after the ball drops
summary: you didn’t plan on ringing in the new year with the giants’ new quarterback but somewhere between champagne and confessions, jaxson changes everything.
word count: 3.7k words
a/n: happy new years eve!! this was a request, i hope you enjoy!!! thank you for reading!!! i love youu!!
⸻
The thing about New Year's Eve in New York is that the city doesn't let you hide from it. Every window glows with anticipation, every corner buzzes with promise, and you're just trying to make it to January 1st without completely unraveling.
This year has taken more than it gave. Your career, once the thing that defined you, has become a weight you carry through each day. The breakup was quiet, which somehow made it worse no dramatic ending, just a slow fade until you both stopped pretending. And while everyone around you seems to be leveling up, getting promoted, getting engaged, you've been treading water in the deep end, wondering when you forgot how to swim.
New Year's Eve used to mean something, now it just feels like a deadline you're not prepared for.
You almost didn't come tonight. The invitation said something about a media event, Giants players, industry people, casual and lowkey. The kind of party where you could slip in, stay an hour, and leave without anyone noticing. That was the plan, anyway.
The venue is a converted loft, all exposed brick and floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city. People cluster in small groups, laughing too loud, drinking too fast. You recognize a few faces, but no one you actually want to talk to.
You make your way to the bar, order something simple, and scan for the nearest exit strategy.
That's when you see him.
He's standing against the far wall, tall enough that he has to duck slightly under a hanging light fixture, hands in his pockets, watching the room with quiet attention. He's not working the crowd, just present.
You recognize him vaguely. Jaxson Dart. New quarterback. The Giants picked him up this season, and the media's been cautiously optimistic, which in New York terms means they're sharpening their knives just in case. You don't follow football religiously, but you know enough. New city, new team, new pressure.
He looks like he's carrying all of it quietly.
You're still watching him when someone bumps into you from behind, sending your drink sloshing dangerously close to the rim. You step sideways to avoid a collision, and somehow because the universe has a sense of humor you end up directly in his path as he moves toward the same corner you were heading for.
"Sorry," you both say at the same time.
He stops, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Up close, he's even taller, with a sharp jawline and dark eyes that actually focus when they meet yours, like he's really seeing you and not just looking past you to someone more important.
"Didn't mean to cut you off," he says, his voice low and easy.
"You didn't. I was just—" You gesture vaguely toward the quieter corner. "Escaping."
"Yeah." He glances back at the crowd, then at you. "Same."
There's a pause, the kind that could go either way polite nod and move on, or something else. He shifts his weight, and you notice he's holding a drink he hasn't touched.
"You want that corner?" he asks, nodding toward the spot you were both heading for. "I can find another wall."
"There's probably room for two," you hear yourself say.
His smile widens, just slightly. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You end up in the corner together, backs against the brick, watching the party unfold like you're both spectators instead of participants. It's quieter here, enough that you can hear each other without shouting. He takes a sip of his drink, finally, and you do the same with your drink.
"So," you say after a moment. "Giants, right?"
He nods, something guarded flickering across his face like he's bracing for the usual questions, the performance he's expected to give. "That obvious?"
"Little bit. You've got that 'new guy at the party' energy."
He laughs, a real one, and some of the guardedness fades. "That bad, huh?"
"Not bad. Just...honest."
He considers that, turning the bottle in his hands. "Honest. I'll take it." He glances at you. "What about you? You don't exactly look like you're having the time of your life either."
"Ouch."
"I mean it as a compliment."
"How is that a compliment?"
"Because everyone else here is trying so hard to prove they're having fun, and you're just..." He trails off, searching for the word. "Real."
You weren't expecting that.
"It's been a long year," you admit.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "I get that."
The conversation unfolds slowly after that, in fits and starts, the way good conversations do. He asks what you do, and you give him the short version the job that used to excite you, the burnout that crept in so gradually you didn't notice until you were drowning in it. He listens without trying to fix it, without offering empty platitudes, and somehow that makes it easier to be honest.
"What about you?" you ask. "How's New York treating you?"
He exhales, a long breath that says more than words. "It's...a lot. Good, but a lot. The team's great, the city's incredible, but—" He stops, like he's not sure he should say the next part.
"But?"
"But it's lonely," he says finally, meeting your eyes. "I knew it would be. New place, don't know anyone outside the facility yet. I'm good with pressure—I've been dealing with that my whole life. But the loneliness..." He shakes his head. "That's the part I wasn't ready for."
