#nfl lb

[thecaywild]

Who you cheering on for the Super Bowl?

[userfish]

A FUCKING DEFENSIVE TOUCHDOWN YESSSSSS

[xoxokiaraaxoxo]

the wanting wins

summary: he wasn’t yours, he was never supposed to be yours but wanting him felt inevitable, and every step you took away from him only dragged you deeper in.

word count: 15.2k words

a/n: this was a request, it took a while because i wanted to build the story like in the request! i hope you enjoy, thank you for reading!!

WARNINGS: angst, smut, cheating

⸻

The air in MetLife Stadium's media center smelled like fresh paint and ambition. Two years with the Giants' media department meant draft week had lost some sparkle, but you weren't immune to the electric energy running through the building when new talent arrived. You adjusted your camera settings, checking the white balance while reporters shuffled into their seats.

"We're going live in five," Marcus called out. Your colleague moved through draft week with the easy confidence of someone who'd seen a hundred rookies come and go.

Today, you were exactly where you wanted to be, camera in hand, ready to capture the Giants' first round pick.

Jaxson Dart.

Former Ole Miss quarterback, strong arm, good mobility. In your line of work, you'd learned to see rookies as content sound bites and photo opportunities. It was easier that way. Less complicated than remembering they were actual people whose entire lives were about to change.

The doors opened, and the energy shifted.

He walked in flanked by the GM and head coach, and your finger found the shutter button on instinct. The camera captured what your eyes saw tall, broad shouldered, with that particular brand of confidence that came from being told you were exceptional for most of your life. Dirty blonde hair, a suit that probably cost more than your monthly rent. He smiled at the assembled media the kind of smile that would look great on the Giants' social media feeds.

But it was the woman who walked in behind him that made you pause. She was stunning in that effortless way that made you immediately self conscious about the coffee stain on your shirt. Long dark hair that caught the light, a dress that somehow managed to be both modest and eye catching, and a smile that radiated genuine warmth. She took a seat in the front row, and Jaxson's eyes found her immediately, his professional smile softening into something real.

Of course he had a girlfriend and of course she looked like that.

You refocused on your job. Through your viewfinder, you tracked Jaxson as he took his seat, the Giants logo repeated behind him like a promise. The GM began speaking the usual platitudes about talent and character and you worked, adjusting angles, capturing different shots.

It was during a question about his transition to the NFL that you first felt it. You'd lowered your camera, scanning the room for candid moments, when you realized Jaxson Dart was looking at you. Not at the reporter asking the question, not at his girlfriend in the front row.

At you.

It lasted maybe two seconds before he blinked and redirected his attention, answering something about studying the playbook. You told yourself you'd imagined it. The lights were bright and disorienting, he'd probably just been letting his eyes rest on a random point while he gathered his thoughts.

But it happened again fifteen minutes later. You'd moved to a different position, and when you glanced up from your camera, his eyes were on you again. This time, you were certain. There was a split second where neither of you looked away, and you felt something flutter in your chest that you immediately suppressed. Then someone asked him about his girlfriend "How does it feel to have your biggest supporter here with you today?" and his face transformed into pure affection as he looked at her.

"Couldn't do any of this without her," he said, the sincerity palpable. "She's been there since day one. Having her here today means everything."

The girlfriend you'd heard someone call her Madison practically glowed. She pressed her hand to her heart, and you could see her mouth "I love you" from across the room. You took a photo of the moment because that's what you were supposed to do, and tried to ignore the weird twist in your stomach.

Guilt, maybe. For noticing him at all when he clearly belonged to someone else.

The press conference wrapped up, and you hung back, reviewing shots on your display screen. You were so absorbed in your work that you didn't notice the crowd had shifted until you looked up and found yourself suddenly much closer to Jaxson than you'd expected.

He was doing a quick interview with a local sports network, Madison's hand resting lightly on his arm. You were hemmed in by equipment cases and other media personnel, so you stayed. And tried very hard not to notice the way he gestured when he talked about football, animated and genuine. Tried not to see the way Madison looked at him like he'd hung the moon. They were perfect together, anyone with eyes could see that.

You finally found a gap in the crowd to slip through. You were almost to the exit when Marcus caught up with you, asking about tomorrow's facility tour. As he checked his phone for the schedule, you felt it again that prickling awareness. You glanced back toward where Jaxson and Madison were talking with the GM, and found Jaxson's eyes on you once more.

This time, you were the one who looked away first.

That night, you uploaded your photos and began sorting and editing. There was one photo you kept coming back to the moment when he'd looked at Madison with such open adoration. In the photo, his expression was unguarded and soft, and Madison was slightly out of focus in the foreground, but you could still see her smile.

They looked happy.

You approved the photo and closed your laptop, telling yourself that tomorrow everything would go back to normal.

⸻

Normal lasted approximately three days.

The facility tour had been uneventful, and if Jaxson's eyes had lingered on you a beat too long when you'd asked him to repeat a take, that was probably just your imagination. But then there was the rookie minicamp coverage. You were on the sidelines reviewing shots when his shadow fell across your camera's screen.

"How's it looking?"

You glanced up, squinting against the sun. "Good. You're very photogenic."

It was a professional observation. You'd said similar things to dozens of players. But the way he laughed bright and a little surprised, like you'd genuinely delighted him made it feel like something else entirely.

"Yeah?" There was a flush high on his cheekbones that you wanted to attribute to exertion. "That's good to know. I always feel awkward on camera."

"You hide it well."

"Must be your skills behind the lens."

It was such an obvious line, probably meaningless, but your heart did a stupid little skip anyway. You were saved from responding by a coach calling him back to the field.

Over the next two weeks, you told yourself you were imagining things. But Jaxson Dart kept looking at you. During media availabilities, you'd feel his gaze from across the room. You'd glance up from your camera, and there he'd be, watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read. The moment your eyes met, he'd look away, but not before you caught something curiosity, maybe, or confusion, or something else entirely.

He laughed at things you said that weren't that funny. There were physical moments too small things you tried to tell yourself were coincidental. The time he'd squeezed past you in the weight room and brushed against your shoulder. The time you'd both reached for the same door handle, and his hand had landed on top of yours for a fraction of a second before he'd jerked back like he'd been burned.

The time you'd been in the cafeteria, reviewing footage on your camera, and you'd looked up to find him at the next table, close enough that you could smell his cologne something clean and expensive that made you want to lean closer.

"That from yesterday's practice?" he'd asked, nodding at your camera.

"Yeah. Just making sure I got everything I need."

"Can I see?"

You'd hesitated, then turned the camera so he could see the screen. He'd leaned in, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, and you'd been acutely aware of every breath you took.

"Damn, you make me look good," he'd said, and there was something in his voice something low and almost intimate that made you take a step back.

"Just doing my job."

"Well, you're really good at it."

He'd held your gaze for a moment too long, and you'd seen something flicker in his eyes before he'd seemed to catch himself. He'd straightened up, putting distance between you, and rubbed the back of his neck in a gesture that seemed almost nervous.

"I should—Madison's waiting for me. We're supposed to go look at apartments."

"Oh. Yeah, of course."

He'd left, and you'd stood there, your heart pounding for no good reason, telling yourself that you were being ridiculous. He had a girlfriend. A beautiful, sweet girlfriend who showed up to practices sometimes, always with a smile and a supportive word. You weren't the kind of person who developed feelings for unavailable men. You were professional, rational.

But that night, lying in bed, you couldn't stop thinking about the way Jaxson had looked at you. The way his voice had dropped when he'd complimented your work. The way he'd mentioned Madison almost like a reminder to you or to himself, you weren't sure.

You felt guilty for noticing. Guilty for lying here in the dark, thinking about a man who belonged to someone else. Guilty for the small, secret part of you that wondered what it meant that he kept looking at you the way he did. It didn't mean anything, you told yourself firmly. He was a rookie in a new city, probably just being friendly. But you'd seen the way he looked at Madison open and affectionate and uncomplicated. And you'd seen the way he looked at you like he was trying to solve a puzzle, like he was confused by his own reactions, like he was feeling something he didn't quite understand.

You recognized that look because you'd seen it in the mirror.

Sleep, when it finally came, was restless. You woke up with your heart racing and the lingering sense that something had shifted, that you'd crossed some invisible line just by acknowledging what you'd been trying so hard to ignore.

You got ready for work on autopilot, choosing your most professional outfit. You had a full day of content shoots scheduled nothing involving Jaxson, thankfully and you told yourself that some distance would help.

But when you walked into the facility and saw him in the hallway, talking to one of the offensive coaches, and his eyes found yours immediately across the distance, and his whole face lit up with a smile that was just for you.

You knew that normal was already gone, and you had no idea how to get it back.

⸻

The first text came three weeks after draft day. Your phone lit up while you were halfway through a reheated dinner, and his name on the screen made your stomach flip in a way that should have been your first warning.

Hey, quick question about tomorrow's shoot. Do I need to bring multiple jerseys or will wardrobe have them?

Professional, reasonable. You answered quickly, kept it brief.

Wardrobe will have everything. Just show up at 9.

Perfect. Thanks.

That should have been the end of it, but two nights later your phone buzzed again.

Weird question but do you know any good places to get coffee around here that aren't starbucks? Madison says I'm being pretentious but I just want something that doesn't taste burned.

You smiled before you could stop yourself. Typed out the name of a place near the facility, added that their cold brew was worth the hype.

You're a lifesaver. I'll try it tomorrow.

Let me know what you think.

You regretted sending it the moment it went through. Too friendly. Too much like you wanted to keep talking. But the next day, he sent a photo a cup with the coffee shop's logo.

You were right, this is dangerous. I'm going to spend my entire signing bonus here.

Could think of worse ways to spend it.

Yeah? What would you spend it on?

And just like that, you were talking. Not about work, not about anything that mattered, really just easy back and forth that felt effortless in a way that should have terrified you. The third time he texted, there was no excuse at all.

Hey.

Just that. Just hey, at ten thirty on a sunday night, and you stared at it for a full minute before responding.

Hey yourself.

Can't sleep. Training camp starts tomorrow and I keep thinking about all the ways I could screw this up.

Your chest tightened. You should have sent something generic, something encouraging but distant. Instead, you told the truth.

