AN: Thank you so much for the reviews. They honestly keep me going. Your feedback means a lot.
May and B! Thanks for pre-reading, even if I'm so darn impatient. I'll keep sending it until you tell me to stop.
SM owns Twilight and I own up to my mistakes.
Chapter Twenty-Five
-Two Minutes-
It's disappointing that Edward couldn't come with us to Phoenix. I really wanted him here. But he had to stay in Seattle, stuck in football mode. His coach is in overdrive right now. No breaks, no distractions, just back-to-back drills and film sessions. The Seahawks are playing Kansas City. It's one of those games that could change everything for him.
The rest of us—me, Alice, Emmett, and my dad—land at Sky Harbor Friday afternoon. The second we step outside, it feels different. The air's warm, calm. It's quiet in a way Seattle never is.
Jasper invited us out for the weekend. He said a little sun might help me clear my head. And he didn't hold back—he covered flights, the hotel, the car, everything. Even the little details like mints on the pillows. That's just how Jasper operates. Southern charm and business sense rolled into one. He still calls me "Miss Bella," like I'm someone important.
But this trip is not just about hospitality. It's about Edward. About keeping him grounded and focused, calm enough to carry the weight of what's ahead. That Tampa deal is huge, and if it goes through, Jasper earns eight percent.
I asked Edward once, "Eight percent of what?"
He just smiled and said, "Eight percent of a lot."
That was all he needed to say.
So I am not exactly shocked when the car pulls up to the Hyatt Regency. It looks like something out of a dream. Smooth stone walls, tall palms swaying in the breeze, and that warm golden glow that makes everything look filtered and magical.
The suite is absolutely unreal.
Top floor. Private elevator. Massive windows that overlook Camelback Mountain like it was painted just for us. A baby grand piano sits in the living room for no real reason except to say, this is luxury. The bedrooms feel like spa brochures, the bathrooms are all marble and soft lighting, and the terrace has its own plunge pool aimed right at the stars.
Inside, there's chilled champagne, gourmet snacks I can't pronounce, and a sleek white card that reads: Welcome to Scottsdale, Mr. Cullen and Guests.
Alice squeals and grabs the "chic" room. Emmett flops down on the couch like he just won the lottery. My dad walks to the window, quiet, hands in his pockets. And then, for just a second, he smiles. Not a big smile. But real.
And me? I just stand there.
I breathe it in.
This is happening. It's real. Edward-real. And somehow, this is just the beginning.
We have the whole weekend ahead of us. To wander. To relax. To just be people for a second. No noise, no stress. Just sun. Seventy degrees in February and not a single cloud in sight. It feels like stepping into someone else's life. A happier one.
I start to wonder if Scottsdale is even real or just a perfect little trick to spoil visitors from rainy cities.
Eventually, I slip away. I don't say anything, just drift out the back of a boutique while Alice and Emmett debate whether a two-hundred-dollar candle is an "ambiance essential" or "a stylish fire hazard." My dad trails behind them with the look of someone wishing there was a bait shop nearby.
I find a quiet little corner behind some palms, overlooking the golf course. The tile under my sandals is warm. The sky above me is endless and blue. And for the first time all day, everything is still.
I pull out my phone and call Edward.
He answers on the first ring.
It doesn't matter how busy he is, or what kind of pressure he's under. If he sees my name, he picks up.
"Hey, gorgeous," he says with that low, familiar voice. I don't even need to ask where he is. The room behind him is dark except for the soft flicker of the paused Chiefs game. Film study. Of course.
"Hey, babe," I say, already smiling. "Are you free?"
He glances off to the side, then nods. "Coach stepped out to grab food. I've got two minutes."
That tracks. Edward always has just two minutes.
"And you're still watching tape?"
He gives me a look. "Of course. Everyone else finished hours ago. I like knowing what I'm walking into."
I nod because I know that about him. Edward doesn't cut corners. He doesn't ease up until he's given everything he has. It's not just determination. It's who he is.
"You're relentless," I say, teasing, but with so much love underneath it.
Because I admire that about him. I love the way he throws his whole heart into what he does. Even when it's hard. Even when he's tired. There's something beautiful about how deeply he cares.
He smirks, cocky and smug. "You made it okay?"
