Next time. That meant she was thinking about one.
And that was enough to make the terrible hot chocolate worth it.
The laughter faded, slow and soft, like the end of a song you didn’t want to stop playing. Her head rested against the back of the couch now, her mug half-forgotten in her lap. I watched the way the light caught the curve of her jaw, the way her lashes lowered when she looked down—like she didn’t want me to see what she was about to say.
“So…” she murmured, barely above a whisper, “what does this mean now?”
The question wasn’t casual. It wasn’t small.
It was the kind of question that could shake a relationship apart—or solidify it completely.
I didn’t even blink.
“It means you’re mine,” I said.
Her eyes snapped to mine, wide, unsure. But I didn’t let her look away.
“Not for show. Not for the media. Not for Cam. You’re mine, Daph,” I continued, my voice steady, low. “And I’ll protect you. No matter what it costs me.”
She inhaled like she’d been holding her breath.
“You’re going to get yourself kicked out of the league for me,” she said. Not a question—more like a realization. Her brows pulled together, and for a second, I saw the fear creeping in again.
But I didn’t flinch. I didn’t pull back. I leaned in closer.
“Worth it.”
Her lips parted, and for a second, I thought she was going to argue. Tell me I was being reckless or dramatic. Tell me I didn’t have to go that far.
But instead, she looked down at her hands, fingers wrapped tight around the warm mug, as if grounding herself.
“I don’t want you to lose everything,” she said quietly.
I reached out and touched her knee, light at first, then firmer. “I don't care about everything else. You’re the only thing that feels real right now. I've been in the league for years. I've hit my peak, and I'm okay with that. But you… I need you."
I meant it.
The press, the games, the fans, the endorsements—they were all noise. All temporary. But her? She cut through the noise like a damn arrow to the chest. From the second she shoved into my life, all fire and fury, pretending to hate me and doing a terrible job of it—I hadn’t been able to look away.
“You think I’d regret it?” I asked.
She didn’t answer. I saw the conflict in her eyes. She set her hot chocolate on the coffee table.
“I wouldn’t,” I said again. “I’d walk off that field tomorrow if it meant you were safe. If it meant I didn’t have to watch you get dragged online, torn apart by people who don’t know you. If we're together. I’d do it again and again.”
“Kieren…” Her voice cracked.
I leaned in until we were breathing the same air, my hand still on her leg. “Say it.”
She shook her head, like she was trying to hold something in. But her eyes shimmered, and her breath hitched.
“You don’t have to be scared of what this is,” I whispered. “Because I’m not.”
She stared at me for a long moment. Then finally, her voice so soft I almost missed it, she said, “I love you, too."
My heart stopped.
And then started again, louder than ever.