First round pick pressure?

That and just what if I'm not actually good enough? What if I get out there and everyone realizes they made a mistake?

You sat up in bed, phone clutched in both hands.

You wouldn't have been drafted at all if you weren't good enough. They don't make mistakes like that.

They do sometimes, lots of busts in the first round.

You're not going to be one of them.

How do you know?

Because I've seen you. The way you move, the way you read the field. You're not faking that.

Thanks. I needed to hear that.

Anytime. I mean it. Anytime you need to talk. I'm here.

You should have left it there. Should have said goodnight, put the phone down, gone to sleep.

Instead, you asked him about his childhood. And he asked about your family, about how you ended up in sports media. And suddenly it was one in the morning and you were telling him about your dad teaching you to use a camera when you were eight, about the first game you ever shot, about the moment you knew this was what you wanted to do with your life.

He told you about his mom working double shifts to afford his travel team fees. About his high school coach who believed in him when college recruiters didn't. About the weight of carrying other people's dreams on your shoulders and hoping you don't drop them.

The conversations became a pattern. Every few nights, sometimes more. Long exchanges that stretched past midnight, the kind where you'd look up and realize hours had passed. He told you things he said he hadn't told anyone else his fear of disappointing people, the loneliness of being in a new city where everything felt too big and too fast.

You told him about your own fears that you'd never be taken seriously in a male dominated industry, that you'd always be seen as "just" the social media person, that you wanted to shoot for ESPN someday but didn't know if you were good enough.

You're good enough, he wrote one night. I've seen your work. You see things other people miss. The one right before everything changes.

You're just friends, you told yourself. This is harmless people talk and people text. It doesn't mean anything. But then came the night you were lying in bed at two in the morning, smiling at your phone because he'd just sent you a terrible joke about offensive linemen, and the realization hit you like cold water.

Oh no.

This wasn't harmless. This wasn't nothing.

You were falling for someone who belonged to someone else, and you had no idea how to stop.

⸻

You started noticing the way he looked at you during team events really noticing.

At the training camp open practice, you were shooting B-roll of the crowd when you felt him staring. You glanced up and found him across the field, helmet tucked under his arm, staring at you with an expression that made your camera feel heavy in your hands.

He smiled, just for you.

You looked away first, heart hammering. It happened again in the film room when you were setting up for a quarterback interview. He walked in early, and his whole face changed when he saw you softened, opened, like you were the best part of his day.

"Hey," he said, and the warmth in his voice felt dangerous.

"Hey." You focused on adjusting your tripod, not looking at him. "We're starting in ten."

"Cool. I'll just—" He sat down, but you could feel him watching you work. "You changed your hair."

Your hand went to the ends automatically. You'd gotten it trimmed over the weekend, barely an inch off. "Oh. Yeah."

"It looks nice."

"Thanks." You still didn't look at him. You couldn't.

Then Madison walked in, and everything shifted. She was beautiful in that effortless way some people were long dark hair, perfect skin, wearing Jaxson's hoodie like a claim. She smiled at you, friendly and unsuspecting, and the guilt hit you like a fist to the chest.

"Babe, I thought we were getting lunch before your interview?" She leaned down to kiss his cheek, and you busied yourself with your camera settings, trying not to watch.

"Oh, shit—yeah, I lost track of time." Jaxson stood, but not before you caught the way his eyes flickered to you one more time. Madison caught it too. You saw the moment her smile faltered, the tiny crease between her eyebrows as she looked from him to you and back again.

"We should go," she said, and her voice was still sweet, but something had shifted in it.

After that, you started avoiding him. You took the long way to your office, you scheduled shoots around his training times. You stopped answering his texts immediately, letting hours pass before responding with something brief and professional.

But he started showing up anyway.

At the coffee shop he'd asked you about, suddenly there every morning you went. In the hallway outside the media room, always with a plausible excuse looking for the equipment manager, heading to a meeting, just passing through.

"Hey, stranger," he said one afternoon, falling into step beside you. "You've been hard to find lately."

"Busy," you said, not slowing down. "Preseason content schedule is insane."

"Right. Yeah." He was quiet for a moment. "Did I do something wrong?"

The question stopped you in your tracks. You finally looked at him, and the confusion in his face, the genuine hurt.

"No. Of course not."

"Then why does it feel like you're avoiding me?"

Because I'm falling for you. Because every time I see you, it gets harder to pretend I'm not. Because your girlfriend looked at me like she knows something is wrong, and she's right.

"I'm not," you lied. "Just swamped with work."

He didn't believe you, you could see it in his eyes. But he nodded anyway, stepped back, let you go.

That weekend, you saw them together at a team barbecue Jaxson and Madison, his arm around her waist, her head on his shoulder. They looked happy, they looked right together, in a way that was uncomplicated and good and everything you could never be with him. He caught you watching and his expression crumbled into something that looked like apology.

You left early, claiming a headache that wasn't entirely a lie.

⸻

You'd stayed late to finish cutting together a hype video for the season opener, and you thought everyone else had gone home. The facility had that after hours quiet that made every sound feel loud. You were so focused on your timeline that you didn't hear the door open.

"Knew I'd find you here."

You jumped, hand flying to your chest. Jaxson stood in the doorway, gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair still damp from the shower.

"Jesus—you scared me."

"Sorry." He stepped inside, letting the door close behind him. "Saw your car in the lot. Figured you were working late again."

"Season opener is in three days. This video needs to be done."

"You work too hard." He dropped his bag by the door and crossed to where you sat, leaning against the desk beside your monitor. Too close.

"Says the guy who's still here at eight PM."

"Extra film study. Coach wants me to—" He stopped, shook his head. "Actually, that's bullshit. I was hoping you'd still be here."

Your hands stilled on the keyboard. "Jaxson—"

"I miss you." The words came out rough, almost angry. "Is that crazy? We barely knew each other a month ago and now I miss you when I don't see you for a day. That's insane, right?"

"You have a girlfriend." Your voice came out steadier than you felt.

"I know." He dragged a hand through his hair, that nervous gesture you'd come to recognize. "I know that. And I love her, I do, but—"

"Don't." You stood up, putting distance between you. "Don't finish that sentence."

"Why are you avoiding me?" He stood too, and suddenly the room felt impossibly small. "Just tell me the truth. Did I do something? Say something?"

"No, you didn't—" You pressed your palms against your eyes, trying to think. "This is just, it's not appropriate. The texting, the conversations, showing up wherever I am—"

"You don't want me to?"

"That's not the point—"

"Then what is the point?" He moved closer, and you should have stepped back but your legs wouldn't cooperate. "Because from where I'm standing, it feels like you're running away from something."

"I'm trying to do the right thing."

"What if the right thing feels wrong?" His voice dropped, rough and desperate. "What if everything that's supposed to be right feels like I'm lying, and the only time I feel like myself is when I'm talking to you?"

"Jaxson, stop—"

"Tell me you don't feel it too." He was right in front of you now, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. "Tell me I'm imagining this and I'll leave you alone. I'll stop texting, stop looking for you, stop—"

"I can't." The words broke out of you. "I can't tell you that."

The air between you felt electric, dangerous. You could see his pulse jumping in his throat, could feel the heat radiating off his skin.

"Then what do we—"

He reached for you not thinking, just instinct his fingers wrapping around your wrist. The contact was like touching a live wire. Every nerve ending in your body lit up at once, and you saw the same shock register in his face.

You froze. He froze.

For three heartbeats, neither of you moved. His thumb rested against the inside of your wrist, right over your racing pulse, and you knew he could feel it. Knew he could feel the evidence of what you'd been trying so hard to deny. His eyes were so dark, wide, and he was looking at you like you were something precious and terrifying and completely impossible.

"Oh God," he whispered. "I didn't—"

He let go like you'd burned him, stumbling back, face flushed. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"You should go." Your voice shook. Your whole body shook.

"I didn't mean—" He looked wrecked, devastated. "I wasn't trying to—"

"Please just go."

He grabbed his bag, moving toward the door like he was in a dream. At the threshold, he stopped, looked back.

"I'm sorry," he said again, and then he was gone. You stood there in the empty editing room, staring at your wrist where you could still feel the ghost of his touch. Your heart felt like it was trying to break out of your chest.

You both walked away like touching each other had left a bruise and maybe it had.

⸻

The preseason game had gone into overtime, and by the time you'd finished uploading the final cuts to the server, the facility was nearly empty. Your shoulders ached from hunching over your laptop for six straight hours, and your eyes burned from staring at screens. The parking lot stretched out before you, lights casting over everything. You were halfway to your car when you heard footsteps behind you.

"Hey."

You turned. Jaxson stood there in sweats and a hoodie, gym bag slung over one shoulder. He looked exhausted in a way that went deeper than physical that settled into your bones after holding yourself together for too long.

"Hey," you said, and hated how your voice softened automatically. "Thought you'd be long gone by now."

"Extra film session. Wanted to review some reads." He shifted his weight, and something about the movement seemed uncertain, vulnerable. "You're here late."

"Overtime footage doesn't edit itself."

He nodded, but didn't move toward his car. Just stood there, ten feet away, looking at you like he was trying to solve an equation that didn't have an answer.

"Hell of a game," you offered.

"Yeah." A ghost of a smile. "Felt good. Felt like maybe I'm actually figuring this out." He paused. "You were on the sideline for most of it. I could see you."

Your heart kicked against your ribs. "That's my job."

"I know." He took a step closer. "But I kept looking for you anyway. Even when I shouldn't have been distracted."

You should have made an excuse, should have gotten in your car and driven away. Instead, you stayed rooted to the asphalt, watching him close the distance between you.

"We can't keep doing this," you said, but it came out barely above a whisper.

"Doing what?" His voice was rough, raw. "We're not doing anything."

"That's the problem."

The words hung between you, too honest, too real. His jaw worked like he was trying to find something to say that would make this easier, make it make sense. He couldn't. You both knew he couldn't.

"I think about you all the time," he said finally. "When I'm supposed to be focusing on plays, when I'm with—" He stopped himself, closed his eyes. "I don't know what to do with that."

"Jaxson—"

"I know. I know it's wrong, I know I shouldn't—" He stepped closer, close enough now that you could smell his body wash, see the exhaustion and want and confusion written across his face. "But I can't stop."

