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You going to watch me on TV?

I watch as the last of the players and staff board the plane and wait for her to reply.

Oh! I never thought of that. Yeah, totally! What time’s the game? What’s your number again so I know who to look for on the field?

This makes me laugh harder. I’ve never dated a woman who wasn’t obsessed with football, obsessed with what I did for a living or the idea of being a player’s girlfriend or wife. A WAG. Ryleigh literally has zero interest, and I find that refreshing.

I fill her in on the time and tell her which channel she’ll find the game on, as well as the number on my jersey.

See you Sunday night.

Her reply comes almost instantly.

Looking forward to it.

Two nights. Two nights away from Ryleigh and little Ella, and it feels like a damn eternity.

I have no idea what’s happening to my life.

All I know is that somewhere between the first snap of Sunday’s game and the final whistle, my brain checked out of football and into something else entirely. Someone else. Someone with blue eyes who keeps texting me photos of a baby in a tiny Hawks onesie.

My team squeaked out a win, but only barely, and Coach Royce is not pleased with my performance. I could see it in the vein throbbing at his temple during the post-game talk, the way he kept looking at me like he wanted to say something specific and was choosing not to. He’ll deal with it. We won. That’s what matters.

On the flight back to Chicago, I lean my head against the seat and close my eyes. Pretending to sleep. Avoiding questions. The standard post-bad-game protocol—earbuds in, eyes shut, don’t engage.

But I’m not thinking about the game. I’m thinking about the last forty-eight hours, during which I became someone I barely recognize.

I texted Ryleigh twenty-three times. I counted. Twenty-three texts over two days, and most of them weren’t even about Ella—they were just me finding reasons to talk to her. How’s your night. What are you watching. Did she take the bottle okay. What are you watching now. Hey, random question, do you like Thai food.

Twenty-three texts. Like a teenager with his first crush, except I’m a grown man who tackles people for a living.

It got worse. She couldn’t figure out how to arm the alarm system Sunday night, and I almost had a full-blown panic attack on a hotel bed in another city. Almost booked a flight back. Nobody can even get up to the apartment without the elevator code and the front desk and Frank at the gate, but my brain didn’t care about logic. My brain was screaming go home, make sure they’re safe.

I’m losing it.

While I was halfway across the country being useless, Ryleigh actually accomplished things. She spent the weekend trying to track down Andi—called shelters, contacted her old workplace, even filed a missing person’s report with the police. She hasn’t gotten anywhere yet, but she’s doing something productive, which is more than I can say for myself. I bet she wasn’t checking her phone every four minutes and wondering why I hadn’t responded to a text she sent eleven seconds ago.

When my ears pop from the descent, I open my eyes. Almost home.

Forty minutes later, I pull into the garage, badge through security—Frank gives me a nod—and take the elevator up. I press the button three times, which accomplishes nothing but makes me feel like we’re moving faster.

The apartment is quiet when I step inside. Dim. The city glows through the windows, and there’s a single lamp on in the living room, casting everything in warm amber light.

Ryleigh is on the couch.

Legs tucked under a white throw blanket, glass of white wine in her hand, TV on mute. Her hair is loose around her shoulders—she usually wears it up, so seeing it down feels like I’m seeing something private. She’s in one of my T-shirts and a pair of leggings, bare feet poking out from under the blanket, and she looks so soft and warm and settled in my home that my chest aches.

“Hi,” I say from the doorway.

She looks up, and that smile—the wide, unguarded one, the one I’ve been thinking about for two days straight—breaks across her face. “Hey. You’re back.”

“I’m back.”

“Ella’s been down since eight. She was an angel today, for the record. Yesterday, however, she screamed for forty-five minutes because she got overtired. I didn’t even know being overtired was a thing. But apparently it is.”

I laugh, dropping my bag by the door. “She’s particular.”

“She’s a tyrant.” But Ryleigh’s grinning, and when she starts to get up, I wave her off.