#bengals

YOU KNEW IT WAS GOING TO BE ONE OF those nights the second you walked into the restaurant — the soft lighting, the too-many conversations layered over each other, the way every couple seemed effortlessly paired off and linked together.

Hand holding. Leaning shoulders. Fingers tracing knuckles. Casual touches shared like oxygen.

And Joe? Joe walked a step ahead of you. Not rudely. Just… like he forgot for a second that you were there with him, not behind him.

He held the door open without actually looking at you and let a couple of his teammates clap him on the back as you both stepped inside. You offered small smiles, polite hellos. You didn’t expect Joe to grab your hand or press a kiss to your temple — you never did — but you thought maybe he’d stand close enough that your arms brushed.

Instead he slid into a seat at the long table and left just enough space between you that a stranger could’ve squeezed between your chairs.

You sit down, smooth your dress, tell yourself it’s fine. It’s always been like this. He’s kind and attentive when it’s just the two of you, but out here, in the open, distance seems to form around him like a shield.

Conversation erupts around the table. Forks clink. Laughter rolls like a wave you keep trying to swim into, but you never quite reach the shore. The girls are sweet, chatting with you about work and weekend plans, and you do your best to stay present. To not glance at Joe too often. To not notice how he hasn’t touched you at all.

Not a hand on your knee. Not a lean-in whisper. Not even one of those quiet looks you two share when something funny happens.  And the worst part? Every other couple feels like a reminder.

Sam has his hand on his girlfriend’s thigh, tracing circles without even noticing he’s doing it. Logan is whispering something into his wife’s ear that makes her laugh and swat his chest. Even the rookies keep their girlfriends tucked close, shoulders brushing, bodies angled toward each other like second nature.

You feel like an extra at your own table.

Then dessert comes. Everyone reaches across plates, passing spoons, sharing bites. Joe leans forward to grab a small dish of crème brûlée — and for a fleeting second, his arm grazes yours. Not intentional, just proximity. You shouldn’t feel that small spark in your chest at something so accidental. You shouldn’t crave something as tiny as that. But you do. You always do.

When the check comes, Joe stands first, tossing a couple bills down to cover the tip. He rakes a hand through his hair, says something to the guys, and barely looks back to see if you’re following.

You walk behind him again. Like a shadow trying to keep up with someone who shines everywhere but next to you.

The night air is cool when you step outside, but your chest is hot with the kind of heaviness that comes from swallowing disappointment for too long. You don’t say anything on the walk to the car. Neither does he.

Joe unlocks the doors with a short chirp of the fob, and you slide into the passenger seat while he circles to the driver’s side. The interior smells faintly like leather and that cologne he only wears on nights he knows there’ll be cameras. He starts the engine, adjusts the rearview mirror, and pulls out of the parking lot without turning on the radio.

You rest your head against the cool window, watching the restaurant get smaller in the mirror. The laughter from inside still feels lodged somewhere under your sternum — all those easy touches and warm gestures shared by people who didn’t seem to have to think about it. You don’t know whether you’re annoyed or hurt or just tired. Maybe all of it. Maybe more.

Joe taps his fingers against the steering wheel in a slow, rhythmic pattern. He does that when he’s thinking. But you can’t tell whether he’s thinking about you, about football, or about absolutely nothing at all.

Streetlights pass in streaks across your face. You feel them more than you see them.

“Did you have enough to eat?” he asks after a few minutes. His voice is mild, casual, like this is any normal drive home after any normal night.

“Yeah,” you answer, barely louder than the hum of the engine.

He nods, eyes on the road. He doesn’t ask anything else.

You trace circles on your knee with your thumb, the same way he used to do without realizing it. You wonder if he notices he stopped. You wonder if he ever noticed he did it in the first place.

Cars drift past in the opposite lane, their headlights flashing briefly through the cabin. Joe’s profile is lit up in quick, clean slices — jaw, cheekbone, the faint crease between his brows. He looks calm. Comfortable, even. Like tonight didn’t scratch at anything inside him.

You, on the other hand, feel scraped raw.

A red light slows the car to a stop. He drums his fingers again, then glances at the dashboard clock. “You okay?” he asks, not turning his head all the way, just shifting his eyes toward you.

You force a small nod. “Just tired.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Long day.”

The light turns green. The car rolls forward. The conversation ends there — as if it was ever really a conversation.

You catch your reflection in the dark window. You don’t look angry. You don’t even look sad. You just look… muted. Like someone turned the saturation down on everything you usually feel.

By the time the hotel appears, glowing faintly off the highway, your throat feels tight from all the words you didn’t say. Joe pulls into the lot, parks, unbuckles. You follow his lead.