You couldn't breathe, couldn't think. He was right there, so close, and every cell in your body was screaming at you to close the distance, to stop fighting this thing that had been building between you since the moment you'd locked eyes across that draft day crowd. His hand came up slowly, hesitantly, like he was giving you time to move away. You didn't. His fingers brushed your cheek and the touch sent electricity racing down your spine. His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone, and his breath hitched.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered.

You couldn't, the word wouldn't come. You just stood there, tilted into his touch like a flower toward sunlight, feeling the warmth of his palm against your skin, watching his eyes drop to your mouth.

He leaned in. Just slightly, just enough that you could feel the shift in the air between you, the way the space contracted to something impossibly small. His breath ghosted across your lips, and your eyes fluttered closed, and for one perfect, terrible moment, you let yourself want this without guilt, without fear.

He jerked back like he'd been electrocuted. The cold air rushed in where his warmth had been, and your eyes snapped open to find him two steps away, hand pressed to his mouth, looking absolutely shattered.

"I can't—" His voice cracked. "I can't do this to her."

You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly freezing. "I know."

"I should go."

"Yeah."

But neither of you moved. You just stood there in the empty parking lot, the space between you feeling like a chasm and a breath all at once. His eyes were bright, almost glassy, and you wondered if yours looked the same.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't be."

"I am, though." He shouldered his bag, started backing toward his car. "I'm sorry for all of it."

You watched him go, watched him get in his car and sit there for a long moment before starting the engine. Watched his taillights disappear into the night. Then you got in your own car and gripped the steering wheel with shaking hands, your cheek still burning where he'd touched you.

⸻

Two weeks passed like walking through fog.

You saw him every day in the facility, at practice, in meetings and every time your eyes met, the air between you felt charged with everything you weren't saying, everything you'd almost done. He'd look away first, jaw tight, and you'd feel the guilt settle deeper into your chest like a stone.

The worst part was watching him with Madison. She came to practice on a thursday, all bright smiles and easy affection, and you watched from behind your camera as she kissed his cheek, as she looped her arm through his. He smiled at her, said something that made her laugh, but even from fifty yards away you could see it the distance in his eyes, the way he wasn't quite present. She was trying so hard, leaning into him, touching his arm, and he was going through the motions like an actor who'd forgotten his lines.

Your stomach turned over. This was your fault. Not entirely he was making his own choices but you were part of it. Every text message, every lingering look, every moment you let yourself feel what you had no right to feel. You were helping him betray someone who'd done nothing wrong except love him.

That night, your phone buzzed at eleven thirty.

Can't sleep again.

You stared at the message for a full minute, thumb hovering over the keyboard. You should ignore it. Should turn your phone off, should establish boundaries that you should have set weeks ago.

What's on your mind?

The response came immediately.

Everything. Nothing. The usual spiral.

Training going okay?

Yeah, actually. Coach says I'm progressing faster than expected.

That's great.

Is it weird that it doesn't feel great? Like I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Not weird. Just means you care.

Maybe too much.

You knew he wasn't just talking about football. The subtext sat there between your messages like a third presence, heavy and undeniable.

There's no such thing as caring too much.

Pretty sure there is.

Your fingers hovered over the keys. You typed out the words "We need to stop this" and stared at them. The right thing to do.

You deleted them.

You should try to sleep. Big practice tomorrow.

Yeah. You're right.

Goodnight, Jaxson.

Goodnight.

You set your phone down and pressed your palms against your eyes until you saw stars. The self loathing was a living thing now, whispering that you were a terrible person, that you were actively participating in hurting someone, that every time you responded to his messages you were making a choice. But you couldn't stop and that was the worst part. You knew it was wrong, knew it was selfish and destructive and cruel, and you still couldn't bring yourself to end it.

You were in too deep, and denial wasn't an option anymore.

⸻

The post appeared on your feed, Madison and Jaxson at some waterfront restaurant, golden hour light making them look like something out of a magazine. His arm was around her shoulders, her head tilted against his chest, both of them smiling. The caption "Lucky doesn't even begin to cover it. Love you endlessly. ❤️"

You stared at it until your vision blurred, until the image stopped making sense. The nausea was immediate and overwhelming, rising in your throat. You had no right to feel this way. No right to the jealousy that clawed through your chest, to the ache that settled behind your ribs. She was his girlfriend. She loved him. She got to post pictures and use heart emojis and claim him publicly.

You locked your phone and threw it across your bed.

Monday at the facility, you were reviewing footage with Marcus. He was funny, easy to talk to, and you found yourself actually laughing at his story about the disastrous B-roll he'd accidentally shot with the lens cap half on. It felt good to laugh, to have a conversation that wasn't loaded with subtext and guilt.

You didn't notice Jaxson until Marcus had already walked away.

He was standing near the equipment cages, jaw tight, watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read. When your eyes met, something flashed across his face dark and possessive and completely inappropriate. He looked away quickly, but not before you saw it. Your pulse kicked up. That wasn't fair. He didn't get to look at you like that, didn't get to feel whatever he was feeling when he had a girlfriend who posted about loving him endlessly.

You found him later in the film room, alone, staring at his laptop screen without really seeing it.

"Hey," you said from the doorway. He looked up, and the tension was immediate, crackling in the air between you like static electricity.

"Hey."

You should have left. Should have kept walking. Instead, you stepped inside, let the door close behind you.

"You okay?" you asked.

"Fine." His voice was clipped, controlled. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You seem off."

"I'm fine," he repeated, but his hands were clenched on the desk, knuckles white.

The silence stretched out, heavy with everything neither of you was saying. You could feel it the jealousy radiating off him, the same sick possessiveness you'd felt looking at Madison's post. It was wrong, it was so wrong. But it was also undeniable.

"Marcus is a good guy," you said, testing the waters.

His jaw ticked. "Yeah. Seems like it."

"We were just talking."

"I know." He still wasn't looking at you. "You can talk to whoever you want."

"But?"

"But nothing." Finally, his eyes met yours, and the intensity there stole your breath. "You're right. You can talk to whoever you want. It's none of my business."

"Jaxson—"

"I saw Madison's post," he said abruptly. "The one from Saturday."

Your heart stopped. "Okay."

"She's trying so hard." His voice cracked slightly. "And I'm sitting there at dinner, smiling for the camera, and all I can think about is—" He stopped himself, pressed his palms against his eyes. "This is so fucked up."

"I know."

"I can't keep doing this." But he didn't sound convinced. He sounded desperate, lost, like he was drowning and couldn't find the surface.

You crossed the room before you could stop yourself, stood close enough to see the exhaustion written in every line of his face. "Then don't."

"It's not that simple."

"I know."

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and you saw it all reflected back the want, the guilt, the impossibility of it. The denial that had been holding you both together was gone, burned away by too many almost moments and late night texts and the undeniable truth that this whatever this was real.

"I need to figure this out," he said quietly.

"Yeah."

"But I don't know how."

You didn't have an answer for that, neither of you did. So you just stood there, close enough to touch but not touching, both of you finally admitting what you'd been fighting for weeks.

This was real, it was messy. And you were both in way too deep to find your way out.

⸻

Rain hammered against the facility windows in sheets, downpour that made the parking lot look like a lake and turned the world into nothing but water and wind.

You'd stayed late working on the highlight reel for sunday's game, your car still at the mechanic's after the check engine light had finally made good on its threats. You'd taken an uber in that morning, figuring you'd do the same on the way back. But it was past nine now, and the storm had gotten worse, and every rideshare app showed wait times of forty five minutes or more. You were staring at your phone, weighing your options, when you heard footsteps in the hallway.

"You're still here."

You'd been so careful to avoid him this week, timing your arrivals and departures, taking lunch at odd hours. But of course he was here. Of course.

"Working late," you said, not looking up from your phone. "Storm's making it hard to get a ride home."

Silence. "I can drive you."

"You don't have to—"

"I know." His voice was quiet, careful. "But I'm offering."

You should have said no. Should have waited out the storm in your office, should have walked home in the rain if you had to. But you were tired, so tired of fighting this, and the idea of sitting in his car for twenty minutes felt both terrifying and inevitable.

"Okay," you whispered. "Thanks."

The parking lot was nearly empty, just a handful of cars scattered across the wet asphalt. His truck was parked near the back, and you were both soaked by the time you reached it, rain plastering your hair to your face and seeping through your jacket. He unlocked the doors and you climbed in, the interior warm and dry and suddenly, suffocatingly intimate. He started the engine but didn't put the truck in gear. Just sat there, hands on the steering wheel, staring out at the rain blurred windshield.

"Where am I going?" he asked finally.

You gave him your address, and he nodded, pulling out of the parking lot and onto the main road. The wipers beat a steady rhythm, the only sound besides the rain drumming on the roof. The silence was thick, heavy with everything you weren't saying.

You could feel the heat of him in the small space. Your hands were clenched in your lap, nails digging into your palms, because if you relaxed even slightly you might reach for him and then everything would shatter.

"How's the highlight reel coming?" His voice was rough, like he hadn't used it in hours.

"Good. Almost done."

"Good." The light turned green and he accelerated.

"I've been avoiding you," he said suddenly.

"I know."

"I didn't know what else to do."

You turned to look at him then, at the sharp line of his jaw and the tension in his shoulders and the way his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "Me neither."

He pulled up in front of your building, put the truck in park but left the engine running. The rain was coming down harder now, turning the streetlights into blurred halos of gold. You should have thanked him and gotten out. Should have run inside without looking back.

Instead, you sat there, frozen, as he turned to face you.

"I can't stop thinking about you," he said, and his voice was breaking, raw and honest and devastating. "I try, I swear to god I try, but then I see you and it's like—" He stopped, shook his head. "I don't know what to do with this."

"Jaxson—"

"I should let you go." But he didn't move, didn't look away. "I should let you go and figure my shit out and stop dragging you into this mess."

"Yeah," you whispered. "You should."

But neither of you moved. The rain pounded on the roof, the windows fogged with your breath, and the space between you felt like it was shrinking, collapsing in on itself until there was nothing left but want and guilt and the terrible, undeniable truth that you were both too far gone.

"I should go inside," you said, but it came out barely audible, more breath than words.

