Maybe that’s why I let myself fall into his bed. Against my better judgment. Against every warning I’d ever gotten.
I don’t know what I expected when I woke up here this morning, wrapped in his arms, listening to the low, sleepy rumble of his voice. But for a second—just a second—I wondered if this could be something more.
“What have I gotten myself into?” I whisper.
As if on cue, Liam’s phone buzzes on the nightstand.
“Hey, Liam!" I call. “Your phone is ringing.”
“It’s fine, just ignore it,” he says over the rush of water.
I try. I swear I do. But it keeps buzzing, persistently enough to draw my attention to the screen. When the name flashes across it—Sabine—my breath hitches. A woman’s name. Elegant. Familiar in a way that sends a quick, sharp sting up my spine. Jealousy flares, then fizzles, leaving humiliation simmering beneath it. I shouldn’t care. I have no claim on him. But the truth is, a tiny piece of me already does.
The buzzing stops. I exhale and shrug into my coat. Then the phone lights up again.
Scott Jackson.
I know him. Everyone in football knows him—one of the top agents in the business. Liam’s agent.
Scott Jackson: No can do. You’re in New Orleans for at least two more years, per your contract. Put in the work and keep them happy with their decision to make you one of the highest-paid rookies in your class.
Two years in New Orleans.
Two years far away from New York.
Far away from me.
The small, reckless hope I didn’t want to name flickers and dims.
Another buzz.
Sabine: I didn’t sleep at all last night. I need you.
My throat tightens. Another buzz.
Sabine: I took a test this morning. I think I might be pregnant. The doctor said Tuesday is the earliest they can confirm. I want you with me … I shouldn’t have to do this alone.
A wave of nausea rolls through me. Another buzz.
Sabine: We can tell my family when you come home with me for the holidays.
The air in the room shifts—thick and heavy, pressing down on my ribs. This isn’t a pleading ex. This is someone who speaks like she has a right to him.
Someone he made promises to.
My hands tremble as I stare at the screen.
Every warning my father has ever thrown at me roars to the surface at once.Rookie athletes. Unreliable. Immature. Too many women. Too many blurred lines. Too many complications.
The room tilts.
This is not a fling he forgot to mention.
This is a man with someone waiting for him in New Orleans … someone who expects him at a doctor’s appointment.
Someone who talks like he belongs to her.
And I … I’m the girl he met at a wedding. The girl in red, who he flirted with for one magical night. The girl who let herself believe he saw her and not her last name.
