AN: Hey, shifting gears for a minute. I think you'll like it.

Thanks to my pre-readers, Brina and May!

SM owns Twilight.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

-Previously Scheduled Programming Will Resume Shortly-

Edward

I don't want to leave her.

She's dead asleep, face tucked into my chest like it's the only safe place in the world. Her leg's thrown across mine, skin warm, soft, claiming me without even trying. Hair all over my pillow. Blanket twisted between us like she fought sleep and finally gave up.

And I'm supposed to leave this?

I drag my fingers down her back once. Just once. Slow enough to make her shift. Breathe differently. Then I'm out of bed a coward, sneaking out of something holy. If I leave fast enough, it won't hurt.

It still hurts.

Jeans off the floor. Hoodie from the chair. The stadium badge clipped to the same duffel I've been carrying all damn year.

Not even cold outside. But I feel cold anyway. Because I'm walking out the door and she's still in our bed.

The drive's short. Fifteen minutes, give or take. I don't remember the turns. It's somewhat quiet. No music. Just the hum of my car's engine.

And my damn phone.

That shit's been going off since sunrise.

Buzzing nonstop in the cupholder like it's got something urgent to say. My publicist's name keeps flashing across the screen. Over and over.

CALL ME.

They're all over this.

TMZ, ESPN, ET, Page Six. Everyone wants a comment.

They're asking about the timeline. The ex. The pregnancy. The kiss.

My answer's the same every time.

No fucking comment, Irina.

Doesn't matter how they spin it.

I'm not giving them more fire to throw on this.

Not for her.

Not for the story she's trying to sell.

Fucking Gigi.

I didn't see her at the club that night. I was late. Medical had me strapped to a table, icing my ribs, checking for fractures while the rest of the team went off to celebrate.

I didn't show up until hours later.

I didn't know.

Not until Bruiser told me.

She told me the next day when I was drugged up. She said it quietly, cautiously, like she was preparing for the fallout, and laid it all out. What Gigi said. How she said it. The way she circled, smiled, struck.

And most of all, how it worked.

Bella slipped up during their conversation and said something she shouldn't have.

Nothing big.

Just enough for Gigi to sink her claws in.

Because Gigi saw it all in full 4K.

The moment the Edward Cullen she knew, the private one, turned into a man who took his girl into his arms and kissed her. In front of everyone.

She recognized what it meant.

It wasn't just a kiss.

It was possession.

It was endgame.

And that's what broke her.

Not losing me. That part was done a long time ago. She just hadn't admitted it yet.

What gutted her was the control slipping. The narrative cracking. The spotlight shifting off her and landing somewhere real.

Gigi's not built for irrelevance. Not wired for second place. Watching someone else be chosen—especially in front of the entire world? That's the kind of loss a woman like her doesn't know how to wear.

So she cracked.

Not loud. Not messy. She cracked the way women like her do: controlled, calculated. Ego bruised, pride bleeding under designer perfume.

She cornered Bruiser. Dug until she struck gold. Then she took that story, twisted it until Bella looked like a backup plan, like some rebound with bad timing, and handed it over to TMZ on a silver platter.

Heartbroken ex blindsided by betrayal.

The quarterback's new fling already expecting.

She played it for pity. For attention.

But I know her.

I know her.

That wasn't heartbreak. That was damage control. That was a woman who saw her name disappearing and decided to light something on fire so the world would look again.

And the thing she torched?

My girl.

Bella thought telling me would make me spiral. Thought she was protecting me from more stress.

But all it did was make me cold.

Because now I see it for what it was.

Gigi couldn't stand losing.

So she made sure if she went down, she'd drag Bella's name through the mud too. Make her look like a footnote instead of the whole fucking story.

But that's not how this ends.

Not on my watch.

Part of me wanted to call her.

Light her up.

Say every damn thing I've kept buried—how obvious her little stunt was, how pathetic. I wanted her to hear it. To choke on it.

But I won't.

For two reasons.

First—this is what she wants. The reaction. The attention. Me, pissed off, chasing her voice across a phone line. It's bait. Classic Gigi. And I'm not biting.

Second and this one matters more, it'd be a betrayal.

To Bella.

I already made that mistake once. Took a call from Gigi months ago. Told Bella afterward, thinking honesty was the right move. But the second I said it, I watched something in Bella shift. Her whole body went still. She didn't get mad, didn't cry, didn't accuse me of anything.

She just shut down.

That look fucking killed me.

So no. Gigi doesn't get another second of my voice, not if it means even touching Bella's trust in me.

Reprimanding Gigi? Not worth it.

Hurting Bella? Not ever.

So I'll set the record straight another way. Something real. Something loud enough to make the gossip sound small. I don't know what yet, but it's coming. And when it does, no one will be confused about who I belong to.

The stadium's dead quiet when I pull in. Empty rows, cracked asphalt, a gull tearing at a shriveled hot dog bun like it means something. This place always feels haunted once the season ends—like it forgot how to roar.

I kill the engine. Hoodie up. Shades on. Still sore, still limping, still not ready.

Garrett spots me across the lot and jogs over, slapping a fist into mine.

"Morning, sunshine."