"Yeah."

You reached for the door handle. His hand caught your wrist, gentle but desperate, and you froze.

"Wait”.

You turned back, and he was right there, closer than he'd been a second ago, close enough that you could count his eyelashes and see the storm reflected in his eyes. His hand slid from your wrist to your hand, fingers threading through yours, and the touch sent electricity racing up your arm.

"I need—" He stopped, swallowed hard. "Can I walk you to your door?"

You nodded, not trusting your voice. The rain soaked you both immediately, cold and shocking, but you barely felt it. He kept your hand in his as you ran to the building entrance, as you fumbled with your keys, as you finally got the door open and stepped into the small, dim lobby. You turned to say goodnight, to thank him, to do something normal and safe. But he was standing too close, water dripping from his hair, his chest rising and falling like he'd been running, and the look in his eyes made your breath catch.

"I should go," he said, but he didn't move.

"Yeah."

His free hand came up, hesitated, then brushed a strand of wet hair from your face. His fingers lingered on your cheek, and you felt yourself leaning into the touch before you could stop yourself.

"God," he whispered, and it sounded like a prayer or a curse or both.

“Jaxson,” you said his name, just his name and something in him broke. He stepped closer, his hand sliding from your cheek to cup the back of your neck, and you could feel his breath on your lips, could feel the heat of him despite the cold of your clothes.

"Tell me to leave," he said, his voice wrecked. "Please, tell me to leave."

But you couldn't. You were shaking, your hands fisted in his wet jacket, and you couldn't make yourself say the words that would send him away. He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to stop this until his forehead pressed against yours. You could feel his breath, could feel the tremor running through him, could feel how close you were to crossing a line you could never uncross.

"If I kiss you," he whispered, his lips so close to yours that you felt the words more than heard them, "I won't stop."

Your breath hitched. Your eyes closed. You were drowning in him, in the desperate way he was holding you and the terrible, beautiful truth of what he'd just said.

One of you had to be strong enough. One of you had to pull away.

His forehead pressed harder against yours, and you felt him shudder, felt the moment he made the decision. Then he was stepping back, his hands falling away from you, and the sudden absence of his touch felt like losing something vital.

"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice was broken. "I'm so sorry."

Then he was gone, pushing back out into the rain, and you stood there in the empty lobby with your hand pressed to your mouth and tears mixing with the rainwater on your face.

⸻

He didn't text that night. Or the next day. Or the day after that.

A week passed like walking through a dream or maybe a nightmare. You went to work, did your job, edited footage and attended meetings and smiled when you were supposed to smile. But everything felt distant, muffled, like you were watching your life happen to someone else.

You saw him at the facility, of course. It was impossible not to. But he'd perfected the art of avoidance, taking different hallways, timing his arrivals to miss yours, looking through you on the rare occasions you ended up in the same room. It should have been a relief. This was what you'd needed, what you'd both needed distance, space, a chance to let this thing between you die a quiet death.

Instead, it felt like slowly suffocating.

On thursday, you were walking past the players' lounge when you heard voices. You should have kept walking. Should have minded your own business. But you recognized his voice, and you stopped.

"Jax, baby, talk to me." Madison. She sounded worried, frustrated. "You've been so distant lately. Did I do something wrong?"

"No." His voice was flat, exhausted. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Then what is it? You barely look at me anymore. You're always 'tired' or 'stressed about practice' but I know you, and this is something else."

Silence. You pressed yourself against the wall, heart pounding, knowing you should leave but unable to make yourself move.

"I'm just in my head about the season," he said finally. "It's not you."

"That's what you keep saying, but—" She stopped, and when she spoke again her voice was smaller, uncertain. "Are you having second thoughts? About us?"

"Madison—"

"Because if you are, I'd rather you just tell me. I can handle the truth, Jax. What I can't handle is this whatever this is. You're here but you're not here, and I don't know how to reach you anymore."

You heard movement, footsteps, and you quickly walked away before they could come out and find you eavesdropping. But Madison's words followed you down the hallway, burrowing under your skin.

I can handle the truth.

But could she? Could any of you?

That afternoon, you were in the editing bay when you heard a crash from the locker room loud enough that several people looked up from their work. You hesitated, then walked down the hallway, following the sound. The locker room was empty except for him. He was standing in front of his locker, breathing hard, and there was a dent in the metal door like he'd punched it. Or thrown something at it.

"Jaxson?"

He spun around, and the look on his face made you take a step back. Anger, frustration, desperation all of it written in the tight line of his jaw and the wild look in his eyes.

"You shouldn't be here," he said.

"I heard—"

"I said you shouldn't be here." But there was no heat in it, just exhaustion. He turned back to his locker, pressed his forehead against the cool metal. "I can't do this."

"Do what?"

"This." He gestured vaguely between you, at the space that felt like it was full of broken glass and unspoken words. "Pretend I don't—" He stopped himself, his hands curling into fists. "I can't keep pretending."

Your chest tightened. "Then don't."

"It's not that simple."

"I know."

He laughed, but it was a bitter, broken sound. "Do you? Because I'm sitting here trying to figure out how to be a good person, how to do the right thing, and all I can think about is—" He stopped again, shook his head. "I'm a terrible person."

"You're not."

"I am." He finally turned to look at you, and the pain in his eyes was unbearable. "I have a girlfriend who loves me, who's trying so hard to understand why I'm pulling away, and I can't even give her a real answer because the truth would destroy her. And you—" His voice cracked. "I'm dragging you into this mess, making you complicit in something that's so fucked up, and I can't seem to stop myself."

You wanted to go to him, wanted to tell him it wasn't his fault, that you were just as guilty, just as lost. But you stayed where you were, because touching him right now would only make everything worse.

"I've been trying to stay away from you," he said quietly. "Thought maybe if I just avoided you long enough, this would fade. That I'd wake up one morning and it would just be gone."

"Has it worked?"

He looked at you, and the answer was written all over his face.

"No," he whispered. "It's gotten worse."

The silence stretched between you, heavy with everything you couldn't say, everything you couldn't do. You were both trapped in this impossible situation, and there was no way out that didn't involve someone getting hurt.

"Something has to break," you said finally. "We can't keep going like this."

"I know."

"So what are we going to do?"

He didn't answer. Just stood there, looking at you like you were the answer and the problem all at once, and you realized with a sinking feeling that neither of you knew. You were both drowning, and there was no lifeline in sight. Just the terrible, inevitable knowledge that something was going to shatter.

And when it did, there would be no putting the pieces back together.

⸻

Three days later, your phone buzzed.

I'm outside.

Your heart stopped. You went to the window, pulled back the curtain, and there he was leaning against his car in your building's parking lot, head tilted back like he was trying to find answers in the dark sky. Even from three floors up, you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands were shoved deep in his pockets. You shouldn't go down there. You should text him to leave, to go home, to figure his shit out somewhere that wasn't your doorstep.

Instead, you grabbed your keys.

He straightened when he heard the building door open, and the look on his face made your breath catch. He looked wrecked hair disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it, eyes red, jaw tight.

"You shouldn't be here," you said, but your voice came out softer than you intended.

"I know." He didn't move, didn't look away. "I know I shouldn't."

"Then why are you?"

He took a step toward you, and you could see him trembling. "We had a fight. Madison and me. She said—" He stopped, shook his head. "It doesn't matter what she said. She was right."

"Jaxson—"

"She knows." His voice cracked. "She doesn't know it's you, but she knows there's someone. She said she can feel me pulling away, that I'm not present anymore, that when I look at her it's like I'm looking through her." He laughed, bitter and broken. "And she's right. Because I am. Because every time I'm with her, I'm thinking about you."

You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to hold something together that was already falling apart. "You need to go home. You need to talk to her, figure out—"

"I can't." He took another step closer. "I can't go back there and pretend anymore. I can't keep lying to her, lying to myself, pretending this isn't—" He gestured between you, helpless. "I drove around for two hours trying to talk myself out of coming here. Told myself a hundred different reasons why this was a terrible idea."

"It is a terrible idea."

"I know." Another step. He was close enough now that you could smell his cologne, see the pulse jumping in his throat. "But I'm here anyway."

The air between you felt electric, charged with months of wanting and denying and trying so hard to do the right thing. You could feel the heat of him, could see the way his chest rose and fell with each unsteady breath.

"Why?" you whispered.

His eyes met yours, and the intensity in them made your knees weak. "You know why."

You did. God, you did. It was written in every text message, every lingering look, every moment you'd both pulled back from the edge. It was in the way he was looking at you now, like you were oxygen and he'd been drowning.

"We can't," you said, but you didn't step back.

"I've tried." His voice was rough, raw. "I've tried so hard to stay away from you, to do the right thing, to be the person I'm supposed to be. But I can't stop thinking about you. Can't stop wanting—" He broke off, jaw clenching. "Tell me to leave. Tell me you don't feel this too, and I'll go. I'll figure out how to get over this, I'll—"

"I can't tell you that."

The words hung between you, a confession and a surrender all at once. He moved closer, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to look at him. Close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off his body, could see the gold flecks in his eyes.

"Then tell me to stop," he whispered.

His hand came up slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, to end this before it started. His fingers brushed your jaw, trembling, and you felt that touch everywhere. This was it. The last moment. The last chance to do the right thing, to step back, to save all three of you from the inevitable wreckage.

You didn't move.

His thumb traced your cheekbone, and his breath hitched. You could feel your own heart hammering against your ribs, could feel the way your body was leaning into him like gravity had shifted and he was the only solid thing left.

"Tell me," he breathed, his face inches from yours.

But you couldn't. You couldn't tell him to stop, couldn't tell him to leave, couldn't do anything but stand there and feel the world narrowing down to this. His hand on your face, his eyes on yours, the space between you shrinking with every shallow breath.

⸻

He cupped your face with both hands, and the softness of it nearly broke you.

"We can't," you whispered, but it sounded like a prayer, not a protest.

"I've tried." His forehead dropped to yours, and you felt him shudder. "God, I've tried so hard. But I don't care anymore. I can't—I can't keep pretending I don't want this. That I don't want you."

