She was glowing. In a navy and teal dress, the same sandals he’d claimed months ago as his. Her hair loose in waves, her mouth trembling with joy. He’d seen her look at him with love a thousand times. But this—this was something else.
Something that changed everything.
The reporter said his name, tried to ask a question, but Dylan was already moving. He turned toward the mic. Toward the cameras. Toward her.
And then he did it.
Dropped to one knee, right there on the turf, MVP trophy at his side. Pulled a small velvet box from the taped edge of his cleat and opened it.
The crowd gasped. Then fell silent.
“Ali Presley,” he said, voice steady, sure. “You’ve been my peace, my storm, my favorite everything since the day we met. You’ve waited. You’ve healed. You’ve loved me when you didn’t have to. So now I’m asking—will you marry me?”
Her hands flew to her face. Her knees buckled.
And then—she nodded. Hard.
“Yes,” she sobbed. “Oh my gawd, yes!”
The crowd erupted. His teammates swarmed. He barely felt the slaps on his back or the cameras flashing from every direction.
He felt her.
Ali launched herself into his arms, and he caught her midair like she was made for that exact moment. His hands cradled her back, the ring still pressed between them, and his mouth found hers.
“You’re mine,” he whispered.
She nodded against him. “Always was.”
In the biggest moment of his life, Dylan didn’t just win a ring.
He gave one away.
They skipped the afterparties.
No champagne-soaked banquet halls or velvet ropes. No media circuit or club table to celebrate the biggest win of his life. He’d smiled through the press conference, dodged Rocky’s teasing, and passed his MVP trophy off to the Tritons’ equipment guy with a wink and a, “I’ll get it later.”
Because there was only one thing he wanted.
Ali.
Now she was standing in the middle of their hotel suite—naked except those fuck-me sandals, her eyes full of something that made his knees weak all over again.
“How about some wall things for the MVP?,” she murmured, voice soft and teasing.
His grin was slow and sinful. “Abso-fucking-lutely baby.”
She stepped toward him, hands drifting up under his shirt, tugging it over his head. He let her, drinking in the way she looked at him—like she couldn’t believe he was real.
“Fiancé,” she whispered, testing the word.
He groaned. “Say it again.”
She pressed her palm to his chest, fingers splaying over his heart. “My fiancé.”
Dylan’s breath caught. “God, I love you.”
Then she dropped to her knees.
