I’ve been staring at it for twenty minutes, trying to focus on the budget breakdown for the new pediatric concussion research initiative, but my brain keeps wandering to Charlotte, who I talked to three hours ago. And will talk to again in approximately four hours.
I’m pathetic.
“Focus, Reed,” I mutter, scrolling through the proposal one more time.
When Raj first suggested restructuring the charity, I wasn’t sure. My foundation has always been about general youth athletics—we did a few things with concussion research, getting teens active, keeping them safe. Sponsoring the Sports Institute was a big part of that.
But the more I researched pediatric concussions, the more it clicked into place. The long-term effects, prevention strategies, and how intervention can change a kid’s entire trajectory.
It’s not just about football anymore. It’s about every kid who takes a hit—on the playground, in soccer, falling off their bike. It’s about giving them a second chance.
And okay, yeah, Charlotte’s influence is all over this. The way she talks about her work, the passion in her voice when she describes helping kids like MJ—it made me want to do more than just write checks. I want to be part of the solution.
My phone buzzes with a text from Kyle.
You home?
Yeah, why?
Just checking.
Weird. But Kyle’s been weird ever since he found out about me and Charlotte. At first, he sent me a text that just said “don’t mess this up” with approximately seventeen skull emojis. When I moved to D.C. and started training with the Commanders, he called to tell me he was “cautiously optimistic” aboutour relationship, which is Kyle-speak for “I approve but I’m watching you.”
Then, as the weeks apart from Charlotte grew into months, he’d taken to saying things like, “I think your couple name should be Charsom.” And “You should let me name your first born. You have me to thank for you two even meeting in the first place.”
Which makes me think about how cool it would be to have a family with Charlotte.
But lately, he’s been oddly quiet about the whole thing.
There’s a knock at my door, and I glance at the clock. 8:47 PM. I’m not expecting anyone.
I open the door, and my heart stops.
Charlotte’s standing in my hallway, holding a pizza box and wearing the biggest smile I’ve seen.
“Surprise,” she says.
For a second, I can’t move. Can’t do anything except stare at her like she’s a mirage that might disappear if I blink.
“Are you—” I start, but she’s already pushing past me into the apartment.
“Mercy Pizza delivery,” she announces, setting the box on my kitchen counter. “Though I have to say, flying across the country with pizza is not ideal.” She smirks. “The TSA agents had questions.”
“You flew here? With pizza?” She’s got to be joking.
She tilts her head to one side. “Technically, I flew here with two suitcases and a dream. The pizza I picked up on the way from the airport.” Her eyes are bright. “Surprise?”
“You already said that.”
“I’m running out of material. I didn’t plan much past the grand entrance.”
I cross the space between us in three steps and pull her into my arms. She melts against me, and for the first time in weeks, I canbreathe properly. In the months I’ve lived in D.C., I’ve flown her out here a couple of times, but I go back home to San Antonio more often so that I can also see my mom, Kyle, and my former teammates.
“I missed you,” I say into her sunset hair.
“I know.” Her voice dances. “You told me three hours ago.”
“Well.” I chuckle. “I missed you more since then.”