The walk inside is another stretch of quiet hallways and soft carpet. He checks in with a quick nod to the receptionist, collects the keycards, and hands one to you without meeting your eyes for longer than a second.

The elevator doors slide open, and you both step inside. That’s where the night swells. Where the silence finally feels like pressure instead of air. And when he stands beside you, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed in that careless, unbothered way…it hits you that he really, truly doesn’t see it. Doesn’t see you. Or maybe he does, but he’s hoping you’ll be too tired to say anything.

You stare straight ahead at the glowing numbers above the doors, counting each floor, willing your heartbeat to slow down.

You feel stupid for how disappointed you are. Stupid for noticing every inch he put between you tonight. Stupid for letting it sting.

When the doors open, Joe steps out first, swiping the keycard, pushing the door open with his foot.

“You coming?” he asks casually, already tugging off his jacket. You nod even though he doesn’t turn around to see it.

Inside, the room is dim and warm, but nothing about it feels comfortable. You kick off your heels, placing them neatly beside your suitcase, trying to ground yourself.

You hear Joe rummaging around in his overnight bag. A zipper. A sigh. The soft thud of him sitting on the edge of the bed to untie his shoes.

And then he says it — the thing that tips everything over.

“Tonight was fun,” he says lightly. “Good to get out.”

You freeze. Fun? He barely looked at you all night, and he thought that was fun? You swallow hard. “Was it?”

Joe glances up, confused. “Yeah? Why wouldn’t it be?”

You take a breath. Not the kind that steadies you — the kind you pull in before you break something open. “I just…” Your voice comes out thinner than you want. “You barely even talked to me.”

He blinks like you’ve spoken a language he doesn’t understand. “What? I talked to you.”

“No, Joe.” Your throat tightens. “You talked near me.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. You can tell he doesn’t like the way that sounds. “Okay, now you’re just being dramatic.”

That does it. The spark in your chest catches. “I’m not being dramatic,” you say, stepping toward him. “You ignored me the entire night.”

“I didn’t ignore you,” he argues, his voice sharper now. “I was talking with the guys. It was a team dinner. What do you want me to do, hang all over you?”

“No,” you say quietly but firmly. “I want you to act like you like me.”

He stares at you, confused, almost offended. “I do like you.”

“Then why does it never look like it?”

Your words hang between you. Joe tosses his hands up, frustrated. “You know how I feel about showing affection in public. I told you that when we started dating.”

“I know,” you say, your voice softening but your hurt still there. “I don’t need you to make out with me in public or post me everywhere. I’m not asking for that. But Joe… sometimes you act like we’re just—” Your voice catches. “—like we’re friends. Or cousins. Or something I’m not.”

“That’s not fair,” he says, shaking his head. “You know I’m private. I don’t like giving people something to talk about.”

“And what do you think they’re talking about now?” you ask quietly. “Because to everyone else, it looks like you can’t even stand next to me.”

His nostrils flare slightly — the kind of small, involuntary reaction he gets when he feels cornered. “I’m not going to change who I am just because you’re feeling insecure.”

The word hits you so hard it almost knocks the air out of you. “Insecure?” you echo.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly, but he did, even if he didn’t intend for it to land like a punch.

You look down at your hands, trying to keep your voice steady. “Joe, do you have any idea what it feels like to date someone who treats you like a secret every time you’re in public?”

“I don’t treat you like a secret.”

“You kind of do,” you whisper. “Maybe not on purpose. But that’s how it feels.”

He rubs a hand over his face. “I just… I don’t know what you want from me.”

You let out a long, tired breath — the kind that drains out weeks of swallowing feelings. “I want you to love me out loud,” you say softly. “Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… visibly. A little touch. A look that says we’re together. Something. Anything. Just so I don’t feel like I imagined the way you treat me behind closed doors.”

Joe’s expression shifts — defensiveness mixing with discomfort, confusion, guilt, irritation. He doesn’t know what to do with any of it. “Can we not do this tonight?” he mutters. “I’m exhausted.” He says it so casually — like your hurt is just another task on his to-do list. A thing he can postpone. A thing that can wait.

Something in you snaps. Not violently. Not dramatically. But in the quiet, heartbreaking way a rubber band finally gives after being stretched too far. Your voice comes out tighter, sharper than before. “So that’s it? You get to shut down the conversation because you’re tired?”

Joe’s head lifts a little, eyes narrowing. “I’m not shutting it down. I’m saying now isn’t the time to have a whole meltdown about one dinner.”