I flip the camera so he could see. Sunlight, palms, desert stretching out past the terracotta roofs. "Not too shabby, huh? Jasper went full luxury retreat on us."
He lets out a low whistle. "Damn. That's nicer than the place the league put us in for the last Super Bowl."
"I know, right?" I turn the camera back on me. "I think your agent's trying to seduce me."
His brows shoot up. "He better not be. I don't share, Bruiser."
I laugh, settling into the warm stone, legs tucked under me. "Mmm, a little territorial, are we?"
"Not little. Very," he says, eyes sharp with mock warning.
I shrug, biting back a grin. "Guess he didn't get the memo."
"Bella."
"What?" I blink, all fake innocence. "He just dropped off chocolate-dipped strawberries. Said I looked like I needed something sweet."
His nostrils flare. "He personally dropped them off?"
"Oh yeah. Stayed to watch me eat one, too." I pause, licking my lower lip just to watch him twitch. "I told him I prefer yours."
He drags a hand down his face like he's in pain. "You're a menace."
"You like it."
"I do," he says, leaning back in his chair like he's trying to etch the image of me into memory. "God, I miss you."
The teasing drops, sliding into something real. That low, familiar ache that's always there now, quiet but constant.
"Me too," I say. And it's ridiculous—how much I miss him.
It's been less than a day.
We fell asleep in the same bed last night. I was curled into his side, his hand heavy on my hip. But when I woke up, he was gone. Off to practice before the sun came up. Did he kiss me goodbye? Probably. But I sleep so hard when he's next to me, I can't remember. That stings more than I want it to.
What I miss isn't just his mouth or his hands.
It's him. His dumb jokes. The way he sees through me without trying. The silence that never feels empty when we're in it together.
It's not just missing my boyfriend.
It's missing my best friend. My person.
"I keep reaching for my phone to tell you things," he says, voice low, like it's costing him. "Like this morning, I grabbed coffee and the barista had your exact eye-roll. Then some guy walked in wearing those awful neon socks Emmett wore to prom."
A faint smile pulls at his mouth, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
"I don't know. It was nothing. Just dumb stuff. But I wanted to call you. Just to say it. Just to hear you laugh."
I grin, tipping my head. "Wow. Look at you getting all sentimental over socks and sass."
He groans. "Don't make it weird."
"You made it weird. I'm just here, basking in the romance of neon prom socks and grumpy baristas."
He points at the screen like it physically pains him. "This is why I hesitate to be vulnerable with you."
"And yet," I say, stretching lazily in the sun, "you keep doing it. Kinda sweet, honestly."
"Masochistic, more like."
I wink. "Same thing, really."
Edward laughs, the sound low and rough, then exhales like he's been holding his breath all day. "One more game, Bruiser."
"Then you're mine to tease," I quip, raising an eyebrow.
He grins, eyes soft. "Sounds like fucking heaven. No flights. No practice. No media circus. Just you and me. Five months, minimum."
"Half a year," I say, like maybe saying it out loud could make it real. "Do you even know what I could do to you in six months?"
His mouth curves. "Ruin me?"
"Obviously."
I watch him through the screen, taking in the shadowed hollows under his eyes, the way his mouth tightens every time I pause too long.
"I hate waking up without you," I say finally, quieter this time. "Every morning, I reach for you. And every morning, it's just pillows."
Edward closes his eyes for a second, like that hit somewhere deep.
"I hate leaving you," he murmurs. "Takes everything I've got to walk out of our bedroom. Especially when you insist on sleeping nude. God, woman."
I laugh, but it's quieter now, the ache settling back in. "Told you it was a strategic choice."
"You're evil."
"I'm motivating."
He smirks, but I catch the flicker of guilt behind it.
"Not well enough," I say, softer. "You still leave."
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't try to explain it away.
"Like I said," he murmurs, gaze steady on mine, "it takes everything I have to leave."
I tilt my head, plotting like some low-level villain. "I must up my game then."
His smile is slow, dangerous. "You trying to break me?"
"Already did," I say.
He huffs a laugh, but there's no hiding it—the way he loves me. Even through the screen, I feel it like a pull in my chest. Constant. Magnetic. Like gravity, but worse.
"Keep going, Bruiser," he says, voice low. "I dare you."
