“He said he has extra space,” Ali said with a little shrug. “And that I hate driving. Which... accurate.”
“Honestly, I’m shocked he’s letting all of us disrupt his NFL player sanctuary,” Ashley said, smirking. “That is like sacred space. He’s in love.”
Ali flushed deeper, chewing the inside of her cheek. Then—
“Wait. Okay, this is dumb, but… am I just assuming I’m sleeping in his bed? Like—is that weird? Should I offer to bunk with one of y’all? Would that be weird? Oh gawd—”
All four of them burst out laughing.
“Ali,” Abigail said, wheezing. “You think we’re driving five hours just to snuggle withyou?”
Ashley threw a pillow at her. “Girl. If you even try to sleep anywhere but wrapped around that man, I’ll stage an intervention.”
“You’re thegirlfriend,” Raleigh Ann added. “You go in the boyfriend bed. We’ll manage with guest rooms, or whatever. Just tell us if we need to bring earplugs.”
Ali covered her face, groaning. “I hate y’all.”
“You love us,” Abigail said smugly. “Now send the group chat the dress code for the suite. I need to know how hot I can reasonably look around professional athletes while married.”
The road shimmered in the late morning sun, and the inside of Abigail’s Range Rover felt like the warm, glittery core of a girl-powered supernova. Taylor Swift’sBlank Spaceblasted from the speakers, windows cracked just enough to keep the air moving as they crawled through yet another stretch of I-95 traffic.
Ali sat up front, one leg tucked under her and the other bouncing with nervous energy. Her sunglasses slid down her nose as she glanced at the clock for the sixth time.
“Y’all,” she said, twisting to look at the others. “We’ve been in this same stretch for, like, twenty minutes.”
“Welcome to Georgia,” Abigail muttered, tapping the steering wheel. “Where time slows down and so do the minivans.”
“Can I request a snack handoff?” Raleigh Ann called from the back. “I think my blood sugar’s low and my tolerance for Ali’s pre-boyfriend nerves is even lower.”
Ashley cackled and passed over a half-opened bag of sour gummy worms and a protein bar. “This car is 90% estrogen and 10% Target snacks.”
“Sounds like heaven,” Ali murmured, grabbing a Diet Coke from the cup holder and cracking it open. The fizzy hiss made her sigh like it was medicinal.
Shania Twain’s "Man! I Feel Like a Woman" came on next and all four of them screamed like they’d summoned it.
By the second verse, they were full-on belting, windows down now and harmonies questionable at best. Abigail beat the steering wheel like a drum, Ali flung her hair out the window, and Ashley threw up her hands in a dramatic air guitar solo.
Somewhere near Jacksonville, after the singing gave way to giggling and hair fixes, the real planning started.
“Okay,” Raleigh Ann said, leaning forward between the seats like she was orchestrating a military operation. “So what’s your entrance plan? You walking in like a romcom heroine or what?”
Ali groaned. “Can’t I just exist?”
“No,” Ashley said immediately. “You’re a girlfriend now. Like a literal NFL WAG. Of aquarterback. There’s an art to the entrance.”
“She needs to be a little late,” Abigail said, nodding sagely. “Fashionably delayed. Like, oops, I got distracted looking hot.”
“And you better wear those sandals again,” Raleigh Ann added. “The ones that made Dylan look like he was about to propose in the airport lobby.”
Ali blushed furiously. “I hate y’all.”
“We love you,” Abigail corrected, glancing sideways with a grin. “And you deserve a stadium entrance. You already won the game, babe.”
Ali stared out the window, heart fluttering somewhere between nerves and excitement. Her Spotify queued up the next song—Enchanted. She let herself lean into it, the lyrics washing over her, soft and dreamy and so ridiculously on brand it almost made her laugh.
She texted Dylan a picture of the road ahead with:
almost there ?????????