One dinner. You actually laugh — a stunned, breathless sound that feels more like disbelief than humor. “Are you serious right now?”

He throws his hands out. “You’re making this a bigger deal than it needs to be. You know how I am in public. You know that hasn’t changed. And now suddenly you want something different and that’s not fair to me.”

Your chest burns.

He’s not yelling, but his voice is rising. He’s frustrated. Defensive. Talking at you, not to you. “You agreed to this. You said you were okay with keeping things low-key. And now you’re blowing up because I didn’t… what? Feed you cake at the table? Put my arm around you so the whole team could stare?”

“Joe,” you say, your voice trembling, “it’s not about cake. It’s not about PDA. It’s about being treated like I exist when other people are around.”

He scoffs under his breath. “That’s dramatic.”

There it is again.

“Stop calling me dramatic,” you snap, louder than you mean to, louder than you’ve ever used with him. Your throat feels raw, your eyes hot. “God, Joe, do you even hear yourself? I’ve been feeling like this for months. Tonight was just the point where I couldn’t pretend anymore.”

He shakes his head, muttering something like, “Here we go,” and it makes your chest twist.

“You think this is nothing,” you fire back. “You think this is me being needy or insecure or changing the rules on you. But I’m telling you — I feel alone when I’m with you. I feel invisible next to you. And I shouldn’t.”

He crosses his arms — relaxed, detached, like he’s weathering a storm he finds mildly inconvenient. “Are you done?” Those three words hit harder than anything else tonight.

You look at him — really look at him — and realize he’s not fighting for you, not trying to understand you, not even meeting you halfway. He’s waiting for you to stop talking so things can go back to normal for him.

The sting that floods your chest is cold and sharp and immediate. You swallow hard, shaking your head slowly. “Unbelievable.” 

You don’t trust your voice after that. You don’t trust yourself not to break open completely. So you turn away — slow at first, then quicker — and head for the bathroom.

“Seriously?” Joe calls after you, but you don’t respond. You shut the door behind you with a soft click, not a slam. A slam would mean anger. This is something worse — disappointment so deep it quiets you.

The bathroom light is too bright. You grip the edge of the sink until your knuckles ache, trying to steady your breathing, trying to figure out where your voice went.

On the other side of the door, you hear nothing. Not footsteps. Not movement. Not him coming after you. The silence slices right through you.

You breath in through your nose, out through your mouth, fighting the heaviness swelling in your chest. You don’t want to cry — not over this, not over him brushing you off like you’re a passing inconvenience. But your body doesn’t always listen. Your eyes burn anyway.

You turn on the tap, letting the water run, trying to muffle the shaky quiet of your breath. The mirror reflects the version of you you didn’t want to become — the one who tries so hard to appear unfazed, even when your splintering inside.

A knock never comes. He doesn’t call your name. Doesn’t say he’s sorry. Doesn’t try at all and that hurts in a way the dinner never could.

You finally shut the water off and press your fingertips to your eyelids, grounding yourself before stepping back. 

With a quiet sigh, you peel off the nice dress you’d worn to the dinner, the fabric falling in a soft heap on the floor. You pull on an oversized T-shirt, the familiar cotton comforting against your skin, loose and forgiving. In the mirror, you wipe away your makeup with slow, deliberate motions, the streaks of mascara and foundation tracing faint lines down your cheeks like a map of the evening’s weight. You brush your hair out of your face, tug your pajama shorts into place, and take a moment to just breathe, letting the mundane routine of preparing for bed feel like something steady in a night that’s been anything but.

You stay in the bathroom a few minutes longer, waiting — stupidly — for something. A sign that he cares enough to check on you. That he realizes he said the wrong thing. That he realizes he didn’t say nearly enough.

Nothing.

Eventually, a muted rustle from the bedroom breaks the silence — the faint creak of the mattress as he sits. You can picture him: leaning back, scrolling on his phone or rubbing his hand over his face, convincing himself you’re the one who blew things out of proportion. You take a deep breath and open the bathroom door.

The room is dim now, one lamp turned off. Joe sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, looking up only when the door clicks shut behind you. His eyes skim over you the way someone glances at a scoreboard — brief, calculating, not emotional.

“You done?” he asks again, this time quieter, but the phrasing is the same. The lack of softness is the same.

It hits you harder than the first time.

“I wasn’t having a tantrum,” you say, voice soft but steady. “I was trying to tell you something important.”

He runs a hand down his face, exhaling in frustration. “And I heard you. I did. You feel ignored. You want more from me in public. I get it. But blowing up over one night doesn’t exactly help your case.”

