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He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. He just reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together on the table, anchoring me.

“Hey,” he says gently. “You’re not screwing anything up. You’re building something new from the ground up—and that’s brave as hell.”

I blink hard, trying to shove the tears back into their ducts.

“And yeah, it’s messy,” he adds. “But I want the mess. I want you. And those babies? They’re mine. Maybe not in the way biology defines it. But biology doesn’t make a dad. Love does.”

My chest aches, full to the brim.

For a flicker of a second, I think about Fletch. About how he didn’t even respond to the notice about terminating his rights. Didn’t call. Didn’t fight. Didn’t care.

But Kingston? He’s here. He’s all in.

I squeeze his hand tighter, the words catching in my throat. “They’re going to inherit your ridiculous obsession with team spirit.”

He grins. “Damn right. They’ll be in Giants jerseys before they can crawl.”

I let out a soft laugh. “And if they hate football?”

“They’ll still be wearing the colors,” he says, winking. “And I’ll teach them to body-check anyone who breaks their hearts.”

A watery laugh escapes me, the kind that tastes like hope.

And in that moment, with sunlight pouring through the windows and Kingston watching me like I’m the only thing that matters, I believe him.

We didn’t plan this.

But maybe—just maybe—we were always meant to end up here.

Chapter Eight

MYA

I can’t remember the last time I sat still for longer than five minutes. Not with the tour looming like a neon-lit countdown clock in my head, ticking toward the first stop in New York. The band’s schedule is a beast—endless meetings, last-minute content deadlines, a venue that changed midweek because someone double-booked the Brooklyn Bowl. Meanwhile, I’ve been juggling Instagram reels, TikTok choreography, merch edits, and brand collabs like a cracked-out Cirque du Soleil performer on three hours of sleep and a half-melted protein bar.

So, when Kingston slides a game pass across the kitchen counter this morning, eyes soft and hopeful, I hesitate. Not because I don’t want to go—because I do—but because my to-do list is longer than my legs, and I’m growing humans in my uterus, plural.

“You haven’t been to a game since preseason,” he says, leaning against the fridge in nothing but joggers and that damn smug smirk that says he already knows I’m going to say yes. “Family box. Good view. Cushioned seats. Pregnant-woman-approved snacks.”

I arch a brow. “Does the box have flaming hot Cheetos and peanut M&M’s?”

“It does if you bring them,” he deadpans.

“Sold.”

Which is how I end up dressed in oversized overalls and a cropped Toronto Kings hoodie that barely stretches over my bump, standing in the elevator at the stadium, trying to remember how to breathe without Googling “can pregnancy cause literal suffocation from a waistband.”

The moment I step into the box, I’m met with a wall of estrogen. It’s like walking into a lifestyle segment on ESPN meets The Real Housewives of Toronto Football. There’s glitter, designer jeans, stiletto boots, and one woman in head-to-toe Louis Vuitton activewear holding a mimosa like it’s a purse.

“Hi, you must be Mya!” a petite brunette beams, setting down her Starbucks and crossing the box to hug me before I can flinch.

I blink. “Uh—yeah. That’s me.”

“I’m Jasmine—Riley Park’s fiancée. Congratulations, by the way!” She gestures toward my belly with the kind of smile you’d give someone who just adopted a golden retriever.

“Thanks,” I say, stunned into sincerity. “Appreciate it.”

She pulls me into the lounge where a buffet is being slowly decimated by women in varying levels of NFL fashion chic. “Come meet the girls!”