Challenge accepted.
"All right then," I murmur. "When you're not here, I sleep in your t-shirt. Just to feel you somehow."
There's a pause. A beat where I can see his throat work, his shoulders tense.
"Which one?" he asks.
I hesitate. I almost backpedal, almost laugh it off. But he deserves the truth—the messy, sentimental kind.
"Your old Hurley tee," I say. "The yellow one. The distressed one that went missing like… ten years ago."
He blinks. "No way."
I nod, sheepish. "Yeah. I swiped it and never gave it back."
He stares for a second, then breaks into a crooked, stunned smile. "You've had it this whole time?"
"Guilty."
He shakes his head slowly, still smiling, voice low. "You're unreal."
I look right at him, unblinking. "Well, I've been in love with you for a while now."
His smile fades, but not in a bad way. It just softens. Grows quiet around the edges.
"I know," he whispers. "And I'll never take that for granted again."
He goes still, the silence settling in. His fingers twitch. His jaw tightens. I can see it working through him like a weight he hasn't figured out how to set down.
"I just…" he starts, voice frayed. "I keep thinking about how much time we lost. How long I let myself overlook it—overlook you."
"I know," I say, gently. "I used to think maybe I imagined it—that it was just me. That I'd grow out of it, or you'd never really see me that way."
He presses his lips together, eyes shining now. "I saw you. I just… didn't let myself see you. Not like this. Not the way I should've."
"I get it," I whisper. "The age difference. Timing. We were both scared."
"Yeah," he breathes. "I wish we hadn't been. All those years—"
"If we'd just said something," I finish for him.
He nods. "We could've had so much more."
I sit with it. With the ache of that truth. The birthdays, the nights we spent in the same house pretending we didn't want more. The years spent circling the edge of something we already felt.
"But," I say, "we don't have to race to make up for it. We don't have to burn through time like we owe it something."
He meets my gaze, and something in him softens. Not the ache, but the tension holding it.
"You sure?"
"I'm sure," I say. "We've waited this long. We can take our time now."
"I don't want to miss a second more," he says, voice rough. "God, Bruiser… I'm counting the hours. I hate this—being apart. Going to bed without you. Waking up still tired because you're not there."
My heart clenches. I curl my fingers around the edge of the screen like it might bring him closer.
"Two more days," I whisper.
He nods again. Slower. Firmer. "Then no more empty beds. No more missed calls. Just you. Me. The same damn time zone."
"And my cold toes."
He laughs softly. "Especially your cold toes."
Friday night, we went to some fancy steakhouse Alice found on Yelp—dark wood, white tablecloths, menus with no prices. Charlie wore a collared shirt for the first time in months. Emmett kept trying to order for everyone like he was the host. Alice talked enough for all four of us.
I picked at my food, smiled when I had to. Charlie asked about school, my pregnancy, if I was sleeping okay. I gave short answers. Emmett made jokes, tried to keep things light. Alice steered every conversation away from football, but it still crept in—the game, the crowd, the noise outside. The city felt like it was pulsing with it.
Edward texted before dinner—"Still alive. You good?" Then again after: "Just finished walkthrough. Call you in 10." And he did. Voice low and rough, like he'd just run ten miles and hadn't had time to catch his breath. We didn't talk long, but he made it count. Told me he loved me. Told me he missed my voice. Like hearing it grounded him.
He called again later, close to midnight, like he couldn't sleep until he did. Said he was tired but wired. Said the hotel walls were too thin and his brain wouldn't shut off. I lay on my bed and just let him talk, even when it was just mumbled thoughts about film, his shoulder, how bad the eggs were at breakfast. It wasn't what he said. It was that he said anything.
He kept calling like a man taking in as much air as he could before going underwater.
Saturday morning, I sat by the pool while Alice floated on a pink raft, sunglasses on, scrolling through her phone like it was her job. I kept mine close, checking too often. He hadn't called yet that day, but I knew it would come.
In the afternoon, we hit Fashion Square. Alice dragged me through every store like she was on some mission to save my mental health through retail. We got Boba twice. She made me try on a dress I hated. Bought a pair of boots she swore she needed. Pulled me through Sephora like it was a war zone, barking orders about lip gloss and dry shampoo.
