He didn’t rush into it. He never did. “I’m not pulling you out here to mess with your head,” he said evenly. “I don’t want you wondering all game.”
My jaw tightened. This had to be about my parents. I hadn’t had an update in a few days, and they had been lingering in the back of my mind. “Okay.”
He nodded once, like that was the right answer. “I had legal run a deeper check on your sister’s estate. Not the surface paperwork your parents are waving around.” He paused, eyes sharp. “Nat named you as Miles’s primary guardian. Explicitly. Not implied. Not conditional.”
My chest hitched despite myself. Iknewthat, but to hear it from Booth felt like a fresh breath of air.
“She also named a standby guardian,” Booth continued. “That’s where your parents are trying to get traction. They’re arguing instability, schedule, environment. But here’s the thing.” His mouth curved slightly. “They don’t have evidence. They have opinions that are subjective.”
I exhaled hard, heat loosening in my ribs.
“They can request a review,” he said. “That’s their right. But they can’t take him. Not without a judge. Not without proof. And right now?” Booth shook his head. “They don’t have it.”
“Even with Em Sanders living with me as a nanny?” I asked quietly. “Would they go after her, somehow?”
“They can try,” Booth said. “But she’s not the guardian. She’s not legally responsible for Miles. And from what legal saw?” He huffed a short laugh. “If anything, she helps your case. Our lawyer dug into her a bit—don’t look at me like that, she works for the team, so of course we do background.”
I blinked, my heart thudding against my ribs. This was my biggest worry, my parents using Em to help their case or hurt her. “How?”
“Stable residence. Community support. Business ownership. No criminal history. No red flags.” Booth’s eyes held mine. “They might try, Noah, but there is no legal standing. Miles is safe with you. He’s good. He’s yours.”
Something heavy eased in my chest, replaced by something sharper. Resolve. Hope.
Booth clapped my shoulder once, firm. “I wanted you to know that before kickoff. You don’t need to play worried. You need to play angry and focused.” His gaze softened a fraction. “You protect your people by doing your job today. We’ll handle the rest.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, voice steady.
He nodded. “Go have one hell of a game.”
The noise hitme the second I stepped back toward the locker room. Music thumped through concrete. Helmets knocked. Someone shouted something obscene and encouraging at the same time. I pulled my jersey over my pads and rolled my neck, the world narrowing down to assignments and muscle memory.
Quinn bumped my shoulder as we lined up in the tunnel. “I don’t know what Booth said, but I love this Noah with yourgrumpy-ass face,” he said with a grin. “You look terrifying. I love it.”
“Lucky you,” I muttered. With Booth’s reassurance, everything melted away, and I went into game mode, where yeah, I might look terrifying.
The field exploded into sound when we ran out. The lights were harsher than home, the crowd louder and meaner, and I welcomed all of it. I dropped into my stance on the first snap, fingers grazing the turf, eyes locked forward.
They came at us immediately. Straight power. No tricks. The defensive tackle across from me drove into my chest like he wanted to make a point.
I absorbed it, hands inside, elbows tight, legs churning. I dropped my hips and held the pocket, feeling him strain, feeling the moment he realized he wasn’t moving me.
Good.
They tried a stunt the next play, end crashing down hard while the tackle looped late. I passed the first man off clean and slid laterally, meeting the looper square. My hands snapped into place, and I finished the block through the whistle, driving him back until he lost balance.
Jordan slapped my helmet. “That’s it,” he yelled. “Do it again.”
I did.
Drive after drive, they tested leverage, speed, and patience. I stayed disciplined. Eyes up. Feet moving. Hands violent but controlled. Every collision burned off another edge of fear, another fragment of anger.
Mid-second quarter, third-and-short. Power run to my side.
The snap hit, and I fired low, shoulder into his sternum, legs pumping. He tried to anchor, claws digging at my jersey, but I kept driving until the lane opened exactly where it was supposed to.
First down.
Late third quarter, they brought edge pressure, trying to collapse the pocket fast. The end dipped low, speed rush threatening outside leverage.