I grunt. "Yeah. Fucking beautiful."

He chuckles and shakes his head. "Man, I know it sucks, but it's routine. We do it every year."

"It was fucking stupid then too."

That stops him. He puts a hand on my chest, like I'm about to walk into traffic.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold up. Last year, you were pumped as hell. Showed up with a tray of coffees and donuts, smiling like a damn intern. Had everyone ready to strangle you."

Yeah. I remember. I was obnoxious about it. First one in, last one out.

I don't say anything. Just adjust my hoodie and keep my shades on, like that's enough to keep the world out.

Garrett steps back and looks me up and down. "Damn, son," he laughs, low and kind of stunned. "I never thought I'd see the day something came between you and football."

"You ever take a hit so hard you hear your own name wrong?" I mutter.

He squints at me. "That a metaphor?"

"I don't know," I say, voice flat. "You tell me."

He walks beside me, quiet for a beat. "You limping from the game or the afterparty?"

"Both," I admit.

Garrett lets out a low whistle. "You good, though? For real?"

I stop at the door. Glance up at the steel, the Seahawks crest weathered by a hundred storms. Used to look like a crown to me. Now it just looks heavy.

"I don't know, man," I say. "I got the girl. I got the win. I should feel like a god. But I feel like a ghost."

Garrett exhales slowly, nodding like he's heard that kind of honesty before but never from me. "Well, ghost or not," he says, pulling the door open, "you still got film review in ten."

"Great," I deadpan. "Can't wait to relive the moment my ribs turned into Rice Krispies."

He laughs and holds the door for me. "Maybe they'll frame it for you. Hang it next to your MVP plaque."

I step inside. The air's stale. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead like they're nervous to be on. Everything smells like old tape, sweat, and memories.

"Let's just get it over with," I mutter.

Garrett claps me on the back. "There he is," he grins. "My favorite ray of sunshine."

The locker room's loud as soon as the door swings shut behind us.

"Yo!"

"Look who the fuck it is."

"Dead man walkin', back from the fucking grave!"

Laurent's the first to get to me, grinning like an idiot, arms out. He hugs me hard—none of that side-pat bullshit—and thumps my back like he's checking if I'm still in one piece.

"Jesus, bro," he laughs. "They showed that hit like six times. You fucking died out there."

Jacob's next, barreling in with that shit-eating grin. "You looked dead, man. Like rigor mortis setting in. Then you just popped back up like, 'Nah, fuck that, I've got a ring to win.'"

They pile on after that. Jenkins, O'Neill, the rookies—hell, even Soto, who barely speaks English, throws an arm around my neck and yells something about legends. Hands slap my back, squeeze my shoulder, ruffle my hoodie like I'm the goddamn team mascot.

"Fucking legend."

"You're him, bro."

"MVP shit."

"Dead one minute, throwing lasers the next."

"Dude, I wept. Like, tears. In front of my dad."

And for a second I feel like myself again.

Not the ghost in the hoodie. Not the fuck-up with the broken ribs and the bleeding heart and the girl he can't protect from the fallout. Just me. Just the quarterback. The guy who bled with these men all season, who dragged them through every mud pit and firefight, who gave a fuck when no one else did.

I love these guys.

Not in some soft, poetic bullshit kind of way—just in that real, unspoken, shoulder-to-shoulder kind of love. They showed up. Every day. They trusted me to lead them, and I did. Even when it hurt. Even when I shouldn't have been able to get back up.

They're not what got me down.

They're the reason I stood back up.

Garrett claps me on the back. "Told you they missed you, bro."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Almost smile.

Almost.

The door opens again, and the mood shifts hard and fast.

Coach walks in.

No whistle. No barking. Just that presence.

The room goes quiet like someone killed the lights. Every guy shuts up, eyes forward. Doesn't matter if we just won the biggest game of our fucking lives—when Coach walks in, it's all respect.

His eyes lock on mine the second he steps in.

"MVP," Coach says. "You got a minute?"

And just like that, it's gone.

That spark. That flicker of feeling like myself. Snuffed out under fluorescent lights and expectation.

I nod. "Yeah."

Garrett claps my shoulder as I pass. "Don't worry," he mutters. "Probably wants to bronze your jersey."

But I already know better.

Coach doesn't pull you out of the locker room to say thank you. He does it when he's about to put you back in your cage.

The hallway feels colder than I remember. Stark. Silent. The buzz of the lights sounds like static in my ears. Every step feels like walking backward.

He opens the office door and motions me in like he owns the air in here. Same clutter. Same stale smell. The same seat I've sat in too many times to count.

I drop into the chair across from him. My ribs groan. I keep my face blank.

He sits too. Quiet for a beat. Studying me.

Then he opens with it—soft, measured.

"Hell of a game."

I nod. "Yeah."

"You got hit. Got up. Led like a fucking assassin."

Still, I don't say anything.

"That's the version this team needs."

There it is. The hook in the ribs.

I scoff. "Right. Focus. You mean after you banned my girl from the box?"

His eyes harden, but his voice stays level.

"I didn't ban her. I banned the distraction."

I laugh, bitter. "Same thing."

"It's not. You were off, Edward. Timing. Reads. You brought emotion onto the field, and it cost you."

