We’re all amused because every time our school is called for an award, Willow has to step forward, saluting, then she walks over to the master of ceremonies to shake his hand and take our trophy. We end up winning six, including Willow’s and a third-place overall finish. Jess rushes down to the field to help her carry them all.

“I have to admit, that was kind of cool,” Owen says during our walk from the stadium to the parking lot. We stop at Willow’s car, and Owen pulls out the bag holding my uniform. “Is it cool if I drive you home? It’ll be four or so by the time we get home. I’d like to take you to dinner.”

“Dinner’s good. I never did get my steak,” I tease, standing on the tips of my toes to kiss him.

“I’m pretty sure you made out all right,” he says, rolling his hands down my back, to my ass and pulling me to him closely. I blush and look to see who’s watching, but the moment his lips hit my neck, I care a whole lot less.

“I don’t know, I really wanted a steak,” I joke, and Owen spanks me once, squeezing his hand hard on my cheek.

“You sure about that?” he winks. I nod no, because…no, I’m not. In fact I might forgo eating for days for more nights with Owen. If only I could erase everything that happened the day after.

Willow packs the trophies in the backseat of her car, promising Mr. Brody that she’ll bring them to school on Monday. Owen and I wait for them to drive away before walking to his truck.

“Hey,” he says, tugging on my arm, taking a step back before letting me climb inside. “Can I take you somewhere in the city? Like, on a real date? Would that be okay?”

“You sure?” I ask, knowing how expensive places in the city are. Owen doesn’t have the money to do something like this, but he’s looking at me with such excitement, I can’t just outright say no.

“Positive. I have a place in mind,” he says, his eyes lowered, giving me that look that would make me follow him anywhere. I nod okay, and Owen opens my door, waiting while I climb in and buckle the seatbelt before closing it for me.

I haven’t driven in southern Illinois since I was a kid, so most of the things we pass aren’t familiar to me. Most of the state looks the same—lush and green in the summer, and thick of dead leaves and stickily trees in the winter. But there’s something beautiful about the usual today, and I let my eyes glaze over as I watch the rays of sunshine flash in and out of the thick branches as we rush by.

The constant hum of his engine draws me in, and somewhere along the way, I slip into a short slumber, not waking up until I feel Owen push the gearshift into park then reach behind his seat, pulling out a heavy plastic bag.

I stretch my arms and look around, doing my best to adjust my body’s clock, to recognize my surroundings. The gothic buildings orient me immediately, and I flash to Owen, the look on my face panicked.

It’s panic punching me from the inside out right now; I know it is. Why did he bring me here? Why are we here? This isn’t a date!

“Owen!” I start unclicking my buckle, even though I have no intention of leaving this truck.

“Hold on! Before you get all…Kensi on me. Listen to me. Please, just listen to me. And if I don’t make any sense, I promise we will drive right out of this parking lot and I will take you to the best steakhouse in the city,” he says, crossing a finger over his chest, his other palm flat toward me, as if warning he comes in peace.

Crap—he’s coming in peace!

My body deflates in retaliation, but I lift my chin enough to look at him, to stare him in the eyes while he pleads his case.

“I know you think you don’t want this. And…and,” he raises his hand to stop me from interrupting, my rebuttal stammering at the tip of my tongue. I let it simmer longer. I owe Owen a listen; he’s right. “In the end, you might be right. Maybe…maybe…you won’t want this. But I kinda think you do, Kensi. And if you don’t try, if you don’t at least just see this through, look inside that door, you will regret it. You are so gifted, and unlike me, you have options.”

“Owen, you have options, too,” I start, but he grabs my hand quickly and holds it, shaking it lightly and smiling.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, his lips curve into a smile against my wrist as he holds it to him. “I’m good with where I am, Kens. I’m all right with not being able to have everything. When I play ball, it’s purely recreation for me. It’s not a dream. It’s not this thing that I always thought about doing for a living. It’s an escape. It’s the way I lose myself, take control, be someone else, for just a few hours,” he smiles.