I lower my shoulder and push for extra yards even though no one’s tackling. Aggressive enough that Coach shouts my name, half warning, half approval.
Good. Let him think it’s intensity.
I run the next rep even harder.
Block. Release. Catch. Turn.
My legs burn. My lungs protest. Sweat stings my eyes.
Still not enough.
Because between snaps, my mind fills the space anyway.
Lila smiling up at me like she didn’t have a guard up for once. Lila leaning into my chest like she trusted it to hold. Lila letting me kiss her like it meant something.
Then the shift afterward.
Her phone in her hand. Her shoulders tight. The way she went quiet without saying why.
I miss a cue from the quarterback and adjust late, correcting on instinct. It works. Barely.
As I jog back, the other noise creeps in.
I saw the headlines. Her ex’s voice, smug and certain. The comparisons online. The idea that I’m just another guy riding her name through a rough patch.
My stomach twists.
Because what if they believe it?
Worse—what if she does?
I reset my stance, jaw tight.
What if she looks at my life and sees an obstacle course she doesn’t have to run? A mess she didn’t ask for. A man whose name comes with footnotes and disclaimers.
Someone easier exists for her. Someone clean. Someone without a lawsuit, without restrictions, without a spotlight that never turns off.
Someone who doesn’t bring chaos into her orbit just by standing next to her.
The thought hits hard enough that my breath stutters.
I’ve been left before.
Used up. Cast aside when I was no longer needed.
The snap comes. I move on instinct, body doing what it’s trained to do while my chest tightens with something dangerously close to panic.
I catch the ball and tuck it in, driving forward like momentum can keep the fear from catching me.
It doesn’t.
Because for the first time, it isn’t the league I’m afraid of losing.
It’s her.
And the idea that she might decide I’m not worth the trouble.
***