Then his lips were on yours. The kiss was desperate, hungry, nothing like the gentle almost kisses that had come before. This was months of wanting compressed into a single moment, and it felt like falling and flying all at once. His mouth moved against yours with an urgency that made your head spin, and you kissed him back just as fiercely, your hands fisting in his shirt to pull him closer.

He made a sound low in his throat, something between a groan and a gasp, and his hands slid into your hair. The kiss deepened, turned messier, all teeth and tongue and desperate need. You couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only feel the heat of his mouth, the solid weight of his body pressing you back against the building wall, the way his fingers tightened in your hair like he was afraid you'd disappear.

"Inside," you gasped against his mouth. "We can't—someone might—"

He nodded, breathless, and you fumbled for your keys with shaking hands. The elevator ride up was torture, three floors of standing too close and not close enough, of stolen kisses and wandering hands and the terrible, wonderful knowledge that you were really doing this.

The moment your apartment door closed behind you, he was on you again. His hands found your waist, your back, sliding under your shirt to touch bare skin, and you gasped at the contact. Your own hands were everywhere his chest, his shoulders, tangling in his hair trying to touch all of him at once, trying to make up for months of not touching him at all.

"I've wanted you for so long," he breathed against your neck, and the words sent heat pooling low in your stomach. "So fucking long."

You pulled his face back to yours, kissed him hard enough to bruise. "Then stop talking."

He groaned, and his hands went to the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and off in one smooth motion. For a second he just looked at you, his chest heaving, eyes dark with want, and the intensity of his gaze made you feel like you were burning.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, and then his mouth was on your collarbone, your shoulder, trailing kisses down your chest while his hands worked at the clasp of your bra.

You tugged at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours, and he helped you pull it over his head. The sight of him all muscle and golden skin made your mouth go dry. You ran your hands over his chest, his abs, feeling him shudder under your touch.

"Bed," you managed. "We should—"

But you didn't make it that far. He backed you toward the couch instead, and you went willingly, pulling him down on top of you. The weight of him felt right, perfect, like this was where he was always supposed to be.

⸻

His hands were everywhere, sliding over your skin like he was trying to memorize you by touch. You arched into him, gasping when his mouth found your boob, when his tongue traced patterns that made your vision blur.

"Jaxson," you breathed, and he groaned against your skin.

"Say it again." His voice was wrecked, desperate. "Say my name again."

"Jaxson."

He kissed you again, deep and claiming, while his hands worked at the button of your jeans. You lifted your hips to help him slide them down, and then his fingers were tracing the edge of your underwear, teasing, making you squirm.

"Tell me you want this," he said against your mouth. "I need to hear you say it."

"I want this." Your hands found his belt, fumbling with the buckle. "I want you. I've wanted you since—"

"Since when?" His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, and you gasped.

"Since the draft," you admitted, breathless. "Since the first time I saw you."

He made a sound that was almost a laugh, almost a sob. "That long? We've wasted so much time."

"Then stop wasting more."

He didn't need to be told twice. He stripped off the rest of your clothes with shaking hands, then his own, and the sight of him all of him made your breath catch. He was beautiful, and he was here, and this was really happening. He settled between your thighs, and the feel of his skin against yours was almost too much. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, and he dropped his forehead to yours.

"Look at me," he whispered. "I need you to look at me."

You opened your eyes, met his gaze, and the intensity there made your heart stutter. This wasn't just physical. This was everything all the conversations, all the almost moments, all the wanting compressed into this single point of connection.

"Are you sure?" he asked, and despite everything, despite how far you'd already gone, he was still giving you an out.

"I'm sure."

He kissed you softly, tenderly, and then he was pushing inside you, slow and careful, and the feeling of it made you both gasp. He stilled, giving you time to adjust, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding back.

"Okay?" he managed.

"More than okay." You rolled your hips experimentally, and his eyes nearly rolled back. "Move. Please."

He did, setting a rhythm that was slow at first, almost reverent, like he was savoring every second. But it didn't stay slow for long. The desperation crept back in, the months of denial and wanting, and soon he was moving faster, harder, and you were meeting him thrust for thrust.

"God, you feel so good," he groaned, his face buried in your neck. "So perfect. I knew you would be, but—"

You cut him off with a kiss, swallowing his words, his moans, everything. Your hands slid down his back, feeling his muscles flex and shift under your palms, feeling the way his whole body was focused on this, on you.

"Jaxson," you gasped when his angle shifted, hitting something that made stars burst behind your eyelids. "Right there, don't—don't stop."

"Never." His hand slid between your bodies. "I'm never stopping. Never letting you go."

The pleasure built and built, coiling tighter in your belly with every thrust, every touch, every breathless word he whispered against your skin. You were close, so close, and from the way his rhythm was faltering, so was he.

"Look at me," he said again, and you did. His eyes were wild, desperate, full of something that looked dangerously close to love. "I need to see you. Need to see you come apart."

His fingers moved faster, and that was all it took. The orgasm hit you like a wave, crashing over you and pulling you under, and you cried out his name as your body shook with it. He followed seconds later, your name on his lips like a confession, like the answer to every question he'd been asking himself for months.

He collapsed on top of you, both of you breathing hard, hearts racing. For a long moment, neither of you moved, neither of you spoke. You just lay there, tangled together, feeling the weight of what you'd just done settle over you like a blanket.

Finally, he shifted, rolling to the side and pulling you with him so you were tucked against his chest. His hand traced lazy patterns on your back, and you could feel his heartbeat slowly returning to normal beneath your cheek.

"We should talk about this," he said quietly.

"I know."

"About what happens now. About Madison, about—"

"Tomorrow." You pressed a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "We'll figure it out tomorrow."

He was quiet for a moment, then his arms tightened around you. "I don't regret this. I know I should, but I don't."

"Me neither."

And it was true. There would be consequences, fallout, pain that you'd both have to face. But right now, in this moment, with his skin warm against yours and his breath stirring your hair, you couldn't bring yourself to regret it. This felt too right, too inevitable, like every choice you'd made since the draft had been leading here.

"Stay," you whispered. "Just for tonight."

"Okay." He kissed the top of your head, soft and tender. "Just for tonight."

But you both knew it was a lie. This wasn't just for tonight. This was everything changing, the point of no return, the moment when pretending stopped being an option. Tomorrow, you'd deal with the wreckage. Tomorrow, there would be difficult conversations and broken hearts and consequences you couldn't avoid.

But tonight you had this. You had him and for now, that was enough.

⸻

You woke to cold sheets and the sound of your apartment door closing.

For a second, you lay there in the morning light, your body still aching in places that reminded you of everything. His scent lingered on your pillow. Your clothes were still scattered across the floor, a trail of evidence leading from the front door to your bed. Evidence of what you'd done. Your phone sat on the nightstand, and you reached for it with shaking hands. No message. No note. Just the absence of him and the weight of reality settling over you like a suffocating blanket.

You made it to the bathroom before you threw up.

You texted him three hours later, after you'd showered until your skin was raw and still couldn't wash away the feeling of his hands on you.

We can't do this again.

The response came fast. Too fast, like he'd been waiting.

I know.

You need to fix things with her.

I know.

Last night was a mistake.

The typing indicator appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Finally.

Yeah. It was.

The lie burned worse than the truth would have.

⸻

The facility felt different now, like the walls knew what you'd done. You took the long way to your office, avoiding the routes where you might run into him. Kept your head down in the cafeteria. Stayed late so you could leave when the building was mostly empty.

It didn't matter, you still saw him everywhere.

In the hallway on tuesday, he'd been walking toward you, and you watched his face change when he noticed you. He turned abruptly, disappearing into a conference room he had no reason to be in. You stood there for a full minute, staring at the closed door, your chest so tight you couldn't breathe.

On thursday, you were reviewing footage in the media room when he walked in. He froze in the doorway, and for a minute, neither of you moved. Then he backed out without a word, and you heard his footsteps retreating quickly down the hall.

Friday, you were in a team meeting, and you felt his eyes on you. When you finally looked up, he was staring at you with such raw longing that you had to look away, your hands trembling so badly you had to sit on them.

⸻

Madison came to the facility on saturday.

You saw her in the lobby, waiting for him, scrolling through her phone with a small smile. She was wearing his hoodie, the one you'd seen draped over his gym bag a dozen times. When he appeared, she lit up, standing on her toes to kiss him. He kissed her back, his hand on her waist, and from where you stood frozen behind a pillar, you could see how hard he was trying.

How empty it was.

Madison pulled back, studying his face. "You okay? You seem tired."

"Just training," he said, and his voice was flat. "It's been intense."

"You're working too hard." She touched his cheek, gentle and concerned, and you wanted to die. "You need to take care of yourself."

"I know. I will."

She smiled, trusting and sweet, and looped her arm through his. "Come on. I made us a reservation at that italian place you mentioned."

You watched them leave, Madison chattering about something while Jaxson nodded along, and the guilt was so overwhelming you had to brace yourself against the wall. She didn't know. She had no idea that the man she loved had been in someone else's bed less than a week ago. That he was hollow because of you, that you'd ruined everything.

You made it to the bathroom before you threw up again.

⸻

Three weeks passed like walking through broken glass. You stopped sleeping, food tasted bad. You lost weight you didn't have to lose, and your coworkers started asking if you were sick. You told them you were fine, that it was just stress, and they believed you because what else could they do?

Jaxson looked worse. His performance on the field was suffering. You heard the coaches talking about it, concern creeping into their voices. He was distracted, missing reads he should have made easily, his timing off. In the footage you edited, you could see it the way he hesitated, second guessed himself, moved like he was underwater.

You did this to him.

⸻

He showed up at your apartment the next night and you knew before you opened the door that it was him. You could feel it, the way you'd always been able to feel him.

He looked wrecked. Hair disheveled, eyes red, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt like he'd just walked out of his apartment without thinking. Like he'd been pacing for hours before he finally broke.

"You can't be here," you said, but you didn't close the door.

"I know."

"You're with her."

"I know." He ran a hand through his hair, and it shook. "I just—I needed to see you."

"Jaxson—"

"I'm trying." His voice cracked. "I'm trying so hard to make it work. I take her to dinner, I hold her hand, I do everything I'm supposed to do, and it's—" He broke off, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. "It's killing me."

Your heart was breaking, shattering into pieces you'd never be able to put back together. "You have to try harder."

