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Before I can process what’s happening, I’m being introduced to the WAGs.

Layla Thompson is warm and soft-spoken, dressed like a Pinterest board and smelling like vanilla cupcakes. Isabelle Moreno is a literal model and looks like she stepped off the cover of a sports magazine—smizing, flawless, frighteningly nice. Heather Wilkins is wearing navy scrubs and sneakers and tells me she came straight from the night shift. Candice Daniels? Lawyer. Looks like she could argue a case and file her nails at the same time. Olivia Frost has a camera slung across her body and gives me a conspiratorial wink. “Let me know if you want maternity shots—I specialize in capturing chaos.” Emily Tran—fashion designer. Claire Boone—veterinarian and dog mom. Deja Banks—Instagram influencer and possibly the human embodiment of highlighter and confidence.

And then there’s me. Pregnant, tired, and unsure whether I’m wearing shoes that match. I plaster on a smile and start praying no one asks what I do for a living because I don’t know how to explain that “I run a rock band’s online identity and sometimes cry over font choices.”

Jasmine hands me a mimosa mocktail and drops into the seat beside me. “So. What’s it like being with Kingston Ford?”

My laugh is instant. “Like living with a mountain who eats protein for breakfast and thinks I’m made of glass.”

“Sounds familiar,” Layla calls from the row behind us. “Try being married to Malik. He tried to get me a helmet when I was pregnant.”

“Tank made me sit on a yoga ball through my third trimester,” Heather says with a snort. “Said it would help me ‘stay limber.’”

“I haven’t sat on a hard surface since week twelve,” I confess. “We have five couch cushions dedicated to my ass.”

They laugh, and suddenly I don’t feel so out of place.

The game starts with a roar, and I find myself caught up in the rhythm of it—shoulder pads clashing, cleats slicing into turf, the announcer’s voice booming through the stadium. Kingston takes the field like a storm dressed in navy and steel, his presence magnetic even from this high up.

I watch the way he moves—powerful, precise, relentless. My stomach somersaults for a reason that has nothing to do with nausea.

“Your man’s a monster on the line,” Olivia murmurs, sipping from her camera lens-shaped thermos.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “He is.”

And then, as if he can feel my eyes on him, Kingston glances up toward the box. His helmet hides most of his face, but the tilt of his chin and the barely-there smirk I’ve seen a thousand times on sleepless nights tells me he knows exactly where I am. His fingers curl into a fist, tapping his chest twice before the snap.

It hits me like a blitz straight to the heart.

I’m in a skybox full of women who all know what it’s like to love men who are warriors for a living, and I’m not just the girlfriend anymore. I’m not the social media girl. I’m not the tagalong.

I’m his.

And he’s mine.

I settle deeper into my seat, one hand resting on my belly, the other gripping a mocktail that tastes like sugar and citrus and new beginnings.

“Welcome to the sisterhood,” Candice says with a wink.

I know football.

Not the surface-level, Sunday-night-background-noise kind of knowing. No, I know it in my bones. I understand coverage shifts and blindside rushes, can spot a delayed blitz before the commentators even catch up, and I track offensive line strategy like it’s a puzzle begging to be solved.

So even though I’ve had a week from hell, even though I’m functioning on adrenaline, anxiety, and the remnants of a smoothie I forgot to finish, there’s no way I’m missing tonight’s game. Giants vs. Panthers. East Coast showdown.

And Kingston gave me a family box pass.

My seat is cushioned, blessedly back-supportive, and comes with a killer view of the fifty-yard line. The women around me—wives, girlfriends, fiancées—are already deep in conversation, heatedly dissecting last week’s loss and eyeing the Panthers’ defense like they personally plan to square up against it.

“I’m just saying,” Layla Thompson declares, “if number 59 tries that spin move again, Malik’s going to burn him so bad he’ll need aloe.”

“Did you see their coverage against Atlanta?” Candice scoffs, tossing a handful of trail mix into her mouth. “Zone-heavy, slow to rotate, no depth. If Eli doesn’t get flagged for taunting tonight, it’ll be a miracle.”

I smile, sipping my lemon water, and let their energy soak into my skin.

On the field, Kingston lines up, crouched and coiled like a spring. Left tackle. All six-foot-four of him is steel and calculation, a wall you’d break yourself trying to go through. The stadium vibrates with tension. The snap comes—crack!—and everything bursts into motion.

“Strong side blitz,” I murmur, eyes narrowing as the Panthers’ linebacker creeps toward the line.