We binge-watched trash TV and ate a whole bag of sour gummies. She painted my nails while I tried not to cry.
She was doing everything she could to keep me distracted. I knew that. And I was grateful. Truly. But every minute that passed made it harder to stay present. Harder to ignore the countdown building in my chest.
Edward called in the evening, just like I knew he would. He sounded more focused this time. Sharper. Like he'd already started disappearing into that locked-in version of himself. But his voice softened when he talked to me. He told me he was running out of time. That tomorrow would be a blur. That he didn't know if he could call again before kickoff.
Then, quiet for a second. Finally: "When we win this thang, I want your cute butt on that field. You got me?"
I smiled even though my stomach was tight. Said, "Yeah." Because what else was there to say?
The city around us was all Seahawks jerseys and Super Bowl buzz. Headlines everywhere. Countdowns in every window. Even the baristas at Starbucks were arguing about spread coverage and MVP odds.
And I was just trying to breathe.
Trying not to picture him in some dark hotel room, watching film or getting his ankle taped, already mentally on the field. Trying not to picture him suiting up without thinking of me.
Game day used to mean something else—takeout, yelling at the TV, his hand on my thigh. Now it meant holding my breath for four quarters straight, heart in my throat, waiting for a glimpse of him behind the helmet. Waiting for some sign I still existed in his world.
He said I did.
But I wouldn't know for sure until it was over.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, and the four of us stepped into the box suite like we were walking into another dimension. Everything was glass and chrome and luxury—wide-screen TVs on every wall, leather seating arranged to face the field like a movie theater, and a fully stocked bar that probably cost more than my tuition.
The view is insane. It feels like we're practically on the 50-yard line.
Emmett stops in his tracks. "Holy hell," he mutters, dragging the cooler behind him like it belongs here. "Remind me why we don't live like this?"
Dad raises an eyebrow. "Because I'm retired, and you're the one signing paychecks now, Chief."
"Yeah," Emmett mutters, still staring. "But this? This ain't in the Forks budget."
Alice doesn't hesitate. She strides in like she's been here before. Doesn't pause, doesn't gawk. Just throws her sunglasses onto the nearest chair and surveys the room like she's deciding where the lighting's best. She belongs in a place like this. No one could tell her otherwise.
I'm just starting to take it all in when I see him.
Jasper Whitlock.
Clean-shaven. Calm. Button-down tucked into his jeans, boots scuffed in that intentional way, cowboy hat pushed low like he wears it for utility, not style. He's got one arm resting on the edge of the marble bar, talking to some assistant I don't recognize, but the second he sees us, everything else drops.
"Well," he says, that southern drawl smooth as warm honey, "look what the wind blew in."
"Jasper," I grin, walking over. "Didn't know you were on babysitting duty."
He tips his hat just slightly. "Only for you, Miss Bella."
He hugs me—firm, fast, and familiar. He smells like cedar and hotel soap, and he pulls back just enough to lower his voice.
"Lot riding on today," he says. "Edward wanted to make sure the people that matter to him were taken care of. So here I am."
I nod, throat tight. "Thanks for being here."
"Wouldn't be anywhere else."
Then he turns to Emmett. "You must be Chief Swan."
"Guilty," Emmett says, shaking Jasper's hand with the kind of grip that makes men test each other. "You're the agent?"
"That's what they call me."
"You don't look like a guy who negotiates seven-figure deals."
"That's the point," Jasper says, deadpan. "They never see it coming."
Charlie steps up next. Jasper shakes his hand with a quiet respect, nodding once. "Sir. Heard you wore the badge for a long time."
"Long enough," Charlie replies. "Heard you keep my daughter from strangling your client."
Jasper grins. "Some days more than others."
Then he turns again—and everything changes.
His eyes land on her.
Alice.
And for a full three seconds, he just stares.
Not rude. Not creepy. Just… stunned. Like he wasn't ready. Like someone knocked the wind out of him with no warning.
His whole posture shifts—chest lifts slightly, stance straightens, mouth parts like a word tried to come out and failed.
"And… you must be Miss Alice."
Her voice is quiet. "Hi."
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and for once, she doesn't try to fill the space with charm or sass. She just stands there, blinking up at him like she doesn't know what to do with herself.