"You don't know shit about what it cost me."

He leans in slightly, tone turning that familiar shade of paternal.

"I know the kid who walked in here six years ago. Fire in his chest. Game in his blood. You were built for this. You didn't flinch. You didn't fold."

I sit still. Jaw locked. Arms crossed.

"Now?" he says. "You've changed. You need her. And I get it. But she won't last."

That lands like a slap.

"You think she's forever?" he pushes. "She's not. You're high on her right now, but a year from now? You'll wake up and realize she took your edge. Your hunger. And by then, it'll be too late."

He thinks I'll break. That I'll bow. That I'll thank him for the warning.

But I don't.

Because I see it now.

This isn't about love versus football. This is about control.

"I'm not choosing her over the game," I say, cold and even. "I'm choosing me."

He shakes his head like I'm a dumb kid throwing away a crown.

"And you think you know who that is?"

"I'm starting to," I say. "And I sure as hell know who you are."

I stand. The air's heavy now. Thick with everything we've both left unsaid.

"I appreciate what you did for me," I add. "But don't ever talk about her like that again."

And then I walk the fuck out.

The day bleeds into night, and then keeps bleeding.

Endless film review. Strategy recaps. Bullshit meetings about what could've gone better—like we didn't just win the whole damn thing. Everyone's still in grind mode, acting like next season starts tomorrow. My ribs ache. My brain's fog. Coaches won't shut up. Every clock in the building feels broken.

By the time I finally get out, it's dark and drizzling. The parking lot's empty except for my truck, sitting there like it's about to ask if I survived.

I drive with the windows cracked and the heat blasting, chewing on silence and the last thing Coach said to me.

"She's not forever."

Fuck him.

Because I walk in the door and there she is.

Bella.

She's curled up sideways on the couch in my hoodie, hair a mess, one sock on, one sock missing like she got distracted halfway through existing.

The TV's on something dumb—chopped cupcakes or baking wars or whatever background noise she uses to feel less alone.

She looks up, yawns, and grins. "You look like you just crawled out of a ditch."

"I feel like it," I mutter, dropping my keys and jacket by the door.

She squints at me. "Did you punch anyone?"

"Barely."

She pats the cushion beside her. "Get over here, drama queen."

I walk straight to her, drop down to my knees in front of the couch, and press a hand to her belly. She's gotten rounder. Firmer. The hoodie's not hiding anything anymore—not the curve, not the weight of it, not the little life under there kicking like it already has opinions.

"Our kids are getting big," I murmur.

"They better be," she says, running her fingers through my hair. "I've eaten approximately 700 bagels today."

I grin against her stomach. "You save me one?"

"No. But I did leave you half a pickle. And like, three crackers. And Alice's sad excuse for soup."

"Queen of generosity."

She smirks. "King of martyrdom."

I climb onto the couch beside her, pulling her into my lap. She curls into me like muscle memory.

"You okay?" she asks.

I nod. Then lie. "Yeah."

She gives me a look. "Real answer, Cullen."

I sigh. "It was a long day. Coach said some shit. Tried to rewrite my life for me."

"He's just jealous you have better hair."

I roll my eyes and lean down to kiss the top of her head. "I'm gonna go make a sandwich."

"Put hot sauce on it. Spice builds character."

I laugh, get up and throw something together—whatever meat we have left, a slice of sad-looking cheese, too much hot sauce just to prove a point.

By the time I sit back down, she's barely keeping her eyes open, mumbling, "That better not be my pickle."

I chuckle, pull her close again, settle her against my chest. Her hand finds mine. Her breathing evens out.

This is the only part of the day that feels real.

Not the cameras. Not the playbooks. Not the endless ego tug-of-war behind closed doors.

Just her.

My best friend. My bruiser. The girl who never lets me take myself too seriously. The woman carrying my kids while still making me laugh like I'm sixteen and stupid again.

And for the first time all day, I don't feel lost.

I feel home.

Day two is worse.

Somehow.

More film. More breakdowns of plays we already lived through, like maybe if we watch it one more time, someone won't get sacked. Everything feels performative—like they're going through the motions because they don't know how to shut it off. No one's listening. No one's learning. Everyone's just trying to not pass out in their chairs.

By ten in the evening, the room smells like old coffee, protein bars, and stale ambition.

Then Coach walks in.

Claps his hands once, loud enough to make half the room flinch.

"Alright, everyone except Cullen, you're good to go."

The guys exchange looks. I don't even react. Just lean back in my chair, arms crossed, waiting for the next round of bullshit.

Garrett throws me a glance on his way out. "You piss in his coffee?"

I shake my head once. "Worse."

The door shuts. Silence.

Coach stands in front of the screen, remote in one hand, and clicks it to freeze-frame a play from the Super Bowl. Me in the pocket, mid-throw, ribs screaming, eyes locked on Garrett in the end zone.

"This," he says, calm, "is you at your best."

I don't answer.

He rewinds it. Plays it again. Then again. Like he's trying to hypnotize me.

"You stayed in the pocket. You read the pressure. Trusted your instincts. That's the version this team bets on."

"Get to the part where you tell me I've lost my edge."