The way he says “your case” makes it sound like you’re presenting evidence in a trial he has already decided to dismiss.

You blink, slow and disbelieving. “Is that really all you took from what I said?”

Joe shrugs — shrugs — and it makes something cold settle deep inside you. “Look,” he mutters, “I’m not trying to fight anymore. I’m tired. You’re upset. Let’s just… drop it for tonight.”

You stare at him, feeling a mix of anger, hurt, and something that feels dangerously close to clarity. “Drop it,” you echo. “So we can pretend everything’s fine tomorrow?” 

He doesn’t answer — which is an answer.

The quiet stretches again, heavy and deliberate. You can feel it pressing against your ribs, weighing down the words you’ve fought to get out. You want to scream, to throw something, to make him see—but you don’t. Not yet. You take a step toward the door, then another, pacing the small space of the room. Every movement sharp with frustration, every breath a reminder that tonight, you’re alone in feeling everything.

“You really think ignoring this fixes it?” you finally snap, your voice breaking through the thick, stale air. It’s not a shout, but it’s sharper than the quiet he seems so comfortable in.

You stand there, chest tight, fists unclenching slowly as the adrenaline drains out of your arms. He doesn’t move, doesn’t look at you, doesn’t respond. His gaze drifts somewhere over your shoulder, maybe out the window, maybe to the corner of the room, but it isn’t on you. The fire that had flared in your chest slowly fizzles, leaving behind only a hollow ache. You let out a long, shuddering sigh, shoulders sagging, and finally step toward the bed.

Sliding under the covers, you tuck yourself in, the cool sheets doing little to calm the warmth still lingering from your frustration. You reach over and click the bedside lamp off, plunging the room into soft darkness. You turn your back to him, pulling the covers a little higher, trying to shut out not just the room, but him entirely.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he mutters after a few long, tense seconds. Not angry, not frustrated—just a flat statement, meant to puncture the tension. You don’t respond. You shut your eyes stubbornly, wishing sleep could pull you away from the ache in your chest, from the echo of everything you tried to say and everything he didn’t hear.

Minutes pass. You hear the faint scrape of him shifting on the bed, the rustle of clothing, a zipper. Then, soft footsteps across the carpet. He’s getting ready, you realize. The sounds are methodical, almost clinical—his routine—and they irritate you even in the darkness.

Eventually, the soft patter of his steps returns. He sits on the edge of the bed for a moment. You keep your eyes shut, pretending not to notice him. There’s a pause, a shuffle, then the warmth of him sliding in beside you.

His shoulder presses lightly against yours, tentative but deliberate. You stiffen for a second, resisting the instinct to move closer, resisting the pull you know you’ll feel anyway.

The mattress dips slightly as he adjusts, the sheets rustle, and finally, the subtle weight of him settles in. You remain silent, stubbornly still, turning your face slightly toward the pillow, keeping your eyes shut. You can feel his presence, the steady warmth, the quiet rhythm of his breathing.

Eventually, your own breathing begins to slow, tension easing fractionally, the edges of anger softened by exhaustion. The room is quiet, except for the soft cadence of two hearts trying, in their own stubborn ways, to exist beside each other.

THE DAYS AFTER THAT NIGHT SLIPPED BY like a slow tide, each one carrying the same quiet weight. By the time you and Joe returned to Cincinnati, leaving behind the hotel room and the city lights of New York where the dinner had been, the residual tension felt heavier somehow—closer to home, harder to ignore.

You both moved through your routines, careful not to stir up the unsettled waters that had formed between you. The fight—or argument, or whatever you wanted to call it—was never mentioned again, though its remnants lingered in every glance, every pause in conversation.

Joe left the house earlier than usual, pulling on his practice gear and tossing a quick, distracted nod in your direction before disappearing into the crisp morning air. You watched him go, a small twinge tightening in your chest, and turned back to the quiet house, feeling the emptiness more acutely than ever. By the time he returned, long after the sun had dipped behind the skyline, you were already out the door, caught up in errands, and longer shifts at work that left your feet sore and your mind buzzing, but at least distracted.

The house smelled of stale coffee and his lingering cologne. You kept your interactions to the minimum—“hello” in the morning, a shared nod in the evening, meals eaten in separate corners of the room. Even the bed felt different now, stretched wide with an absence that made you conscious of every inch between you.

And yet, in the quiet, you noticed him. You noticed the way his jaw tightened when he thought no one was looking, the subtle sighs that carried a weight you didn’t dare ask about.

You knew he wanted to fix it—could see it in the half-hearted attempts at conversation, the lingering looks that he quickly averted—but he didn’t know how to start. How do you approach someone who won’t meet you halfway, who has built walls from habits and privacy and stubborn pride?

