Jaxon extends his hand to Beck first, firm and steady. “Harrison.”
Beck stands straighter automatically. “Montgomery.”
Jaxon’s grin is quick. “Big night.”
Beck exhales. “Understatement.”
Carter claps Beck on the shoulder hard enough to jostle him. “You’re about to be rich, man. Don’t forget us when you’re famous.”
Beck snorts. “I’m going to sack you first.”
“Rude.”
Lyla suddenly holds Madison’s hand up like she’s presenting it to the room. “Can we just acknowledge this? Like, look at it. LOOK AT IT.”
Madison’s face goes pink. “Lyla.”
“I’m sorry,” Lyla says, not sorry at all. “I just—Jaxon, you’re literally obsessed with her.”
Jaxon’s eyes flick to Madison, and the look on his face is…devastating.
Not performative. Not loud.
Just real.
“Yeah,” he says simply. “I am.”
Madison’s throat works like she’s swallowing emotion, and she bumps her shoulder into his like she’s trying to play it off.
But her fingers tighten around his.
And Jaxon’s smile turns softer, like he’s holding something precious and he knows it.
My chest aches in a way I don’t have words for.
Because love looks like that.
And I’ve spent the last month pretending I don’t have anything worth losing.
—
The draft starts. The TV volume goes up. Everyone’s pretending to breathe normally.
Beck sits with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he’s praying. Sophie’s palm is on his thigh, steady pressure, like grounding.
Picks start rolling.
And I try to be here—fully here—for Beck. I try to laugh at Carter’s commentary. Try to roll my eyes when Lyla keeps whisper-squealing into Madison’s ear about how she can’t believe she’s in a room with “actual NFL people.”
But my mind keeps sliding back to the Rhodes’ house.
To Sloane in Pops’s sweatshirt.
To the way her voice sounded when she said no.
To the fact that grief is a living thing, and I left her alone with it.
“Brooks.”