His eyes flick to mine. "You're still sharp. But you're bleeding off energy."

"From what? Loving someone?"

"From losing your focus."

"You don't get to define focus."

He watches me a moment longer. Then sets the remote down.

"We've got new policy updates coming for next season." He tosses a manila folder onto the table in front of me.

I open it.

First thing I see: WAG Policy—Revised Guidelines for Player Relationships & Stadium Access.

I skim. My stomach drops.

It's more than access. It's fucking surveillance. No non-family in the locker rooms. No sideline passes unless cleared. No romantic partners at practices, in meetings, during away travel, or within media spaces unless explicitly authorized.

"You're kidding," I mutter, flipping the page.

"I'm not," he says. "And I think it's what's best. For you. For the team."

I look up at him slowly. "This because of Bella?"

He doesn't blink. "This is because of distraction. We're building something big here. Can't afford anyone to get too comfortable. Especially not our franchise."

My jaw ticks.

"You wrote this with my name in your fucking mouth."

"I wrote it because I saw what happened when you started letting your personal life bleed into the game."

"She's pregnant with my kids, Coach. My family."

He shrugs. "And that's beautiful. Off the field. But on the field? You belong to this team."

Something breaks in my chest. Snaps so clean it feels surgical.

I stand.

"Let me tell you something," I say, voice low, shaking. "You don't own me. You don't get to hand-pick what parts of me are acceptable depending on what fucking jersey I'm wearing."

"I'm protecting your career—"

"No. You're protecting your control."

His face hardens. "You're emotional."

"You're goddamn right I am," I snap. "You wanna write policies? Fine. But you don't get to rewrite my life because I fell in love with someone who doesn't orbit you."

"This isn't personal—"

"It's only personal!" I shout. "You're pissed she grounded me in something that isn't football. That I stopped begging for your approval every time I strapped on my pads."

Then he leans back, eyes narrowing like he's about to throw down a trump card.

"You think Tampa's your way out?" he says. "You think I don't know they're making a play for you?"

I stare back, quiet. I don't confirm. I don't deny.

He sneers. "They're a joke. You're a joke if you think they can take you all the way. That organization couldn't carry your jockstrap in the playoffs."

I keep still. My silence is the only power I've got left in here.

"You won't leave," he snaps, voice climbing. "You can't leave. You can't walk away from the guys who bled for you, year after year. The men who broke bones for you. Trusted you. Followed you into the fucking trenches."

He's pacing now. Finger jabbing the air.

"What kind of leader are you? Huh? Throw a hissy fit over some WAG policy and jump ship?"

He slams his palm on the table. I don't flinch.

"No, Edward. Only weak people run. Are you weak?"

That one lands.

Because I know what he's trying to do—poke the part of me that grew up swallowing glass just to be called strong.

But he doesn't get to weaponize that anymore.

I stand slow. Let the silence thicken between us until it buzzes in the walls.

Then I look him dead in the eye.

"I'm not weak," I say. "I'm done."

He scoffs. "You keep saying that like it means something."

"It does," I say. "Because I'm walking out, and you're not stopping me."

He glares at me like he's waiting for me to crack.

But I don't.

Because I'm not the same kid who walked into this stadium with fire in my veins and something to prove.

I proved it.

Now I'm taking the fire with me.

I toss the file back on the table like it's worthless.

"Rewrite your rules all you want," I tell him. "But you don't own me. And you sure as hell don't get to decide who I lead, or what kind of man I am."

Then I walk out.

Fast.

Before the fire inside me explodes into something I can't walk back.

That fucking asshole stole my time.

Kept me pinned in that office while the rest of the guys peeled out hours ago. Laughed. Celebrated. Lived.

And me? I was stuck listening to him lay out rules for a life he doesn't live.

Pushed me hard enough I had to choose between breathing and staying chained.

So now I'm here. Angry. Wired.

What the fuck was he trying to prove?

That he owns me?

That he still has the power to pull the leash no matter how many touchdowns I throw?

Fuck. That.

The second I left that building, I was already halfway gone.

I don't remember the drive home.

Don't remember traffic lights or stop signs.

Just white knuckles on the wheel, jaw locked so tight it clicks when I try to unclench it.

I kept hearing his voice. You belong to this team.

Like I'm property.

Like everything I've given—my ribs, my brain, my goddamn soul—wasn't enough.

But I do belong.

To them.

My guys. My blood brothers.

Laurent. Garrett. Jacob. Every damn man in that locker room who bled beside me.

That's what burns.

That I have to leave them at all.

I pull into the underground garage like the car's holding itself together out of spite. Kill the engine. Grip the wheel.

Silence presses in. Thick. Final.

Then I look up.

Elevator light's on. Top floor glowing like a nerve.

She's up there.

Inside what's supposed to be our peace.

I slam the door harder than I mean to. Metal echoes. My boots hit the concrete like a threat.

The elevator's too quiet. Every floor that passes just winds me tighter.

When I get to my door and open—

She's there.

Bella.

She's standing by the kitchen counter wearing boy shorts and wool socks pulled halfway up her thighs. Forks High shirt stretched soft over her belly. Hair messy. Cheeks flushed.