"I—uh," Jasper tries again, clears his throat. "You're not what I expected."
Alice tilts her head, expression soft but steady. "Is that a problem?"
His smile comes slow. A little stunned. A little off-balance in a way I've never seen from him. "No, ma'am. It's… a good surprise."
They don't look away.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. This man handles million-dollar negotiations and NFL egos without blinking, but one look at Alice and he forgets his name.
The silence stretches a beat too long. Not awkward. Just charged.
Jasper finally looks away and gestures toward the front row. "Y'all sit wherever you like. We've got food on the way, drinks in the fridge, bathrooms through there, and the best damn view in the stadium."
Charlie mutters something under his breath that sounds like approval as he heads straight for the coffee. Emmett drags the cooler to a table like he's planning to stay a while.
But Jasper keeps watching her.
Not with idle curiosity or polite interest. There's something else in the way his eyes follow her, like she walked in and threw everything off balance. Like he's still trying to understand what just hit him.
He doesn't try to hide it. Doesn't bother with subtle. Every time he glances away, his eyes come right back like he needs another look to be sure she's not in his head.
And Alice—my Alice, who never stumbles, who flirts like it's breathing, who once talked a TSA agent into upgrading our seats—doesn't play it cute this time.
She doesn't bat her lashes or smirk.
She just lowers herself into the front row seat slowly, like she's figuring out how to exist in this moment.
No clever line. No teasing grin.
Only a quiet smile, soft and almost uncertain. A little wide-eyed. A little breathless.
Like something unexpected just opened up between them.
And neither one of them knows what to do with it.
The roar of the crowd hits like a wave. It doesn't just fill the stadium—it shakes it. I feel it in my chest, in the walls, in the soles of my feet.
This is it.
I stand between Alice and Emmett in the family box, one hand braced across my belly like I can shield the twins from the chaos outside. The glass dulls the volume but not the tension. It hums under my skin.
Then Edward jogs onto the field.
And for a second, everything else drops away.
He looks good. Too good. All navy and wolf grey, the number on his chest edged in that electric, almost blinding green. Helmet tucked under his arm, shoulders squared, stride locked in. He doesn't look at the crowd. Doesn't wave. He's already somewhere else. Somewhere deep.
Focused.
Dangerous.
He glances up at the box once. Then again. Quick. Just a flick of his eyes beneath the lights like he's checking—making sure we're here. But I don't think he can see me through the glass.
Doesn't matter. I see him.
And I see what he's up against.
Kansas City isn't here to play. They line up like a machine, no hesitation, no nerves. Their quarterback is all calm and ice—tall, built, with the kind of focus that doesn't rattle. His footwork is tight. His eyes never leave the field. You can see the calculations happening in real time.
And their tight end? He's a problem.
He moves like something out of a different sport—too fast, too coordinated for a man that size. He breaks coverage with ease, sheds tackles like they're not even there. There's no showboating, no trash talk. Just precision. Cold, efficient destruction.
Seattle's defense tries to contain them, but it's like watching a dam leak through cracks. Kansas City's first drive is surgical. They carve up the field, ten yards at a time, like they're running a script and everyone else is just trying to catch up.
First down. Another. Then a big one—tight end over the middle, breaks a tackle, spins, gains twenty more.
They aren't here to put on a show. They're here to win. And they don't care who's in the way.
Edward watches from the sideline, helmet on now, strapped and ready. He stands still while the storm builds around him. But I know that stillness. That's not hesitation. That's calculation.
Finally, it's his turn.
He steps onto the field and jogs to the huddle like he's walking into a fight he's been planning for all year.
The crowd explodes. Flags wave. The sound turns into a physical thing.
Then the snap.
And it's like flipping a switch.
Edward moves like he's already five plays ahead. Footwork clean. Vision locked in. He shifts in the pocket, sees the gap, and fires—tight spiral, perfect timing. Garrett snags it mid-stride and is out of bounds before the defense even reacts.
First down.
No celebration. Just reset.
Next play, another strike—quick out to Garrett again, this time dragging a defender for a few extra yards.
Seattle's offense starts to gain rhythm. But there's no breathing room. No margin for error.
Because across that field, Kansas City is waiting. Watching. Ready to hit back harder.
This isn't just the Super Bowl.