There's something disarming about his honesty, the way he's not trying to sell you on how great everything is. You're used to people performing their lives, especially in this city, especially in his world. But Jaxson's just...real.
"I get that too," you say softly.
He looks at you and you feel seen in a way you haven't in months.
"This is going to sound weird," he says, "but I'm really glad I ended up in this corner."
"Yeah," you say, surprising yourself with how much you mean it. "Me too."
⸻
The party gets louder as the night goes on, the energy increasing up with each passing hour. Someone turns up the music, laughter gets sharper, more performative. The countdown is coming, and everyone can feel it that urgency to make this night matter, to make this moment count.
You and Jaxson stay in your corner, the noise washing over you but not quite reaching you. The conversation deepens, the way it does when you're talking to someone you'll probably never see again, except you're starting to hope that's not true.
"So what's the plan?" he asks. "For next year, I mean. What are you hoping for?"
You take a sip of your drink, buying time. It's a simple question, but it feels enormous. "Honestly? I don't know. I used to have all these plans, these goals. But this year just...I don't know. It broke something. Or maybe it just showed me what was already broken."
He nods slowly. "You think you'll stay? In your job?"
"I don't know that either." You laugh, but it comes out hollow. "I feel like I'm supposed to have answers by now. Like everyone else has their shit figured out, and I'm just—"
"Stuck," he finishes.
"Yeah."
"I don't think anyone has it figured out," he says. "I think they're just better at pretending."
"You sound pretty sure about that."
"Because I'm one of them." He turns the bottle in his hands, watching the light catch the glass. "Everyone thinks I've got it made, right? New contract, new team, living the dream. And don't get me wrong—I'm grateful. But I'm also terrified I'm going to fuck it up. That I'm not good enough for this city, this team. That I'm going to let everyone down."
"That's a lot of pressure."
"Yeah. But like I said—pressure I can handle. It's the other stuff that gets me. Coming home to an empty apartment. Not knowing anyone to call when you just want to talk about nothing. Feeling like you're performing all the time, even when you're alone."
You understand that more than you want to admit. "So what do you do? When it gets like that?"
"Honestly?" He meets your eyes. "I don't know yet. I'm still figuring it out. But tonight...this helps. Just talking to someone who isn't expecting me to be anything other than myself."
The words settle between you, warm and honest. You realize you feel the same way that this conversation, this unexpected corner of the night, is the first time in months you've felt like yourself.
"You want to get some air?" you ask suddenly. "It's getting loud in here."
He doesn't hesitate. "Yeah. Definitely."
You lead him through the crowd, weaving between clusters of people who are already starting to get sloppy, their inhibitions loosening with each drink. Someone's set up a countdown clock on the far wall 11:17 PM, the numbers glowing red. Less than an hour left.
The terrace is on the roof, accessible through a heavy door that muffles the noise the moment it closes behind you. The cold hits immediately, sharp and clarifying, that makes you feel alive. The city spreads out before you, a glittering sprawl of light and life, and somewhere in the distance you can hear the faint sounds of other parties, other countdowns, other people trying to outrun their past year.
"Jesus," Jaxson breathes, taking it in. "This view."
"Yeah."
You move to the edge leaning against the railing. He follows, standing close enough that you can feel his warmth even through the cold. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You just stand there, breathing in the frozen air, watching the city pulse below.
"You cold?" he asks.
"A little."
Without a word, he shrugs off his jacket a nice one, dark and well fitted and drapes it over your shoulders. It's warm from his body heat, and it smells like him. You pull it tighter around yourself.
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it."
You stand there in comfortable silence, and you're acutely aware of how close he is. Close enough that when you shift your weight, your hand brushes against his on the railing. Neither of you moves away.
"Can I ask you something?" he says after a while.
"Sure."
"What would make next year feel different? Like, if you could change one thing not about your job or your life or whatever, but about how you feel. What would it be?"
You think about it, really think about it. "I think...I'd want to feel like I'm moving toward something instead of just away from everything that hurt. Does that make sense?"
"Yeah," he says quietly. "It does."
"What about you?"
He's quiet for a long moment, his eyes on the skyline. "I think I'd want to feel less alone. Not in a desperate way, just connected. To the city, to people, to something real." He turns to look at you, and the intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch. "Nights like this help."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Your hand is still next to his on the railing. He shifts, just slightly, and suddenly his pinky is overlapping yours. It's the smallest touch, barely anything, but it sends electricity up your arm. You don't move away. Neither does he.