God damn, she's so fucking beautiful and sexy. If this were any other night, I wouldn't be able to keep my hands off her.

Her eyes lift to mine.

"Hey," she says. "You're home late."

I can't speak.

If I do, I'll fucking yell. Or break. Or both.

So I kiss her.

Not on the mouth. Not like usual.

Just one quick, shaky press to her forehead.

And then I walk past her like I'm on fire.

Straight to the shower.

Water on.

Hot. Scalding.

Steam rolls through the room, but I don't feel a damn thing.

I plant my hands on the tile and let the water hammer my spine while everything spins.

This is it.

I'm taking Tampa Bay's offer.

Not because I want to.

Because I have to.

Because I won't let that bastard write rules around the woman I love.

Won't let him define what it means to lead, or love, or matter.

He drew the line.

Said I couldn't do both.

Couldn't love her and lead them.

Said I had to choose.

And maybe he thought that would tear me in half.

But he forgot one thing.

Football is my passion.

She's my life.

Of course I'm choosing her.

Two days after the blowout with Coach, we're on a jet to Florida.

It's too fast. I know that.

Bella wanted to come. I wanted her there. Make a weekend out of it, maybe—rent something quiet, eat too much, fall asleep in a hammock with her hand on my chest and the world miles behind us. She even packed a bag. But then school called. Midterms. Two labs. A final paper due by Sunday.

"Go without me," she said that morning, soft but sure, folding the sweater I like her in. "We'll do something after. You just go make the call."

I should've waited. I should be waiting.

But I'm not.

Because if I wait, I'll start talking myself out of it. Start wondering if I can make it work here, if maybe it's not as bad as I think, if maybe I am overreacting. That's how they win. That's how they sink the claws back in—doubt disguised as compromise.

So I go now. Before the fear gets louder than the fury.

The jet's waiting for us on the tarmac, sleek and sharp like it knows we're running from something. No press. No entourage. Just two seats, two bags, and one shot to make this real.

There's no welcome committee. No suits. No champagne flutes or bullshit photo ops. Just a folded note on the cabin table, thick white cardstock with clean, black lettering:

Can't wait to build something phenomenal with you.

Jasper whistles low behind me. "Subtle."

I grunt. Toss my bag onto one of the leather seats like it's been a long fucking week—and it has. Plane's built for six. Just us inside. Me and Jasper. No noise. No cameras. No one watching.

I pick the seat near the window. He takes the one across, boots already kicked up, cowboy hat tilted low like he's playing cool. But I know him. His mouth is relaxed, but his eyes are watching me. Always.

The plane's cold. Over-air conditioned. Smells like leather, oak, and quiet money. I stretch out, hoodie up, ribs still tight, jaw wired shut with everything I didn't get to say to Coach yesterday.

The silence holds for a few minutes. Jasper pours a drink. Whiskey, neat. Doesn't even ask if I want one. Knows I won't touch it.

"You sure about this?" he asks, voice even.

I glance at him. "You mean the flight?"

He gives me a look. Dry. Patient. Knows I'm deflecting.

I sigh. "I'm not sure about anything except I can't stay in Seattle."

"Coach crossed a line," Jasper says, easy.

"No," I say. "He didn't cross it. He redrew it. Boxed me in. Told me where I start and stop."

Jasper nods. Doesn't push.

I lean my head back against the seat, eyes on the ceiling. Turbulence bumps us once, light. I don't move.

After a while, I say, "I've been thinking about taking Bella somewhere."

Jasper glances over.

"Before the twi—" I catch myself, barely. "Before the baby comes."

He doesn't comment on the slip. Just raises an eyebrow. "Where?"

"Not sure yet. She calls it a babymoon."

He actually sits up a little. "A what?"

I let out a laugh. Real. First one in days. It comes out rough, but honest.

"That's what she calls it. Basically, a 'let's get the fuck out of dodge and sleep before everything explodes' kind of thing."

Jasper smirks. "Sounds about right."

"I just want to give her something quiet. Somewhere she can breathe. No flashing lights. No whispers behind her back."

He nods. "You want beach, mountains, desert… volcano?"

"Volcano's a little hostile."

"You're a little hostile."

I snort. "True."

He taps his glass against the armrest. "I got contacts in Belize. Private villa. Ocean, mango trees. No paps. Hammocks so good you forget your own name."

I raise an eyebrow. "You been?"

"Almost. Ended up in Maui."

I nod. "Anywhere but here sounds good."

"I'll make some calls," he says.

I wave him off. "Don't. You've already done enough."

He shrugs. "It's not a big deal."

"Don't get soft on me."

"Don't get emotional about it."

I huff a breath. "Alright, man."

We sit quiet again. The hum of the jet is steady. Warm lighting overhead. Feels like we're in a capsule, drifting somewhere between who I used to be and who I'm about to become.

Then I glance at him.

"Bella says you and Alice are a thing now?"

He freezes. Mid-sip.

I smirk. "That true?"

And then—Jasper blushes. Full stop. Cheeks go red like someone flipped a switch.

He sets his glass down slow, rubs the back of his neck.

"She's… fuck, man. She's something else."

"Oh no," I say, grinning. "You really like her."

