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Logan “Lo” Hayes and Zaire Daniels set the tone from the snap, crashing through the offensive line like wrecking balls. Caleb Frost locks up the middle, and Knox Reilly reads the QB like he wrote the damn playbook.

Bang.

Vincent “Vince” Baptiste makes a tackle that rattles my soul from twenty feet up.

“Jesus,” Olivia Frost whispers. “They came to play today.”

“Not just play,” I murmur. “They came to dominate.”

Second quarter. Giants up 10-3. But the Cowboys aren’t going down easy. Their quarterback is fast—slippery in the pocket, like a greased-up eel—and when he breaks the line, it’s Nolan Westbrook and Andre Morgan who shut him down with a dual hit that shakes the turf.

Boom. Echo. Crack.

The box goes quiet for a beat before the applause starts.

“Defense is eating,” Layla Thompson mutters proudly.

Kingston’s back on the field by the third down. The Cowboys tried to blitz. Mistake. Tank absorbs the hit, Riley Park shifts, and Emmett Clark—tight end and nightmare fuel—snatches the pass and plows forward for fifteen yards like he’s on a personal mission to flatten everything in sight.

Another first down.

And yeah, maybe I cheer a little too loud that time. Maybe I pump my fist in the air and yell “HELL YES” while the other women blink at me, wide-eyed.

“You really know the game,” Claire Boone says, half-surprised.

I just smile, heart pounding. “My dad owns the Patriots, so football’s kind of the family religion. I grew up learning route trees before I learned how to braid. It’s in my blood—there’s no unlearning it.”

Truth is, I never wanted to. Football is my language. My rhythm. My anchor.

And watching Kingston command the field like a general—precision in motion, eyes scanning, body tensed, arm cocked—it makes me feel like maybe, just maybe, everything’s going to be okay.

Even if I don’t have names for the twins yet.

Even if the future still scares the crap out of me.

Even if I’m one breath away from crying every time he looks up into the family box and finds me.

Because the moment he does?

He points.

Right at me.

And grins.

The fourth quarter’s a battlefield.

Twenty minutes of time-stretched eternity. Twenty minutes of heart-in-my-throat panic, feet bouncing beneath my seat, and my already-stretched bladder threatening mutiny.

We’re up by a field goal. 20–17.

And every second feels like we’re dangling over a cliff by a thread made of dental floss.

The Cowboys have possession, and their offense is moving fast. Too fast. Our defense looks winded, and my pulse pounds harder with every yard they steal.

“Come on, Lo,” I whisper, knuckles white where I’m gripping the edge of my seat. “Give me something.”

Second down, twenty-five-yard line. They’re pushing toward the red zone, and then—bam.