"It's almost midnight," you say softly, though you're not sure why you're saying it.
"I know."
"We should probably go back inside."
"Probably."
The city glitters below you, indifferent and beautiful, and you think about all the other people out there right now, all the other moments happening simultaneously kisses and fights and promises and lies. But right here, right now, it's just you and Jaxson and the cold air and the warmth of his jacket around your shoulders.
He turns toward you, just slightly, and suddenly the space between you feels charged with possibility.
"Hey," he says, his voice low.
"Hey."
"I'm really glad you came tonight."
"Me too."
His hand moves covering yours completely. His fingers are warm, and when you look down at them, you see the calluses, the strength, the evidence of everything he's worked for. When you look back up, he's watching you with an expression you can't quite read hope, mixed with the same uncertainty you're feeling.
From inside, you hear the party getting louder. Someone's started a premature countdown, laughing and off-rhythm. The real one is coming soon.
"We should—" you start.
"Yeah," he says, but he doesn't let go of your hand.
You walk back inside together, his jacket still around your shoulders, your hand still in his.
⸻
The party has reached that noise that only happens right before midnight everyone's too loud, too close, too desperate to make this moment matter. Someone's passed out champagne in plastic flutes. The countdown clock on the wall reads 11:58 PM, the numbers pulsing like a heartbeat.
You and Jaxson find a spot near the windows, not quite in the thick of the crowd but not separate from it either. He's still holding your hand, and you're still wearing his jacket, and everyone around you is too drunk or too distracted to notice or care.
"You okay?" he asks, leaning down so you can hear him over the noise.
You nod, but your heart is racing. There's something about this moment the inevitability of it, the weight of expectation, that makes you want to run. You've never been good at New Year's Eve, at the forced intimacy of it, the way everyone's supposed to kiss someone when the clock strikes twelve, like that's going to magically fix everything that's broken.
But then you look at Jaxson, at the way he's watching you with those steady, honest eyes, and you think maybe this time it's different. Maybe this time it's not about fixing anything. Maybe it's just about being here, being present, being real.
"One minute!" someone shouts, and the crowd starts to gather, pressing closer. The energy is electric, chaotic, and you feel yourself tensing.
Jaxson must feel it too, because he squeezes your hand gently. "Hey," he says. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to do."
"I know."
"I mean it. We can just—we can watch. Or we can go back outside. Whatever you want."
The clock ticks down. Fifty seconds.
"What do you want?" you ask.
He looks at you for a long moment, and there's something raw in his expression, something vulnerable. "Honestly? I want to kiss you at midnight. But only if you want that too."
Your breath catches. "I—"
"No pressure," he says quickly. "I just...I wanted to be honest. I don't want to pretend this is casual when it doesn't feel casual." He stops, shakes his head. "Sorry, I'm nervous."
You laugh, surprised and charmed by his rambling. "You're nervous?"
"Terrified."
"Of kissing me?"
"Of fucking this up." He runs his free hand through his hair. "I really like you. I know we just met, I know this is crazy, but I really like you, and I don't want to mess this up by moving too fast or assuming too much or—"
"Jaxson."
He stops, looks at you.
"I want to kiss you too."
The relief on his face is almost comical. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
The crowd starts counting down. Thirty seconds.
"But," you say, and his face falls slightly. "Can we just...can we not make it about the countdown? Can it just be about us?"
He smiles, slow and genuine. "Yeah. Absolutely."
Twenty seconds.
The noise around you is deafening now, everyone shouting numbers, but you and Jaxson just stand there, facing each other, the rest of the world fading to background static. He lifts his free hand to your face, his thumb brushing your cheek, and you lean into the touch.
"If nothing else," he says softly, his voice barely audible over the countdown, "this year can start honest."
Ten seconds.
You step closer, closing the distance between you. His hand is still on your face, yours is still in his, and you can feel his breath, warm against your skin.
Five.
Four.
Three.
He leans down, and you rise up to meet him, and your foreheads touch first a moment of stillness, of intention, of choice.
Two.
One.
The room erupts. Fireworks explode somewhere outside, visible through the windows, painting the sky in gold and silver. People are cheering, kissing, crying, celebrating. Champagne corks pop.
But you barely hear any of it.