It's a war between two elite quarterbacks, two dominant offenses, and no one's blinking. Every play feels like a knife's edge.
I'm locked in, gripping the railing, barely blinking.
Then Alice leans in, like she's going to comment on the formation. "What's his deal?"
I throw up my hands, already on edge. "That tight end? Kelce? He's a machine. He's so good it makes me nervous just watching him."
She snorts and bumps my shoulder. "No, not him. I mean Jasper. Is he single or… what?"
I smile before I even turn my head. Saw it coming.
"You wait until second quarter to ask me this?"
Alice flushes immediately, eyes darting to the field like she's offended I called her out. "I was just making conversation. God."
"Sure."
She crosses her arms. "I wasn't asking asking. I was just… curious."
"Uh-huh."
She bumps me with her hip and mutters, "Shut up," but her ears are pink, and I can tell she hates how obvious she is. Hates being the one who cares first.
I lean in close, dropping my voice like we're about to trade state secrets. "He's single."
Alice keeps her eyes on the field, trying to play it cool, but I can feel the heat coming off her like she's already spiraling.
"So… how old is he?"
I sip my water like I'm not totally enjoying this. "I think thirty-seven. Maybe thirty-eight?"
She whips her head toward me. "What? No way. He looks—"
"I know," I cut in, already smiling. "That's what I said."
"Jesus," she mutters, eyes narrowing like she's recalculating everything. "Okay. What else?"
I raise an eyebrow. "What, are we building a profile now?"
"Obviously," she says, completely serious. "Don't hold out on me."
I lean in a little more, keeping my voice low just in case Jasper's superhuman hearing extends through glass. "He's been Edward's agent forever. Since college. Used to be in the league—briefly. Played corner, I think. Injured his knee. Got out early, started his own firm."
Alice lets out a low whistle. "So he's hot and rich."
"And smart. Edward swears he's the reason half his deals ever got done."
She blinks a few times, like she's taking mental notes. "No wife? No kids?"
I shake my head. "No wife. No kids. But he's got a sister—lives near him in Texas. And two nieces. I think their names are like… Daisy and Sunny?"
Alice actually makes a choking noise. "You're telling me this man negotiates billion-dollar contracts, wears cowboy boots, and sends selfies to tiny children named Daisy and Sunny?"
"Yep. And he owns a ranch outside Houston. Like a real one. With actual horses."
Her jaw drops. She doesn't even try to hide it. "So I've got a real-life Yellowstone cowboy?"
I smirk. "Well, no. Yellowstone is in Wyoming."
Alice pinches the inside of my thigh without looking at me. "You know what I mean, bitch."
I laugh, biting my lip, and glance toward Jasper—still standing by the bar, locked in on the game, completely unaware Alice's brain just penciled him into a Texas wedding with mason jars and string lights.
She lets out a dramatic groan and flops back in her seat. "I'm so sick of Seattle men."
I grin. "Jasper doesn't even live in Seattle."
"Exactly. That's what makes it hot. No flannels, no fake startups, no IPA collections. Just land and discipline and big Texas energy."
I smirk. "You don't even like heat or dirt."
"But I like him," she mumbles, eyes drifting toward Jasper again.
There's a pause. Then, quietly—way too quietly for Alice—she asks, "Do you think he noticed me?"
I turn my head slowly. "Girl."
"What?"
"He malfunctioned, Alice. I watched it happen in real time. He forgot how to talk."
She blinks. "No, he didn't."
I stare at her. "He stared at you like you were a mirage and he hadn't had water in days."
Her face turns a little pink, and she tries to brush it off with a shrug. "I don't know. I was too nervous. I thought maybe I made it up."
"You didn't. I was there. It was… kind of impressive, actually."
She tucks her hair behind her ear, still not looking at me. "Okay. Good."
I nudge her with my elbow. "You okay?"
She exhales slowly. "Yeah. It's just weird. I don't usually get flustered."
"You think?"
She laughs, finally, and leans back in her seat. "Whatever. If he asks me to run away and feed goats with him, I'm packing my bags."
"Hope you like early mornings and manure."
"For him? I'd learn."
We're still giggling when it happens.
The box erupts.
"HOLY SHIT, GO!" Emmett roars, half-standing, fists in the air like he's about to launch himself through the glass.