You, on the other hand, didn’t want to bring it up. Didn’t want to be the one to reopen the wound, to appear needy, desperate, or too much. So you kept busy, pouring energy into work, laughter with friends, errands that made the hours pass faster. But even in the most crowded rooms, in the brightest laughter, there was a hollow spot where his presence belonged.

Some nights, you’d lie awake, listening to the faint hum of the city outside, imagining him next to you, so close yet so far. Did he toss and turn, thinking of you? Did he feel the distance as sharply as you did? Most likely. But neither of you would close it. Neither of you would be the first to admit it.

You were curled up on the living room couch, a half-eaten sandwich resting on your lap, the TV muted as your eyes followed the captions of a show you barely paid attention to. You hadn’t wanted to sit at the dining room table where Joe was spread out with his laptop and notes doing some film study, dissecting every angle like it mattered more than you sitting two feet away.

The sound of the enclosed living room door opening was subtle but familiar, a soft creak in the house. You didn’t even need to look up to know it was him. He appeared in the doorway, hesitation written into the set of his shoulders.

Something about his posture—head slightly lowered, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie—made it look like he had swallowed his pride to even ask for whatever he was about to ask. You weren’t sure if that made you feel better, seeing that vulnerability, or worse, because it reminded you how long it had taken to get him to show up in a way that mattered.

“Hey,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. Not quiet enough to be soft, just… careful.

You lifted one eyebrow. “Hey,” you replied, keeping your attention on the screen even though your heart rate had jumped a little.

He cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “So… there’s this thing,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck in that nervous gesture you recognized instantly. “A joint bachelorette/bachelor party, one of the front office people is throwing it… a few of the guys are going, and, uh… I wanted to know if you’d go too.”

“Oh. Sounds… thrilling,” you said, voice dripping enough snark to make the point without having to look at him.

He sighed, a long, low sound that filled the quiet room. “Never mind,” he muttered, starting toward the door, like he had already given up before you even spoke.

“Wait,” you groaned before your brain could stop you. Your chest was still tight from the argument you’d had days ago, the silence that followed, the way he’d sat on the edge of the bed as if nothing had happened—but there was something in the way he lingered near the doorway now like he was trying to offer some tiny olive branch that made your irritation falter. 

You exhaled slowly, half frustrated, half begrudgingly amused at yourself. “I—I’m going,” you said, voice low but steady.

He froze, hand on the doorknob, and glanced back at you, eyes narrowing in cautious hope.

“I’m not going to cancel last minute. It’s been on the calendar for weeks now, Joe. I wasn’t going to just… not go.” Your tone was softer now, but firm. You could feel your fingers tightening around the edge of the couch cushion.

He scratched at the back of his neck again, looking almost sheepish. “I… I didn’t think, after… everything… that you would still want to go.”

You shook your head, laughing without humour. “I’m not doing this for you,” you said, the words clear and precise. “I’m doing it because I already said I would. Because I already planned to."

He hesitated, leaning against the doorframe for a second, taking a measured breath. Then he gave a small nod and muttered, “Right. Okay.” His voice was quiet, subdued—not the usual confident tone that filled rooms, but softer, uncertain.

You turned back toward the muted screen, letting your fingers hover over the remote for a moment before pressing the button to raise the volume. The show’s dialogue filled the room, but it barely registered; your sandwich sat forgotten, dry and tasteless, like the last few days had been.

Joe stayed in the doorway for a moment longer, arms crossed loosely, like he wasn’t sure whether to leave or wait. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t need to — your silence said enough. Finally, with a resigned exhale, he stepped back, letting the door click softly behind him as he left.

And that’s how you find yourself standing in front of the mirror a few hours later, spinning slowly in the short cheetah-print dress you’d chosen for the “Y2K” theme the soon-to-be newlyweds had insisted on. It’s bold, it’s fun, it’s unapologetically you — the kind of outfit that makes you feel like you can own the night.

You smooth the fabric over your hips, tug lightly at the hem, and tilt your head, checking your reflection from every angle. Your hair falls in loose waves, a little wild, a little careless, perfect for a night where glitter and loud music matter more than the quiet tension at home. Your makeup is fierce without being overdone — a golden shimmer on your eyelids, a sweep of bronzer along your cheekbones, and lips that demand attention without saying a word.

This is good, you tell yourself. This is your chance to reclaim the night, to shake off the residue of cold silences and unspoken frustration. Joe can sulk in his corner, live in his private bubble of avoidance, but you won’t let that ruin the vibe. Tonight isn’t about him. Tonight is about letting loose, laughing until your ribs ache, and reminding yourself that you can still enjoy yourself.