"I can't stop thinking about you." He looked at you, and the devastation in his eyes made you want to scream. "I can't stop seeing you, feeling you, wanting—"

"Stop." You held up a hand, tears burning your eyes. "You have to stop."

"I don't know how."

"You figure it out." Your voice was harsh, cruel, because it had to be. "You were never supposed to be mine, Jaxson. This, us, it was never supposed to happen."

"But it did."

"And it was wrong." The words tasted like poison. "It was selfish and wrong, and I can't—" Your voice broke. "I can't be the reason you ruin everything. Your career, your relationship, your life. I won't do that to you."

"What about what I want?"

"What you want doesn't matter!" You were shouting now, tears streaming down your face. "She loves you. She trusts you. And you're a good person, Jaxson, you are, and good people don't do this. They don't destroy someone who loves them for something that can never work."

"How do you know it can never work?"

"Because I work for your team!" The reality of it crashed over you both. "Because she's been with you for years. Because everyone would know, everyone would judge, and it would destroy your reputation and mine and hers, and for what? For something that started as a mistake?"

"It wasn't a mistake." His voice was quiet, broken. "It was the most real thing I've ever felt."

You closed your eyes, and the tears kept coming. "Then forget it. Forget how it felt. Go back to her and be the man she thinks you are."

"I can't forget." He took a step toward you, and you stepped back. "I've tried. God, I've tried so hard, and I can't—"

"You have to." You were begging now, pleading. "You have to, Jaxson. For her. For yourself. For me."

"What about you?" His eyes searched yours. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to live with what I did." The words came out flat, final. "I'm going to carry this guilt for the rest of my life, and I'm going to watch you be happy with her, and I'm going to know that I almost ruined it. That's my consequence."

"That's not fair."

"None of this is fair." You moved to the door, held it open. "Go home. Go back to her. Forget this happened."

"I can't."

"You have to."

He stared at you for a long moment, and you watched him break. Watched the moment he realized you meant it, that you were choosing this, choosing to let him go, choosing the guilt and the pain over the possibility of something more. He left without another word.

You closed the door and slid down it, collapsing onto the floor, and cried until you had nothing left.

⸻

Four weeks later, Madison posted a photo of them at some upscale restaurant, Jaxson in a button down shirt, her in a dress that probably cost more than your rent. They looked perfect, picture perfect. The caption was three heart emojis and "My favorite person." The comments were full of people calling them couple goals.

You stared at it until your vision blurred, then forced yourself to look away.

He was trying. You could see it every time you were forced to be in the same space.

At team events, he was attentive to Madison, his arm around her waist, smiling at her jokes. He posted photos of them together, date nights and casual moments, building a narrative of a relationship that was solid and real.

But you could see the truth underneath.

The way his smile never reached his eyes. The way he went through the motions like an actor who'd forgotten why he'd wanted the role in the first place. The way he looked hollow, carved out, a shell of the person he'd been.

Madison could see it too. You watched her watching him, confusion and concern flickering across her face. She tried harder more surprise visits to the facility, more elaborate date plans, more public displays of affection. She was fighting for him without knowing what she was fighting against.

It made you hate yourself even more.

⸻

The elevator doors closed before you could stop them, trapping you both inside. You pressed yourself against the far wall. He stood near the buttons, staring straight ahead, his jaw tight. The silence was suffocating.

"How's it going with her?" The question escaped before you could stop it.

His hands clenched into fists. "Good. Fine. It's..." He swallowed hard. "I'm trying."

The lie hung between you, so obvious it was almost funny.

"That's good," you said, and your voice was hollow. "She deserves someone who tries."

"Yeah." He finally looked at you, and the devastation in his eyes made your breath catch. "She does."

The elevator dinged. You moved toward the doors, but his voice stopped you.

"I can't do this anymore."

You froze. "Jaxson—"

"I can't pretend my heart isn't somewhere else." He turned to face you fully, and he looked like he was drowning. "I can't keep going through the motions, pretending I don't feel what I feel, pretending that night didn't change everything—"

"Stop." You held up a hand, tears already burning your eyes. "You have to. She deserves better than this."

"I know she does." His voice broke. "I know, and I'm trying to be better, trying to be what she needs, but I can't—I don't know how to stop—"

"You figure it out." You stepped out of the elevator, your whole body shaking. "You figure it out, Jaxson, because the alternative destroys everyone. Her, you, me. Everyone."

The doors started to close, and you saw him standing there, broken and lost, trying so hard to do the right thing and failing.

You turned away before you could see more.

⸻

That night, your phone buzzed.

I'm sorry.

You stared at the message for a long time, then typed and deleted a dozen responses. Finally, you settled on the only truth that mattered.

Me too.

You set your phone down and pressed your palms against your eyes, but the tears came anyway. This was the consequence. This was the price of crossing that line, of taking something that was never meant to be yours. Not the dramatic explosion you'd feared, but this slow, aching destruction. Watching him try to stay, watching him fail, knowing you couldn't have each other but couldn't move on either. Knowing that you'd broken something that could never be fixed.

Outside your window, the city lights blurred through your tears, and you thought about how many ways there were to lose someone. How the worst way wasn't them leaving, but them staying and slowly disappearing anyway. How you'd done this to him, to her, to yourself. How there was no going back, no fixing it, no happy ending waiting at the end of all this pain.

Just the wreckage, and the guilt, and the knowledge that some mistakes you carried forever.

⸻

The Giants' end of season charity gala wasn't somewhere you wanted to be, but attendance wasn't optional. Five months had passed since that last text exchange, five months of carefully orchestrated avoidance. You'd mastered the art of checking schedules, of timing your facility visits for when you knew he'd be in meetings or on the field. The few times you'd crossed paths, you'd kept your eyes down, your stride purposeful, your heart hammering against your ribs like it was trying to escape.

You'd heard through the office gossip that he and Madison had broken up. Sometime in december, quiet and clean, no drama. You'd excused yourself to the bathroom and sat in a stall for fifteen minutes, trying to untangle the knot of emotions that information had created. Relief, guilt for feeling relieved, the grief for what you'd helped destroy. Fear of what it might mean. It didn't matter anyway, that door was closed. You'd closed it yourself.

The hotel ballroom glittered with the forced elegance that came with corporate events. You'd positioned yourself near the back, nursing a glass of wine you weren't drinking, counting down the minutes until you could leave without it being obvious.

Then you saw him.

He was across the room, talking to one of the coaches, and the air left your lungs in a rush. He looked different. Leaner or just tired. His suit fit perfectly, his smile was polite and professional, and when he laughed at something the coach said, it didn't quite reach his eyes. You turned away quickly, but not quickly enough.

When you glanced back, he was looking directly at you.

The room seemed to tilt. Five months of distance, of healing, of trying to forget all of it gone in the space of a single look. You saw the recognition in his face, the way his expression shifted from surprise to something more complicated. Something that matched the ache in your chest.

Neither of you moved. The crowd flowed around you both and you stood frozen, caught in the gravity of everything unsaid.

Someone touched your elbow, and you flinched. It was Marcus from the marketing team, asking about next week's shoot schedule. You answered on autopilot, your awareness still locked on Jaxson across the room. When you looked again, he'd turned back to his conversation, but his shoulders were tense, his posture rigid.

You lasted another forty minutes. Long enough to not be rude, not long enough to risk another encounter. You were heading for the exit when you nearly collided with someone at the bar.

"Sorry, I—" You looked up.

Jaxson stood there, two feet away, close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes. Close enough that your body remembered what it felt like to be pressed against his.

"Hi," he said quietly.

"Hi." Your voice came out steadier than you felt.

"How are you?" The question was careful, formal, like you were strangers making small talk.

"Fine. You?"

"Fine."

You were both lying. You could see it in the tightness around his mouth, in the way his hand gripped his glass. You wondered if he could see it in you too the sleepless nights, the way you still reached for your phone at 11:30 before remembering there was no one to text, the careful numbness you'd cultivated to get through each day.

"Good turnout tonight," you said, because the silence was worse than the small talk.

"Yeah." He glanced around the room, anywhere but at you. "Listen, I should—"

"Me too." You stepped back, putting distance between you. "It was good to see you."

Another lie, it wasn't good. It was agony. It was ripping open wounds you'd spent months trying to close.

"Yeah," he said again. "You too."

You left before he could say anything else, before the careful control you'd maintained could crack. Outside, the air was sharp and cold, and you gulped it down like you'd been drowning. Your hands shook as you waited for your rideshare, and you pressed them against your thighs, willing yourself to hold it together just a little longer. In the car, you finally let yourself fall apart, just a little. Just enough to release the pressure building in your chest. The driver pretended not to notice, and you were grateful.

At home, you didn't cry. You'd cried enough. Instead, you sat on your couch in the dark and thought about how some people stayed in your bones even after they left your life. How five months hadn't been enough, how you weren't sure five years would be either.

⸻

Can we talk?

You stared at it for a full minute, your coffee going cold in your hand. Every instinct screamed at you to delete it, to protect yourself, to maintain the distance you'd worked so hard to create.

When?

Today? I know a place. Quiet. We won't run into anyone.

You should have said no. Should have protected yourself, protected him, protected the fragile equilibrium you'd both found. But you were so tired of running. So tired of pretending that seeing him hadn't cracked something open inside you.

Send me the address.

The coffee shop was in Brooklyn, far enough from the facility that you wouldn't see anyone you knew. He was already there when you arrived, sitting at a corner table, two cups in front of him. He stood when he saw you, then seemed to think better of it and sat back down.

"I got you a latte," he said as you slid into the seat across from him. "I remembered you—" He stopped. "Sorry. I didn't know if you still..."

"I do. Thank you."

The coffee was perfect, of course he remembered. For a long second, neither of you spoke. You traced the rim of your cup, and he stared at his hands, and the silence stretched between you like a living thing.

"Madison and I broke up," he said finally. "In December. I don't know if you heard."

"I heard."

He nodded, still not looking at you. "It wasn't because of you. I mean, it was, but not—" He exhaled roughly. "I couldn't be what she needed. Couldn't be present, couldn't be honest. She deserved better than someone who was only half there."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He finally met your eyes. "It was the right thing. Should have happened months earlier. I just—I kept trying to make it work, trying to prove that I could be the person everyone thought I was. But I couldn't. I'd already ruined it."

