My voice cracks.
It’s small. Barely there.
But the stadium catches it. The cameras catch it. The crowd makes a sound—sympathy, surprise, hunger, all braided together.
I push through.
Because this isn’t about them.
This is about her hearing it.
“I’m done pretending that protecting myself is the same as being strong,” I say.
Then I look at her again, and I don’t soften the words. I don’t hide behind humor. I don’t add qualifiers to protect my pride.
“And I choose you.”
Her eyes flick to Manny in the wings like she’s checking if this is allowed. Manny doesn’t move. Doesn’t intervene. Just watches her like he’s ready to catch her if she falls.
I lift the mic slightly, fingers tightening.
I’ve played in stadiums like this. I’ve had whole sections boo my name. I’ve had reporters try to bait me into saying the wrong thing. I’ve been hit so hard I saw stars and still got up.
None of it feels like this.
Because I can’t brute-force love.
I can only offer it.
And hope she takes it.
“In football,” I say, and it’s almost funny that I’m using the one language my nervous system speaks fluently, “they teach us that when the pocket collapses, you don’t freeze.”
A few cheers. Some laughter.
“You don’t run backward,” I continue. “You step into the pressure.”
My gaze stays on Lila, even as I talk to the stadium.
“You take the hit,” I say. “Because that’s the only way you get the ball down the field.”
I pause.
She looks like she’s trying to be solid. Like she’s fighting the instinct to fold in on herself.
She’s beautiful like that.
Not polished-beautiful. Not “pop star under lights” beautiful.
Human-beautiful.
Brave even when it’s messy.
“So…” I say, voice low, and somehow it still carries. “I’m stepping in.”
I lift the mic a little higher. My heart is trying to climb out of my chest.
I don’t look away from her.