Charlie slams his palm on the table so hard the water bottles jump. "THAT'S HOW YOU DO IT, BABY!"
Jasper whistles loud and sharp between his teeth, the kind of sound you'd hear at a rodeo. "There it is!"
Alice and I both flinch.
"What the hell?!" Alice blurts, nearly dropping her drink.
I whip my head toward the field, heart hammering, eyes scanning fast. "What happened?!"
And then I see it on the replay.
Edward, deep in the pocket, calm as hell with defenders closing in. One step forward, hips rotate, and then boom—he lets it fly. The ball cuts through the air like it's got a GPS.
It lands perfectly in Garrett's hands as he burns through the middle, slipping between two defenders who had no business getting dusted like that. The crowd outside goes insane.
"Sixty-two freakin' yards!" Emmett howls, grabbing the nearest throw pillow and launching it into the air. "HE JUST DROPPED A NUKE!"
Jasper claps once, sharp and proud. "Didn't even set his feet. That's pure arm."
Charlie actually points at the screen like he's coaching. "Look at that placement! Look at that! He threw him open!"
Alice and I stare, stunned, like we just got hit with a wave of sound.
"Your man just lit this place on fire," Alice breathes, eyes huge.
I can't even answer right away. My heart's racing. Edward stands in the end zone, helmet off, breathing steady, barely smiling. Like this is routine. Like sixty yards into double coverage is just part of the plan.
I swallow hard, voice low.
"Yeah… he's unreal."
Halftime hits, and it's like the whole stadium exhales at once.
The lights drop. The music kicks in. Fireworks burst above the field, and the crowd eats it up. The performance is solid—high energy, choreographed down to the second, full of flashing lights and costume changes. It's everything a halftime show should be.
But up here, it feels like white noise.
No one's really watching. Not in this suite.
Emmett's pacing with a plate of wings like he's one bad call away from throwing it at the TV. Charlie's got his glasses pushed up on his head, muttering about third down efficiency. Alice is quiet now, legs curled under her, phone in one hand, chewing absently on a piece of licorice. Even Jasper looks wound tight, pacing near the back wall, phone pressed to his ear, nodding at something I can't hear.
And I just sit there.
Hands in my lap. Eyes on the field. Heart beating like it's still mid-play.
The score is close—too close. Kansas City's up by a field goal, 24 to 21. And both teams are playing like they want blood. Every drive's a chess match. Every mistake feels fatal.
It's anyone's game.
I should be used to this by now. The pressure. The lights. The noise. But I'm not. Not when it's him out there.
I wish I could talk to him.
Even just for a second.
I wish I could hear his voice, feel the way it slows my brain down, steadies everything. He told me last night there might not be a window to call. Said things would be nonstop, and he needed to stay locked in. I nodded, told him I understood. I meant it.
But now, sitting here, I feel it in my chest—this sharp, quiet ache. Like something's tugging at me from across the field.
Because out there, he's all command and confidence. Helmet off, talking to coaches, going over plays. Calm. Sharp. He looks like he was built for this moment.
And I just miss him.
The energy has changed.
In the first half, it was intense, yeah—but it still felt like a game. Two elite teams going head-to-head, both wanting it, both showing off. It was competitive, electric, even fun in moments.
But now?
Now it feels personal.
The second half starts and the air turns heavier. Sharper. Like somewhere between the locker room and the sideline, both teams decided this wasn't just about a trophy anymore.
This is about pride. About proving something. About leaving no doubt.
Kansas City hits harder. Seattle answers louder. The hits echo longer. Helmets crack, bodies collide, and the sound punches straight through the glass.
There's jawing at the line now. Hands in face masks. Shoving after the whistle. Flags fly late and often, and the refs are barely holding the lid on it. The crowd is split—half roaring, half losing their minds over every call.
Whatever this was in the first half, it isn't that anymore.
This is ugly. Personal. The kind of game that doesn't just take effort—it takes pieces of you.
And Edward?
He's in the thick of it. Fully locked in, no hesitation, no mercy. He's not cold anymore—he's sharp. Tight. Like something in him snapped into place and now he's playing with all teeth. Every throw has heat behind it. Every move has purpose. He's not managing the game—he's trying to break it.