"We both did," you said quietly. "I knew you were with her. I knew it was wrong, and I did it anyway."

"I kissed you first."

"I kissed you back."

He smiled, but it was sad, tired. "We're quite a pair."

You took a sip of your coffee, buying time. "Why did you want to talk?"

"Because I've spent five months trying to forget you, and it hasn't worked." His voice was raw, honest. "Because I see you at the facility and I have to pretend I don't know what you taste like, what you sound like when you—" He stopped, jaw clenching. "Because I handled everything wrong. I hurt everyone, including you, and I need you to know that I'm sorry. Really sorry. Not just for what happened, but for how it happened. For putting you in that position. For being too much of a coward to end things with Madison before I—"

"Stop." You reached across the table, stopping just short of touching his hand. "We were both there. We both made choices. Bad choices, but choices."

"Do you regret it?" The question was barely above a whisper. You thought about lying. Thought about giving him the answer that would make this easier, cleaner. But you'd had enough of lies.

"I regret the pain we caused," you said carefully. "I regret Madison getting hurt. I regret the way it happened. But do I regret you?" You met his eyes. "No. I can't. Even though I should."

Something in his expression cracked open. "I don't know how to do this. How to be around you and not—"

"We don't have to figure it out right now." You pulled your hand back, wrapped it around your cup. "Maybe we just start here. Coffee. Talking. Being honest."

"No secrets?"

"No secrets."

He nodded slowly. "I'd like that."

⸻

It started small, just checking in. How was your day. Did you see that ridiculous play in the Rams game. The kind of conversations you might have with any friend, except they weren't any friend, and you both knew it. Two weeks later, you ran into him at the facility. Instead of avoiding eye contact, he stopped.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"You have time for lunch?"

You did. You sat in the cafeteria, surrounded by teammates and staff, and talked about work, his training, your upcoming projects. It was normal and strange and painful and good all at once.

It became a pattern. Lunch once a week, sometimes twice. Coffee on saturday mornings at that place in Brooklyn. Texts that came more frequently, that got deeper. He told you about the pressure of his rookie season, about the expectations he was still learning to carry. You told him about the promotion you'd been offered, about the fear that you weren't ready for it.

You learned each other again, in the daylight this time. No secrets, no stolen moments, no guilt shadowing every interaction. Just two people, talking. Rebuilding something from the wreckage.

It wasn't easy. There were moments when the air between you felt too charged, when his hand would brush yours and you'd both freeze. Moments when you'd catch him looking at you with an expression that made your breath catch. Moments when you wanted to reach across the table and touch his face, trace the line of his jaw, close the distance that you'd both agreed to maintain.

But you didn't, you were learning patience. Learning that some things were worth waiting for, worth doing right.

⸻

Spring came slowly, then all at once. The city thawed, and so did you. It was late april when everything shifted. You'd met him at the coffee shop your place now, the corner table always somehow available when you needed it. Three months of careful friendship, of rebuilding trust, of learning to be honest without the weight of secrets between you. He looked different today. His drink sat untouched, and he kept running his hand through his hair in that gesture you'd come to recognize as anxiety.

"You okay?" you asked.

"I need to tell you something." He finally met your eyes. "And I need you to let me get it all out before you say anything, because if I don't say it now, I might lose my nerve."

Your heart started hammering. "Okay."

He took a breath. "I shouldn't have wanted you. That first day at the draft, I had a girlfriend, I had a plan for my life, and then you walked in and everything just shifted. And I told myself it was nothing, that it would go away, that I could control it. But I couldn't. And I handled it in the worst possible way. I hurt Madison, I hurt you, I hurt myself. I made a mess of everything."

You started to speak, but he held up a hand.

"But here's the thing I've realized over the past few months: wanting you is the only thing that ever felt honest. Everything else the perfect relationship, the perfect image, the person everyone expected me to be that was the lie. You were the truth. And I'm not saying that makes what we did okay, because it doesn't. But I can't keep pretending that this thing between us is going to go away. I've tried. And it just doesn't."

He leaned forward, his eyes searching yours. "So I need to know, is there any chance that we could try this? For real this time. No secrets, no sneaking around, no guilt. Just us, starting from the beginning, doing it right."

The coffee shop seemed to fade away. It was just him, just you, just this moment that felt like standing on the edge of something terrifying and inevitable.

"I was so angry at myself," you said quietly. "For wanting you when I shouldn't. For crossing that line. For being the kind of person who could do that to someone else. I spent months trying to hate myself out of feeling this way."

"Did it work?"

"No." You smiled, sad and honest. "It didn't. Because you're right this is the only thing that's ever felt real. And I don't know if that makes us terrible people or just human, but I'm tired of running from it."

"So what now?" His voice was barely above a whisper. You reached across the table and took his hand. His fingers closed around yours immediately, like they'd been waiting for permission.

"We start again," you said. "Slow. Right this time. No rushing, no pressure. We date like normal people. We figure out if this thing between us can survive in the daylight."

"And if it can't?"

"Then at least we'll know we tried." You squeezed his hand. "But I think it can. I think maybe it's stronger because of everything we went through. Because we know what it costs now. What it's worth."

He stood, still holding your hand, and moved around the table. You stood too, and suddenly you were close enough to feel his breath, to see the hope and fear and want in his eyes.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked. "Or is that too fast?"

"It's probably too fast."

"But?"

"But I've been waiting months for you to ask."

He cupped your face with his free hand, thumb tracing your cheekbone in that gesture that had haunted your dreams. When he kissed you, it was different from before. No desperation, no guilt, no shadow of secrets. Just honest and sweet and full of promise.

When you pulled back, you were both smiling.

"So," he said, still close enough that his lips brushed yours when he spoke. "Can I take you to dinner? Like, an actual date. Somewhere public where we don't have to hide."

"I'd like that."

"Friday?"

"Friday."

He kissed you again, quick and light, then stepped back. "I should let you get back to work."

"Yeah." But neither of you moved.

"This is going to be complicated," he said. "People are going to talk. There's going to be judgment."

"I know."

"And we're going to have to figure out how to navigate this with the team, with work, with—"

"Jaxson." You touched his face, making him look at you. "We'll figure it out. Together. One day at a time."

He turned his head and kissed your palm. "One day at a time."

⸻

You walked out of the coffee shop together his hand found yours, and this time you didn't pull away. This time, there was no reason to hide. It wouldn't be easy. There would be questions, complications, moments when the past tried to drag you both back down. But you'd survived the worst of it the guilt and the pain. You'd found your way back to each other through honesty and patience and the kind of love that refused to be denied.

"Hey," he said, stopping on the sidewalk. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For giving me a chance to do this right. For not giving up on me. On us."

You smiled, squeezing his hand. "Thank you for being brave enough to try."

The city moved around you, indifferent to your small moment of grace. But standing there with his hand in yours, the sun warm on your face, you felt something you hadn't felt in months hope.

"Come on," you said, tugging him forward. "Walk me back to work?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

And as you walked together through the spring afternoon, you thought about beginnings. How sometimes they came from endings. How sometimes the hardest thing and the right thing were the same thing. How sometimes love meant burning everything down and starting over from the ashes. You'd crossed a line you couldn't uncross. But maybe that line had led you exactly where you needed to be here, now, together, finally ready to build something real.

And that was enough.

⸻

MASTERLIST

⸻

[goldfades]

LATE-NIGHT CALLS ─── JOE BURROW

request: "I feel like Joe would always insist on calling you after every game even the late ones. Even if it’s just a sleepy, half-coherent conversation he refuses to go to bed without hearing your voice"

Joe's post-game ritual has always been the same: shake hands, hit the showers, face the press, and head home. But since the two of you started dating, he added a new step—one he never skips. No matter the hour, no matter how late the game runs or how exhausted he is from the rush of adrenaline and the strain of the field, he calls. Even if it’s the kind of late that makes your voice thick with sleep and your words slur together, he’ll still dial your number, waiting for the soft click of your sleepy “Hello?” on the other end.

You used to worry about his exhaustion, insisting he could wait until morning, but Joe’s stubbornness won out. It’s his way of winding down, he says, the easiest way to let the adrenaline taper off—to hear you, half-awake and warm under your blankets, murmuring about your day or teasing him for that one pass he wishes he’d thrown differently.

Tonight, the call comes later than usual, your phone buzzing on the nightstand as you squint at the clock—well past midnight. You know the routine by now, though. His name glows on the screen, and you don’t hesitate to answer, even if you’re barely awake yourself. Because somehow, even in those moments of barely-there conversation, there’s something grounding, something steady in the sound of his voice—low and sleepy and comfortable.

The phone buzzes again, and you let out a small sigh, rolling over in the sheets that are tangled around your legs. It’s late—way too late for anyone but him. You fumble for the phone, knocking your book off the nightstand in the process, and finally manage to answer on the last ring.

“Hey,” you say, voice thick with sleep, barely more than a mumble. Your eyes are still closed, and you can almost hear the smile in his voice before he even speaks.

“Hey,” he says, sounding tired but happy. There’s a warmth in his voice that makes you want to sink deeper into the blankets, your body relaxing even as you struggle to stay awake. You hear a faint rustling on his end of the line, the sound of him settling into whatever hotel bed or quiet corner he’s managed to find for this call.

“How’d it go?” you ask, even though you watched the whole game with half your attention, laptop open on your lap as you listened to the announcers shout his name. You already know he won. You can tell just by the way he’s breathing—steady and content, like the weight of the world isn’t pressing on his shoulders anymore.

“We got the win,” he says, and you can practically picture the satisfied grin tugging at his lips. “Defense pulled through. Felt good. Tired, though.” There’s a pause, just long enough for you to hear the creak of the bed as he stretches out, and you imagine him there, hair still damp from the shower, pillow propped against the headboard, eyes half-lidded and heavy.

“You sound tired,” you say, letting your own eyes drift shut again, his voice washing over you like a lullaby. He always sounds different after a game—softer, looser, the careful edges he keeps in place during the day falling away in the quiet of the night.