He laughs once. Shakes his head. "She's a fireball. No filter. Says exactly what she's thinking. Could scare the devil out of a room and not break a sweat."

"Sounds like her."

"And her eyes," he says, voice dropping a little. "Hazel. But not really. Brown and green and gold when the light hits right. Makes it hard to think straight."

"Forest witch," I deadpan.

He chuckles. "Yeah. That. And she's… she's sweet. Funny. Smarter than me by a mile. Brought me a pie the other night."

I blink. "A pie?"

"She made it. Crust from scratch. Because I said I missed my mom's pie one time."

I sit back, fold my arms, still smiling. "You're so fucked."

"I know."

I don't say it out loud, but I'm glad. He deserves someone who looks at him like he's more than his job. I think Alice sees all of him.

We sit like that for a second. Easy. Settled.

Then Jasper clears his throat.

"So…" Jasper's voice drops. "You want to tell me what the hell happened with Gigi?"

My smile fades.

"I saw the article," he says. "TMZ made her look like the wronged ex. Like Bella was some secret fling."

"That's how she wrote it," I mutter. "Planned it down to the timing."

He frowns. "Didn't even see her at the party."

"She came early. Waited until Bella was alone. Hit her with everything she had and ran straight to the press."

Jasper leans forward, jaw tight. "Why?"

"To rewrite the story. To make herself the victim. Make Bella look like a footnote instead of the reason I'm still breathing."

"You call her?"

I scoff. "No chance. That's what she wants. Noise. Attention."

He studies me for a beat. "So what are you gonna do?"

I look back out the window. The clouds look torn up—like they've been through something.

"Something better. Something final."

Jasper lets out a low whistle. "You're not gonna warn her first?"

"I don't warn," I say, voice low. "I finish."

He doesn't push. Just nods once—quiet, solid, already knowing it's in motion.

We're thirty minutes into the flight when my phone buzzes.

Just once. Sharp and familiar.

Bruiser: Go be brilliant. Say what you need to say. Burn it down if you have to. Just don't come home without mangos.

A second later:

Bruiser: Like, real mangos. Not the weird dried ones you pretend are healthy. I want the juicy ones. The kind that squirt in your eye when you cut them wrong.

My lip twitches. Then a third text:

Bruiser: Also craving one of those giant airport pretzels with the fake cheese that tastes like melted traffic cones. I want to eat it while judging strangers. Preferably with you.

A fourth text pops up:

Bruiser: Wait. What's the state fruit of Florida?

I blink.

Me: Oranges. Why?

Bruiser: Yeah, no. Still want mangos. Oranges are just juice trying too hard.

I bark a laugh. Loud and sudden.

Jasper tilts his head. "That her?"

I nod, still grinning.

He leans over to peek. "Man," he says, shaking his head. "That what I've got to look forward to? A girl who gives war speech energy and then demands cheese product?"

"She's a menace," I say, still laughing.

I text back:

Me: Will return with mangos and shame-snack. Bonus: awkward people-watching commentary included. You want anything else? Moon rocks? A decorative gourd? Maybe a goat?

She replies instantly.

Bruiser: Goat, yes. Moon rocks, no. Gourds are seasonal. You're learning.

Then:

Bruiser: Love you. You've got this. Proud of you even if you forget the goat.

I stare at her name on the screen, the way she can reach straight into my chest and stitch things back together with nothing but bad snack requests and better timing.

Jasper watches me settle back, quieter now, still smiling.

He raises a brow. "So?"

I shrug. "A girl like that'll have you rewriting your whole playbook."

He nods. "Can't wait."

The black SUV rolls to a stop outside Raymond James, sunlight bouncing off chrome and concrete. The sky's blazing. Thick with heat. The kind that wraps around your lungs and tells you you're not in Seattle anymore.

Jasper steps out first, adjusting his sunglasses with a lazy drawl. "You smell that?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Sweat and turf?"

He grins. "Opportunity."

The door shuts behind me, and they're already there.

Three men, lined up like a welcome party—owner, general manager, head coach—each one smiling like they just hit the jackpot. One in a golf shirt, one in a blazer, and one in beat-up sneakers and a whistle around his neck. That one's the coach. I can spot the difference in how they hold themselves. Coach watches. Doesn't pounce. The other two? All in.

"Edward," the owner beams, stepping forward to shake my hand like we're long-lost friends. "Man, I can't tell you how thrilled we are to have you here. Been a fan since your rookie year. But that Super Bowl performance?" He whistles. "Legendary. One rib, no problem. You popped up like you were carved from granite."

The GM's right behind him. Fast-talker. That shiny-eyed excitement of a man who's been crunching my stats for years. "You bounced off that hit like a tank. Still made the throw. Highest pressure rating in the postseason. Over seventy percent completion in the fourth. You didn't just win the game—you owned it."

Coach steps up last. Nods once. Voice low, steady. "Toughest drive I've ever seen. Took a hit that would've knocked most guys out for a month and threw a missile thirty yards. That's not just grit. That's leadership."

"PT treating you okay?" the GM asks, eyeing my shoulder like it's made of gold.

I nod. "Yeah. Shoulder's solid. Still stiff. Ribs too. But I'm good."