You slip into heels, feeling the familiar pinch at first, then the rise in confidence that always comes with them. A quick glance at the clock tells you you have just enough time to grab your bag, slide on your jacket, and head out without feeling rushed.

Your phone buzzes — texts from the WAG groupchat with many already at the club, a mix of emojis and impatience. You smile, a genuine curve of lips that Joe hasn’t seen in days, and grab your bag.

You pad down the stairs quietly, hoping to slip past him unnoticed, to make it to the car without any unnecessary exchange. Optimism, as it turns out, is not your ally tonight.

There he is at the bottom of the stairs, leaning casually against the banister with his phone in hand, looking impossibly composed. When he looks up and sees you, something shifts — an imperceptible tightening in his shoulders, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

He looks… good. Too good. Every detail, from the sharp line of his jaw to the way his shirt fits across broad shoulders, makes your chest tighten with a mix of irritation and something more complicated that you don’t have the patience to name right now. Everything about him seems to bother you, from the confidence he carries to the way he tilts his head like he’s assessing, judging, savouring.

He doesn’t say anything immediately. Instead, he lets his gaze travel slowly over you, taking in the dress, the heels, the hair, the way you’ve made an effort that apparently, tonight, he notices. You stiffen under it, thinking he’s going to comment — compliment, tease, anything — but he doesn’t.

Eventually, he clenches his jaw like he’s forcing himself to let words stay locked away, and with a deliberate calm, he asks, “You ready to go?” He avoids your eyes fully, letting his flick briefly toward the stairs before settling back on the floor, like he’s testing your patience or his own resolve.

You take a breath, straighten your shoulders, and nod, letting your fingers brush lightly against the strap of your bag. “Yeah,” you answer, voice quiet but firm.

He gives a small, almost imperceptible nod and gestures toward the door with a tilt of his head. The movement is casual, but there’s a tautness beneath it, a restrained energy that hints at all the words neither of you have said over the past days.

Outside, the cool night air greets you. You both slide into the car, him in the driver’s seat, you in the passenger, the engine humming to life as if it’s its own quiet witness to the tension simmering just beneath the surface.

Streetlights flicker across his face as he pulls out of the driveway, carving shadows along his jaw, highlighting the faint crease between his brows. You can tell he’s thinking — overthinking, maybe — but not saying a word, and that restraint grates at you more than any argument ever could.

He keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, fingers tapping a slow rhythm you can’t decipher. You don’t look directly at him, instead turning your gaze to the window, watching the city shift from quiet residential streets into the neon-soaked buzz of nightlife.

At one red light, you feel his eyes on you. Not a quick glance — a look. You keep facing forward, but you can feel it, the weight of his attention, the unspoken words pushing at the space between you. When the light turns green, he’s the first to look away.

As you get closer, he slows the car, merging into the lane leading toward the private entrance the team uses for events. There’s already a small crowd outside — players, spouses, girlfriends, coworkers — dressed in a chaotic collage of Y2K nostalgia. Low-rise everything. Sparkles. Denim. Butterfly clips. Neon mesh tops. It should make you laugh, but the knot in your stomach is still too tight.

Joe pulls into the valet line, exhaling once through his nose, like he’s bracing himself. He puts the car in park but doesn’t immediately open the door. For a second, you think he’s going to speak — maybe offer some kind words — but he doesn’t. His fingers flex once on the steering wheel, knuckles going pale.

“You… good?” he asks finally, eyes fixed on the windshield. The question is simple, nearly emotionless, but you hear the quiet strain beneath it.

You force a small, controlled smile. “Yeah. I'm good,” you say, and even you can hear the lie tucked under it.

He nods like he believes you, or like he’s pretending to. Hard to tell which. Then he steps out, walks around the car, and opens your door. He doesn’t offer a hand — he hasn’t in days — but he waits, the slightest courtesy lingering in his posture.

You step out into the night, the thumping bass from inside vibrating through the pavement. Lights flash from the entrance in bursts of pink and blue. A group of your friends spot you from across the sidewalk, waving dramatically, already cheering your arrival.

You finally smile — a real one — and wave back.

Joe watches the interaction quietly, something in his expression softening for just a moment before he quickly schools it back into neutrality. “Have fun,” he murmurs, voice barely audible over the music.

You glance at him, unsure whether he means it or if it’s just something to say. But you nod anyway. “You too,” you offer, even though you’re not sure he will.