“Yeah,” he admits, a low chuckle humming in his throat. “Long night. But I’m good. Needed to call you first.” He says it like a fact, like calling you is as essential as breathing, and it makes something warm settle in your chest, even as you struggle to fight off sleep.

You know what he looks like right now—can see him so clearly it’s almost like you’re there. His face is flushed from the game, the last traces of exertion still lingering in his expression, and he’s got that soft, worn-out smile you only see when he’s alone with you. He’s probably half-reclined on some too-firm hotel bed, still wearing sweats and the hoodie he threw on over his jersey. You can picture the way his hand would brush over his face, rubbing at tired eyes, his fingers trailing down to the scruff along his jaw. He’s handsome in a way that doesn’t need effort, like he forgets sometimes that anyone’s looking.

“What’d you eat?” you ask, knowing he probably hasn’t had a proper meal yet. There’s a muffled sound, and you can almost see him shrug.

“Grabbed a sandwich at the stadium,” he says. “You know, the usual. But I’m not really hungry.” His voice is softer now, like he’s already sinking into the comfort of the call, the post-game rush fading away. There’s a beat of silence where neither of you say anything, just the quiet hum of the line connecting you, stretching across the miles.

His breathing evens out, and you know he’s lying back now, probably letting his eyes drift shut the way you are, letting the night pull him under. This is the quietest part of the day, the only time where everything seems to slow down, where it’s just you and him, your voices mingling in the spaces between words.

“Did you see the game?” he asks suddenly, and there’s a hint of teasing there, like he already knows the answer. He’s always known when you’re watching—can sense it in some unspoken way, even when you’re not at the stadium, cheering him on in person. You hum, the sound halfway between agreement and a sleepy sigh.

“Of course I did,” you say. “Saw that touchdown, too. You looked good out there.”

He chuckles, the sound low and deep, a bit self-conscious but pleased. “You think so?” he asks, his tone playful but with that slight, genuine curiosity you’ve come to love—like he still isn’t sure how you see him, even after all this time.

“Always,” you reply, and it’s true. Even when he’s a mess, jersey streaked with mud, hair wild from the helmet, he’s yours. There’s something honest about him on the field, something raw that you can’t help but admire. He doesn’t play with swagger—he plays with determination, with a kind of quiet, relentless grit that makes your chest tighten with pride.

“Wish you were here,” he murmurs, and there’s a softness to the words, a longing that cuts through the distance between you. You can hear the weight of it, the way he doesn’t mean for it to sound so heavy, but it does anyway.

“Me too,” you admit, turning onto your side, pressing the phone closer to your ear. You know he’s in some hotel room halfway across the country, the curtains drawn against the city lights, the room probably too cold for comfort.

And you’re here, in your own bed, miles apart but tethered by this line, by his voice, by the quiet spaces between breaths that are filled with the things neither of you say out loud.

It’s moments like this that make the distance feel bearable, moments where the miles don’t matter because it’s just you and him, lingering in the quiet of the night, holding on to the sound of each other’s voice like a promise.

“Get some sleep, Joey,” you say softly, knowing he won’t listen, that he’ll keep talking until he’s sure you’re drifting off, that he won’t hang up until he’s heard you yawn, heard the way your voice gets softer and softer until you can’t keep your eyes open any longer.

“Not yet,” he says, voice a bit firmer now, a smile tugging at the edges. “Just a few more minutes.”

You don’t argue, just let him fill the silence with the sound of his breath, the occasional murmur about a play or a moment you’d already forgotten, listening to the way his voice dips and slows, lulling you back to the edge of sleep. It’s the sound of home, you think, this quiet, late-night ritual that belongs only to the two of you—a secret shared in the dark, a comfort that’s become as essential as the game itself.

He keeps talking, his voice a low, steady hum, and you let yourself drift, knowing he’ll be there, knowing he won’t let you go until you’ve slipped back into the warmth of your dreams, his voice still echoing in the back of your mind long after you’ve hung up.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[ziyechs]

least ridiculous caleb williams throw

[krugstrash]

if joe had a nickel for every time he was pantsed on national television… he’d have two nickels. which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice ❤️‍🩹

[justdavina]

@justdavina GO RAMS! Beat the Seattle Seagulls!

The Seahawks call their stadium the 12th Man because it takes 12 people to explain why they still think it’s “their year.”

[0sincerelyella]

Meet Cute

Summary: Colston may have just met the love of his life?

notes: you guys are LOVING the Colston fics!!

colston is going into his sophomore year of college !

and also this is short and sweet but it’s rlly cute to me

Colston rarely found time for himself, he spent most of his time training for the college football season, he was lucky to get a week off of practice. the county he stayed in in michigan was having their county fair, how exciting!! Colston went with some of his football friends, but they all quickly split off to do things colston had no interest in. He had one attraction on the brain. The ferris wheel.

Ever since he was a kid he loved a good ferris wheel. he practically skipped into the line, it was a long line with people filing in behind him still. Colston stood tall, rocking back and forth on his feet as he waited patiently. he scanned the area, a big “NO SINGLE RIDERS” sign right infront of his face. he groaned under his breath, he was so excited to ride this damn ferris wheel. Reluctantly, Colston turned to step out of the line “excuse me?” he jumped slightly at the voice

a girl stood infront of him, her hair framed her face so beautifully, her eyes sparkled under the sun. His heart skipped a beat when she spoke “are you alone?” she asked, “yeah, i wanted to ride it bad but,” he gestured to the sign, the girl smiled “do you mind if i ride with you?” he had to hold his tounge from yelling yes in her face, smiling at the girl. “sure!” he says, allowing her to stand next to him in the line. Colston was always the confident type, he didn’t know what it was about this girl that made him so nervous.

“my names y/n” she says, the line moves forward and so do they. “i’m colston” he says, flashing her a grin. “from around here?” he asks, trying to find a way to not make the interaction awkward. “no, i’m visiting some friends” she says, only then did he take a big long look at her outfit. she wore a white skirt, with a red and white crop top. the words “Go Buckeyes” drawn on the front, he gasped, a smirk painting his face “buckeyes?” she grinned, showing off her shirt proudly “well duh, in enemy territory i had to rep” she said with a snicker, he leaned closer “wanna know something?” his voice grew lower, she nodded “I play for the wolverines” he revealed. they stepped forward in the line and y/ns jaw dropped

“i can’t be seen with you” she jokes, hand moving to her chest in shock, her smile shining bright through her her banter. the line moves more and the two follow, finding themselves climbing into the next set of seats. crammed next to eachother colston laughs nervously, y/n is still smiling. “I go to ohio state, i’m from cincinnati” she says seriously, looking out over the fair. “what’s your major?” he asks, watching her look over the fair. “journalism” she said, looking back at him.

he studied her eyes like he’d never see them again, the sun setting at such a light her eyes sparkle more than they already did. The ferris wheel rounded the top, y/n takes a breath as she looks down at the ground, Colston watches her demeanor become less confident “are you afraid of heights?” he asked gently, placing his hand on her shoulder, she nods lightly, turning back to him. “i’m traveling before going back to school conquering some fears, numbers 8 and 9, hanging out with a stranger, and heights” she said with a giggle, as the ride comes to a rickety stop as they tried to move from the top, no budge.

Being stuck with a stranger in the middle of the air was not apart of the deal, y/n froze. “you okay?” colston asks, reaching for her as if he’d save her from the heights she was facing. “yeah i’m good” she breathed slowly. “tell me more about this bucket list?” he changed the subject, making her look into his eyes again. “i’ve always been a really anxious person, i’m done living my life in fear” a smile creeped back onto her face again, showing pride in her accomplishment “i respect that” he laughs, leaning back in in seat causing it to shake, y/n shutters.

“The fix is gonna take an hour!” some riders relayed from the worker at the bottom. y/n let out a frustrated sigh, colston continued the questions. “so what are some fears you’ve conquered” he loved how she would brighten up everytime he asked a question, how she turned to him and her eyes glistened when they met his. “Airplanes, driving to another state, calling for my own appointments, and go to a function alone are some” he smiled at her rambles, the way her hands met her hair instead of clenching the bar showed her comfort level, the way she relaxed as she spoke “that’s why your here alone? exploring the world and who you are, i like that” she had such a pure soul, he thought. “why are you here alone?”

colston scooted over closer to her, she followed in suit without a word said about it. Colston looked down at an attempt to spot his friends, slowly not caring if they left without him or not. “i wanted to ride the ferris wheel, but my friends thought it was stupid” she let out a gut filled laugh, “i think it’s cute, how humans are automatically attracted to the fun and whimsical, no matter the age” she observed, colston took a breath, “the way you see the world is, so pure and beautiful” her smile reflected his compliment as the seat rocked slowly, he kept up conversation to distract her

she giggled as he asked her about her life, her dreams, her passions. He watched her speak so highly and optimistic about the world, about her home, about her travels. her eyes glistened with hope and his melted with admiration. there was no fear in her heart being stuck in the air with colston loveland. like floating in the air was okay if he was there talking to her.

her sighs of relief came just an hour after they initially stopped, colston and y/ns cart rounded safely to the bottom and y/ns feet landed on the ground again. she sighs happily “i had an amazing time, but boy did i miss the ground” she laughed as he looked into her soul. he looked at her like he was still stuck on the ferris wheel. “thank you for riding it with me,” she said softly, “thank you for helping me face my fears” he was still speechless, coming up with words to keep her next to him. but he was losing her, she was turning to leave, he was too engrossed in her beautiful eyes to spit out his words until her eyes turned away from him.

“Y/n!” he called, her eyes met his once again. “we should face more of your fears together” he offered, she paused. a beautiful smile painted over her disappointed face. she hands her phone to him, unlocked on the contact page. he smirked, taking it gently and adding his number into a phone, shooting himself a little text. he hands her back her phone and she takes it thankfully. “shoot me a text, we’ll figure something out” she says, nodding to him with a final sweet smile.

colston watched her leave, hope filling his heart as he pulled his phone out to shoot her a text “go out with me tonight” it wrote, confidence rising into his chest. he watched her stop, read the message, and turn around. she nodded to him and he practically ran to her.

He had no idea what that tiny little moment with the ohio girl could do. he had no idea what simple moment with a rival of his college team could turn into. and boy did it spark into a beautiful flame.