"Glad to hear it," Coach says. "We've got a physical therapist on staff who's worked with Olympic sprinters and Navy SEALs. Doesn't just fix you—builds you better. Quiet guy. Old-school. I think you'll like him."

The owner's already waving us toward the tunnel. "Come on. Let's show you around. We don't do hard sells, Edward. We just open the door and let the right people walk through it."

Jasper shoots me a look—they're good—but I just follow. My eyes adjust to the tunnel's shadow as we step inside. Cool concrete underfoot. The echo of cleats and past seasons still in the walls.

And then it opens up.

The field. The real thing.

Empty. Waiting.

Sunlight spills across the turf like a spotlight. Painted end zones. Stadium seats stretching high above us. I've stood in a hundred of these. But something about this one feels quiet. Ready.

I walk out a few paces, toe the line near midfield, scan the field like it's instinct. Where the safety would sit. Where the holes would open. I can already see it. The space. The motion. The build before the snap.

"You're seeing it, aren't you?" Coach says behind me.

I don't answer. Not yet.

He joins me on the field. Points toward the stands.

"We've got a top-five defense coming back. But this side?" He gestures to the field. "That's yours. We've got cap space. We're targeting a young wideout in the draft—kid's got hands like glue and legs like a deer. Slot guy who cuts like a scalpel. You with him? That's lethal."

The GM jumps in, flipping through something on his tablet. "We've got a guard from Georgia ready to sign. Big. Fast. Mean. Will give you the kind of pocket Seattle never could."

"And the receivers?" Coach says. "Yours to build with. We'll fly in whoever you want to throw to this offseason. Run your own camps. We're not just plugging you into a system—we're giving you the keys."

The owner nods. "We're not trying to sell you a dream, Edward. We're offering you a dynasty. You call the plays. We back you up. We don't micromanage—we trust."

My eyes stay on the field. Hands on my hips. Sweat beading at my temples.

Jasper steps up beside me, quiet for once.

"Not bad," he mutters.

I glance back at the three men. Their faces are lit with possibility. Not control. Not power plays.

Vision.

Coach looks at me. "You're not just a player to us. You're the cornerstone. The foundation."

"You ready to build something?" the owner asks, his voice low, almost reverent.

I think of Seattle. Of the cage. The file folder. The rules written around Bella's name. The way I walked out before I could snap.

And then I think of the future.

Of her. Of our kids.

Of a field that's mine to command without compromise.

I nod once.

"Show me the locker room."

The conference room's all glass and money.

Big table—real wood, probably oak or something expensive-looking. Chairs are leather, firm. Comfortable enough to keep your ass in place, but not soft enough to make you forget this is business.

Windows take up the whole far wall. View of the field, like they're reminding you what this is all about. Florida sun blasting through just enough to make everything look clean. Strategic. Framed.

There's bottled water on the table. Not the cheap kind. A tray of pastries no one's gonna eat. Everything looks staged, like they set it up for a photo shoot ten minutes ago.

A flatscreen on the wall's showing a silent reel—my highlight tape, probably. One of my playoff throws looping in slow motion.

The air smells like coffee and air conditioning. Cold, sharp. Controlled.

No clutter. No wasted space. Just a table, five chairs, and a pile of contracts with my name on it.

The energy's different in here.

No more gushing. No more grand gestures.

Now it's business.

Jasper and I take our seats across from the owner, GM, and a legal rep who introduced herself as Dana—sharp suit, sharper eyes, clearly the one making sure no commas go rogue.

Coach's not in the room. This isn't his arena.

They slide a glossy folder toward me. My name embossed across the cover.

The GM leans forward, hands clasped like he's holding back excitement. "Three-year deal. Front-loaded. Eighty-seven guaranteed. Incentives push it over a hundred with performance markers—playoff wins, Pro Bowl nod, Super Bowl appearance."

I flip through the pages slowly. Jasper watches closer than I do.

"Buyout clause?" he asks, voice calm but hard-edged.

Dana nods. "Player-friendly. Full control in year two. No penalty if Edward walks before year three. Mutual opt-out if the team doesn't hit offensive benchmarks."

"And injury protection?" Jasper presses.

"Full," she says. "You go down, you get paid. Period."

The owner cuts in, tone smooth. "And beyond the numbers—we're not just throwing money. We're investing. You want to build something here, we're behind you. Marketing deals. Community work. We've got partnerships lined up with Nike, Bose, and a couple local spots with real visibility."

The GM grins. "We've already got a real estate agent pulled for you. She specializes in private properties—gated communities, oceanfront spots, all of it. We can set up showings as early as tomorrow if you're interested."

I say nothing. Just keep flipping.

Jasper leans forward, glancing at me once before speaking.

"And time off?" he asks. "This guy's got a kid on the way."

Dana smiles politely. "We've built a more flexible schedule into the off-season. Lightened appearances. Optional media weeks. Your personal time stays yours, especially during the early months."

"That's not common," Jasper says.

"We know," the GM replies. "But neither is he."

Silence stretches for a beat.

I finally close the folder. Look up.

"You want me to lead this team."

The owner meets my gaze. "We want to build it around you."