Inside, the club feels like stepping into another universe — one made of bass, glitter, and bodies moving under hazy pink lights. The air thrums with nostalgia; every corner is drenched in some version of early-2000s chaos. Your friends latch onto you immediately, pulling you into their circle with excited shrieks and compliments shouted over the music. Someone hands you a drink, someone else fixes a butterfly clip in your hair, and for a moment you let their warmth pull you out of your own head.

Across the room, you catch a glimpse of Joe with the guys — all of them in their own version of the theme, some ironically, some embarrassingly committed. He’s got a backwards cap on and a white tee stretched across his shoulders, the kind that shouldn’t look as good as it does. He stands slightly behind the group, nursing a drink, nodding along to whatever conversation they’re having. He laughs once at something Ja’Marr says, but it’s short, controlled, like he’s too aware of where you are to fully relax.

He doesn’t come over. Not once.

But every few minutes, when you shift or laugh or tuck your hair behind your ear, you feel him looking. You turn your head — just enough to catch the tail end of a glance he pretends he wasn’t giving, eyes sliding away as if he’d been focused on anything else.

You stay close to your girls — smiling, laughing, sipping slowly. You’re polite when someone compliments your outfit. You dance a little when your favorite old-school song comes on. You’re doing everything you can to seem light, easy, unbothered.

And you’re almost convincing yourself… until you head to the bar.

When your group makes its way toward the bar, you slide onto an open spot, elbows against the counter, letting the cool surface kiss your skin. You ask for another drink — something fruity, something sweet — and while you wait, someone steps up beside you.

He’s got that slick confidence some men wear like cologne: too strong, too obvious, impossible to ignore.

“Didn’t think anyone else could pull off a dress like that,” he says, tone smooth and practiced.

You blink, brows lifting. His gaze drags down the length of your legs like he thinks he has the right. You shift your weight subtly, turning your body a little toward your friends.

“Thanks,” you answer politely, offering a small, tight smile — the kind that clearly means that’s enough.

He doesn’t take the hint.

“So… you here alone?” he asks, leaning in. He positions his elbow on the bar like he wants to trap you between it and his shoulder.

“No,” you say gently, keeping your tone friendly but final. “I’m with friends.”

He nods once but doesn’t look away — instead he scans the room lazily, then returns his eyes to you with a grin that’s just a little too confident. “But no guy with you?” he presses. When you don’t answer immediately, his grin widens as if he’s just solved a puzzle. “That’s good news for me.”

Your tongue presses against the inside of your cheek. “I’m actually—”

“Taken,” a voice cuts in — low, steady, and unmistakably sure of itself. “She’s taken.”

You freeze because you know that voice. You know it in the way your pulse jumps, in the way the air around you shifts, in the way your body recognises him before your mind catches up.

You straighten instinctively, rising from your seat before you can even think about it — not out of fear, but because your whole body reacts to that voice like it’s been waiting for it, like gravity itself just shifted and pulled you upright.

And then you feel it fully — the weight of his presence closing in around you, familiar and grounding. An arm slides around your waist — slow at first, deliberate, like he’s giving you time to pull away if you want to. His palm spreads across your hip, fingers settling with a kind of certainty that sends heat rushing up your spine. He steps in behind you, close enough that you feel the warmth of his chest at your back, the familiar scent of him curling around you even through the noise and sweat and neon lights.

Joe.

You don’t turn. You can’t yet. You’re too aware — of his body bracketing yours, of the protective tension in his grip, of the way his presence sinks into your skin like a memory your heart has been starving for.

The guy beside you flicks his eyes between the two of you, unimpressed. “Didn’t look like it,” he says, smug and dismissive, like he thinks this is a game he’s still winning.

You feel Joe go perfectly, dangerously still. Not rigid. Not angry. Just controlled in that razor-sharp way he gets when something digs right under his skin and hits bone. His hand tightens slightly on your waist — not enough to hurt, just enough that you feel the message in the pressure: stay with me.

The guy’s smirk barely has time to settle before something shifts — in Joe, in the air, in the space around you. You feel it like a warning, like the moment right before lightning hits: charged and inevitable.

In one smooth, decisive motion, he turns your body toward him, guiding you with the hand still warm and firm at your waist. His other hand lifts, brushing a strand of hair back from your face, then cupping your jaw with a care that contradicts the tension coiled through the rest of him.

You look up — and his eyes are already on you, intense, darkened, full of something he hasn’t let himself say out loud these past few days. Something he’s been swallowing, avoiding, burying under schedules and silence.

He doesn’t give himself another second to reconsider. His thumb strokes your cheek once, and then he kisses you. Not tentative. Not a whisper of a kiss meant to prove a point.