And it's eating me alive.
I can barely sit still. My leg's bouncing, hands clenched, throat dry. I flinch every time a defender gets too close. Every time he takes a hit, I feel it like it's mine.
Alice tries to keep the mood light, tossing out a joke about how she's never going into labor at a sporting event again, but her hand hasn't let go of mine in twenty minutes, and my fingers are starting to go numb.
Emmett's shouting like he's wearing a headset, pacing back and forth like he's calling plays. Charlie hasn't said a word in what feels like forever—just watching, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, locked in. Even Jasper's up now, arms crossed, jaw tight, like he's one bad play from breaking something.
The score keeps swinging. A field goal. A touchdown. A flag. A missed kick. It's back and forth, back and forth, like the game can't decide who wants it more.
Every point feels like a gut punch.
And somewhere along the way, I stop watching.
I can't take it. I fold forward, elbows on my knees, hands tangled in my hair. "Oh my God," I breathe. "What's the score again?"
Alice rubs my back gently. "It's 32–36. Kansas is up."
My stomach drops. "How much time?"
She doesn't answer fast enough.
I lift my head. "Al?"
Her eyes flick to mine, and that look—soft, hesitant—sends a jolt through me.
"They need to score in the next two minutes," she says quietly. "It's… close."
"What's the yardage?" I ask, even though I'm not sure I want the answer.
Alice hesitates again. Swallows.
"They're on their own thirty," she finally says. "They need seventy yards."
"Seventy yards?" I repeat, my voice climbing without permission. "How? Why?"
Alice's hand tightens on mine. "The ref keeps making these ridiculous calls," she says, trying to keep her voice low, steady. "Holding, intentional grounding, some phantom offensive pass interference—take your pick."
I stare at her like she's speaking another language. "But it's Edward. He hasn't—he doesn't—" I can't even finish the sentence.
"I know," she says gently. "He's doing everything right. But it's like they want to bury him."
I shove my hands through my hair, adrenaline burning a hole in my chest. I look back out at the field, heart racing.
Edward's already lined up again, hands under center, calling out protections like nothing's falling apart.
But I know him.
I see it in the way his jaw's clenched, the way his shoulders twitch between plays. He's running out of time, out of space, out of room for error.
Seventy yards.
Two minutes.
A defense that wants his head.
And somehow, he has to be perfect.
The snap goes off, and the second it does, I'm back in Vegas.
Same pressure. Same noise. Same blur of bodies crashing into each other like it's the last play of their lives.
Edward drops back, three quick steps, then a pivot. He's scanning, eyes darting downfield, looking for Garrett.
Laurent is in full beast mode—arms flying, shoving defenders off like they're kids in his way. He plants himself in front of Edward like a wall made of pure rage, but it's barely enough.
The pocket is collapsing. Fast.
Edward shifts again, sliding left, arm cocked, hesitating just a second too long.
I can see his lips move.
Even from up here, through the glass, I know exactly what he's saying.
F-word. F-word. F-word.
And my nails dig into the armrest like they're the only thing keeping me from falling straight through the floor.
Edward finds him.
Garrett breaks free, just for a breath—cutting inside, then out, slipping his man with a sharp jab step. It's enough.
Edward sees it. Plants his foot. Lets it fly.
The ball launches—clean, perfect, a bullet through air. My eyes follow it for a split second—
And then I hear the hit.
A crack, low and violent, like something splitting apart.
I jerk my gaze back just in time to see Edward's body whip sideways.
A defender comes flying off the blindside, untouched, head down, full speed. He slams into Edward's back and drives him straight into the ground.
No bracing. No roll. Just full-body, full-weight impact.
Edward goes down hard.
Folded beneath the hit, shoulder twisted under him, helmet snapping to the side as his body crashes into the turf.
And then—he's not moving.
He's not. Moving.
My breath catches in my throat so sharp it feels like I've been hit too.
"Get up," I whisper, voice shaking. "Edward, get up."
No one in the suite is talking now. Not Emmett, not Charlie, not even Jasper.
The entire stadium is holding its breath.
I press my hand to the glass, eyes locked on him, pulse pounding in my ears.
And then—
He rolls slightly.
And I think—
I hope—
But the cameras cut away.
And I can't see anything.
... See you soon.