Jasper shifts slightly beside me, still watching everyone like a guard dog in dress boots.

"And if I say yes?" I ask.

Dana slides a pen across the table. "Then we make it official. Today."

I glance out the window. The sun's hitting the uprights just right—framing the field in light like a sign someone painted just for me.

My ribs still ache.

But I feel strong.

Clear.

I don't reach for the pen yet.

Instead, I lean back in my chair.

"Before I sign anything," I say slowly, "I need one call."

The air stills for half a second, like the room didn't expect me to actually say it.

Dana's smile doesn't shift. Just smooths out at the corners like she had this scenario prepped in her head.

"Of course," she says. "Take your time."

"No pressure," the GM adds too quickly. His voice is light, but his knee bounces under the table. "Big decision. You should feel good about it."

Right.

No pressure.

They all rise in a ripple of polite professionalism. Dana gathers her notes but leaves the contract behind like it belongs there. The GM claps his hands once—fake casual—then pats the table twice, like it's his cue to exit stage left.

"We'll give you a few minutes," he says, already walking.

The owner nods. "We'll be right outside."

They file out in a line of tailored smiles and calm eye contact, like they're not all quietly holding their breath.

Jasper's the last to leave.

He doesn't say anything. Just rests a hand on my shoulder—heavy, steady, warm—and squeezes once before following them out.

Door shuts behind him with a soft click.

And just like that, it's quiet.

No voices. No highlight reel on loop. No eyes waiting for a yes.

Just me.

A contract on the table.

Bella in my head.

And the whole future sitting two inches from my hand.

I pull my phone from my pocket like it's a lifeline. One bar. Good enough.

I call her.

It rings twice.

Then her voice—soft, breathless like she was mid-sentence or mid-thought—comes through.

"Hey."

That one word guts me.

"Hey," I say back, voice lower than I meant it to be.

She's quiet for a second. Then: "Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"No."

She hums. Doesn't push. Just lets me sit in it.

"They handed me the deal," I say. "Three years. One-twenty. Eighty-seven guaranteed."

"I know." Her voice is steady. "You told me."

"I haven't signed it yet."

There's a pause. "Wait—why the heck not?"

I let out a breath, rub a hand over my face. "Because it's not just about me anymore. It's you. And the twins. We're a family now. I don't make decisions in a vacuum."

That hits her. I hear it in the shift of her breath.

"Oh," she says. Quiet. Soft. Then again, smaller, "Oh."

I close my eyes. "Honey. Don't do that."

"I'm okay," she says quickly, sniffling once like she's trying to shove the emotion back where it came from. "I'm fine. I just—wasn't expecting that to get me like that."

"Yeah, well." I glance out the window leading down to the field. "I wasn't expecting to say it out loud either."

There's a pause. Then, like she's trying to lighten the air. "Okay, but have they at least worked in a mango clause?"

I grin, just barely. "Section 14.2. Subsection C: team agrees to provide fruit of the gods and one one extra-large hot pretzel during times of high emotional distress."

She snorts. "Okay, I'll allow it."

"I didn't ask you to read it yet," I murmur. "Didn't want to overwhelm you."

"Too late for that," she says, but it's not biting. It's gentle. Honest. "I looked at the draft while you were in the air. I was eating cereal and you were about to change our entire life. It felt… big."

"Yeah," I say. "It is."

Neither of us speaks for a second. The weight of it sits between us—money, cities, a new team, a new home. Our kids. Her body changing by the day. The life we've been holding together like two hands full of sand finally starting to take shape.

"You still want this?" I ask. "Really want it? The move. The heat. The distance. Me, in another uniform?"

"I don't care what color you wear," she says softly. "As long as you come home to us."

Us.

It lands in my chest like a steady drumbeat. Realer than any signature.

"I hate that I left without you," I say.

"I know," she says. "But I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere."

I close my eyes. Let that anchor me.

"Hey," she adds after a beat. "Don't let them lowball you on the mangos."

That makes me laugh. Full and low, from somewhere deep.

"I'll call you when it's done," I say.

"I'll be here," she murmurs. "Waiting. Hungry. Possibly googling homes with massive snack pantries."

"I'll tell the agent," I say. "Top priority."

We stay quiet another second. Breathing the same silence across state lines.

Then, just before I hang up, I say it.

"I love you."

She exhales, soft and shaky. "I love you too."

Click.

The line goes dead, but she's still there—in my chest, in my head, under my skin.

I stand up.

Turn to the door.

Open it.

They're all waiting in the hallway like they never left—Dana, the GM, the owner, and Jasper leaning against the wall with his arms crossed like he's been timing me.

They look up when I step out.

I don't say anything. Just nod once.

They file back in quickly, quietly. Take their seats. Adjust their folders. Jasper doesn't sit—he just stays by the window, watching.

The room goes still.

That kind of quiet that builds its own gravity.

Everyone waiting.

I sit down. Rest my hands on the table.

Then I clear my throat.

"Dana," I say. "Can I get the pen?"

She slides it across the table.

And I take it.

I hope you love this peek into his head. I couldn't explain it well in Bella's pov.

Next chapter, we go back to her.

Thanks for reading.