***
THE NEXT HOUR is a blur of cameras and microphones and questions.
We do interviews with local news stations—two different channels, both wanting the "human interest" angle. Then there's a sports reporter from ESPN Chicago who's way too excited about the whole thing. A podcast host who showed up with portable recording equipment. Someone from a morning show who wants to schedule a follow-up interview next week.
Through all of it, I keep Devon's hand in mine. Not hidden, not subtle, just there. Our fingers threaded together, visible to everyone, to the cameras, to the internet that's apparently decided we're their new favorite thing.
At one point, a reporter from Channel 7, a woman with kind eyes and a professional smile, looks at me and asks, "Ace, is this your boyfriend?"
I look at Devon, at his messy hair and bright eyes and the smile that makes my chest feel too full, and I say, "Yep. He is. I'm dating the most incredible, insane, bossy person I've ever met, and I'm loving every second of it."
Devon turns to look straight at the camera, and says, "He thinks I'm bossy. Can you believe?" drawing a burst of laughter from everyone around.
The reporter's smile widens. "And how does it feel to have raised so much for the shelter?"
I'm still looking at Devon when I answer. "Honestly? It feels like a fever dream. A really good fever dream."
Devon's smiling at me, eyes shining, and he leans into the microphone. "What he's trying to say is that we're all still processing. This whole thing has been surreal from start to finish."
"But you're happy with the outcome?"
"Happy?" Devon laughs. "Ecstatic. We saved a shelter. We found homes for animals who needed them. We—" His voice cracks slightly. "We did something good. Something that matters."
More questions follow. About the game, about the shelter, about how we met, about what's next. We answer as best we can, trading off, finishing each other's sentences sometimes.
By the time the last interview wraps up, the sun's starting to set, which at this time of year means it's barely 4 PM, and the party's migrated back indoors.
Someone's pushed all the living room furniture against the walls to create more space, and music is playing from a speaker somewhere—a mix of Christmas songs and random pop hits.
And then, comes a familiar opening guitar riff.
‘Someday We'll Know,’ by New Radicals.
Devon's head whips around, his whole face lighting up, and he looks at me with this expression of pure delight. "Did you—"
"Maybe," I admit.
He grabs my hand, pulling me toward the center of the room where a few people are already swaying to the music, and for a second I think he's going to make me dance, which—no. Absolutely not. I don't dance.
But instead he just pulls me close, wrapping his arms around my waist, and we stand there in the middle of Washington's living room, surrounded by the team and friends and found family, just swaying gently to a song about not knowing things but believing anyway.
"It makes me think of you," Devon says quietly.
"Why?"
"Because you're full of questions you don't have answers to yet. And you're okay with that. You're figuring it out as you go."
I press my forehead against his. "That's pretty deep."
"I have my moments."
The song fades into something else, upbeat and poppy, and we drift toward the edge of the room where there's an armchair that's somehow remained unclaimed.
I drop into it and Devon settles onto my lap like it's the most natural thing in the world. His weight is solid and warm and perfect, and I wrap my arms around his waist, pulling him closer.
Candy appears from somewhere and settles at our feet, her head resting on my shoe, her body pressed against Devon's leg.
"This is the weirdest day of my life," Devon says, his head resting against my shoulder.
