "Roar" came on over the loudspeakers.

We went wild.

And through the forest of singing, cheering people, I locked eyes with the quarterback.

I towed Hanna forward.

Bodie met us halfway, tearing off his helmet and beaming at me.

He caught my hand and pulled me through the crowd until we were chest to chest. He was damp with sweat, and he smelled like grass and salt and all kinds of body odor. I didn't care. I flung my arms around his neck and hugged him tight, my face pressed to the crook of his neck.

I laughed against his skin.

"You were so good!" I screamed.

And then—in a stadium of fifty thousand spectators, on a field flooded with the happiest, tipsiest college kids I'd ever seen—Bodie St. James hooked his hands under my thighs, lifted me up into a koala hug, and kissed me.

I'd never loved being part of a crowd more.

❖ ❖ ❖

Later, we'd see our school's celebration covered on every sports network and media outlet. We'd listen to videos taken out in the parking lot, where you could hear the low hum of noise suddenly blow out into an earth-shaking rumble of cheers when the final whistle sounded. We'd learn about the twenty-five-thousand-dollar fine the conference had slapped our school with (in accordance with their anti-field-rushing policies).

Adam Whittaker at Fox Sports would call us the dumbest collegiate sports fans he'd ever seen, but that was because he didn't get it.

This wasn't just a win.

This was a comeback.

This was a middle finger in the face of Truman Vaughn and everyone who'd told us we needed him.

_________________

I can't believe we only have one chapter left. I can't believe it's been 306 days since I posted the first chapter of this book. I can't believe how wonderful you guys have been. Every vote, every comment, every nomination in the Fiction Awards—there aren't words enough to thank you for your support and your feedback. There aren't word to express how much I'm going to miss you during the weird 2-3 months of hiatus between the end of this book and the beginning of my next project (which I don't even have a title for) (and yet, somehow, I've started writing sexually tense scenes set on the London Underground) (whoops).

I am going to be an ABSOLUTE MESS on Friday. I'll be putting up the last chapter and some fan art at the usual time, to be followed immediately thereafter by my Big News.

I am—and I cannot stress this enough—so excited holy shit.

Your friendly author,

Kate