Because Jaxson is kissing you, and it's nothing like you expected. It's not rushed or performative. It's slow, deliberate, and soft. His hand cups your face and your free hand finds his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing beneath your palm. The kiss deepens, and you taste champagne and possibility and the promise of something real.
When you finally pull back, breathless, the fireworks are still going. He rests his forehead against yours again, his eyes closed, a smile playing at his lips.
"Happy New Year," he whispers.
"Happy New Year."
He opens his eyes, and the way he looks at you makes your chest ache in the best way. "That was—"
"Yeah."
"Can I—"
"Yes."
He kisses you again, and this time you let yourself fall into it completely, let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, this year really will be different.
⸻
The party continues around you, but you and Jaxson exist in your own bubble, untouchable and separate. People are taking selfies, making toasts, calling loved ones. Someone's crying happy tears in the corner. Someone else is already passed out on the couch.
You and Jaxson just stand there, hands intertwined, stealing kisses between quiet conversations, learning each other in the spaces between words.
"I should probably let you have your jacket back," you say eventually, though you make no move to take it off.
"Keep it," he says. "Looks better on you anyway."
"Smooth."
"I try."
You laugh, and he grins, and it feels easy in a way nothing has felt easy in months.
"So," he says after a while, his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand. "I know this is probably too soon, and you can absolutely say no, but—" He takes a breath. "Can I see you again? Like, actually see you, not just run into you at a party?"
Your heart does something complicated in your chest. "You want to see me again?"
"Yeah. I really do." He looks almost shy, which is endearing on someone his size. "No games, no playing it cool. I like you, and I want to get to know you better, and I'm really hoping you feel the same way."
You think about all the reasons you should say no. You're a mess. Your life is a mess. You don't have time for this, don't have the emotional bandwidth, don't have anything to offer someone like him.
But then you look at him and you see someone who's just as uncertain, just as scared, just as hopeful as you are. And you think about what he said earlier, about this year starting honest.
"Yeah," you say, and you watch his face light up. "I'd really like that."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He pulls out his phone, hands it to you with a smile. "Put your number in?"
You take it, your fingers brushing his, and you're aware of how intimate this feels this exchange of information, this promise of future contact. You type in your number, then hand it back.
He immediately sends you a text just a simple "hey" and your phone buzzes in your pocket.
"Now you have mine too," he says.
"Very smooth."
"I have my moments."
You stay for another hour, talking and laughing and existing in this perfect bubble where nothing else matters. But eventually, the party starts to wind down, and reality begins to creep back in. You have to work tomorrow well, today now.
"I should go," you say reluctantly.
"Yeah," he says, but he doesn't let go of your hand. "Can I walk you out?"
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
He walks you down to the street, and the cold air is a shock after the warmth of the party. The city is quieter now, that strange lull that happens in the early hours of January 1st, when everyone's either asleep or still partying, and the streets belong to the stragglers and the dreamers.
"You going to be okay getting home?" he asks.
"Yeah, I'm just a few blocks away."
"Text me when you get there?"
"You're worried about me?"
"Maybe a little."
You smile, rise up on your toes, and kiss him one more time. It's softer than the midnight kiss, sweeter, tinged with the bittersweetness of goodbye.
"Happy New Year, Jaxson."
"Happy New Year."
You start to walk away, his jacket still around your shoulders, and you make it about half a block before you hear him call out.
"Hey!"
You turn.
He's standing there, hands in his pockets, that same slightly awkward smile on his face. "I'm really glad you stayed."
Your heart swells. "Me too."
You walk home alone, but for the first time in months, you don't feel lonely. The city is quiet, the streets are empty, and the sky is just starting to lighten at the edges. You pull Jaxson's jacket tighter around yourself, breathing in the scent of him, replaying the night in your mind.
When you get home, you text him like you promised.
Made it home safe.
His response comes almost immediately.
Good. Get some sleep.
Then, a moment later.
Happy New Year. I'm really glad you stayed.
You read the message three times, a smile spreading across your face. You think about the year that almost broke you, about all the ways you felt lost and stuck and behind. You think about how heavy everything felt just hours ago, how impossible it seemed that anything could change.
And then you think about Jaxson his honesty, his warmth, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room. You think about his hand in yours, his jacket around your shoulders, his lips on yours at midnight.
You type out a response.
Me too. This year already feels different.
And as you hit send, you realize you mean it.
This year already feels different.
Not fixed, not perfect, not magically healed.
Just possible.
⸻
MASTERLIST
⸻