It’s deep and immediate and hungry — a kiss that steals the breath from your lungs and replaces it with heat. His hand holds your jaw firmly, angling your mouth toward his as he presses into you like he’s been craving this, craving you, for far too long.

Your fingers curl instinctively into the fabric of his shirt. His grip on your waist tightens, pulling you closer, slotting your body fully against his. The noise of the club dims, blurs, disappears under the pounding of your pulse in your ears.

It’s a kiss that burns, and brands, and warns.

But he doesn’t stop. Even when your lungs start to burn. Even when your fingers tremble against his chest. Even when the reason — the guy, the stupid smug stranger — is long gone, swallowed by the crowd. Joe keeps kissing you like he’s starving. Like he’s trying to make up for days of silence in a single breath. Like he’s terrified that if he lets you go now, he won’t get another chance.

And for one wild second, you let him. You forget the bar. The club. The people around you. You forget why he stepped in at all. But then reality snaps back like a rubber band against your skin.

Your palms push flat against his chest, shoving him back just enough to break the kiss. He stumbles half a step, brows knotting in confusion, breaths ragged. You swipe the back of your hand across your mouth, grounding yourself, anchoring yourself.

“What the hell?” you spit, breathless and furious.

His eyes widen a fraction — not offended, just startled — like he hadn’t even considered that you might be angry. Like the possibility never crossed his mind. “What?” he says, chest rising and falling. “I—”

“You don’t get to do this to me, Joe.” Your voice fractures in the middle — anger, sadness, confusion, all tangled.

His brows tug together, helpless, almost pained. “Do what?”

A scoff tears out of you as you shake your head, something hot and bitter burning in your chest. Of course. Of course he doesn’t get it. Of course he swoops in, touches you like he owns you, kisses you like he’s been thinking about it nonstop — then acts surprised when it hurts.

You turn sharply and walk away, needing space, air, anything that isn’t him. The crowd swallows you immediately, bodies brushing past, lights flickering across your vision.

“Hey—” You hear him behind you, voice strained. “Hey, wait—”

You don’t. You keep moving, pushing through bodies, weaving between dancing strangers.

“Y/N.” This time it’s firmer. Closer. Footsteps follow. Faster. He’s right behind you now, matching your pace like he refuses to let the distance grow.

“Would you just—” You feel his fingers curl gently but insistently around your arm, tugging you back toward him. “Stop.”

You whirl around, fury crackling through you. “Don’t—” you hiss, breath shaking. But he’s already stepping closer, jaw tight, eyes burning in a way that makes your heartbeat stutter painfully in your chest.

“Look at me,” he says, low, steady, the command threaded with something raw. You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t give him that. But your eyes lift anyway. 

His eyes lock onto yours, searching, tense, unblinking — and then his voice drops, softer but no less intense. “Talk to me,” he says. “Please. Just… tell me what’s wrong.”

You yank your arm out of his grip, breath shaking as it escapes your lungs in something closer to a laugh — a sharp, disbelieving sound. “Oh, I’ll tell you what’s wrong.”

His jaw flexes. He braces for it.

“You had no right to do that,” you snap, voice rising before you can stop it. “In front of everyone, Joe. In front of my friends. In a club full of people. Like you suddenly get to claim me when we haven’t even—” You cut yourself off, chest heaving.

“We never revisited that conversation,” you say, quieter but more lethal. “Not once. You shut down. You avoided me. I tried to give you space, tried to understand the way you are — how you freeze up when things get too public, how you hate eyes on you, how you get weird when anything feels too exposed. I respected it. I followed your lead.”

His brows pinch, because he knows that’s true. Because he felt it too.

“And then you go and pull this stunt?” you demand, voice cracking. “You can barely speak to me for days and then kiss me like that in the middle of a room full of people. You don’t get to go cold and then suddenly act like—” Your throat tightens, burning. “Like you want me,” you whisper. “Like you want all of me. Because you can’t just switch it on and off. You can’t keep doing this to me.”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

You shake your head, breath trembling. “Do you even realize what you’re doing to me? The way you look at me some days, like I’m the only person in the room? And then the next day you act like you barely know me? I’m trying to make sense of it, Joe. I really am.”

Your voice breaks completely. “Because behind closed doors? When it’s just us?” You swallow hard, blinking back heat from your eyes. “That’s the version of you I… I love.”

He goes absolutely still, like the air has been sucked out of the space between you.

“I love that man,” you say, anger and heartbreak tangling in every syllable. “The one who lets me in. The one who touches me like I matter. The one who doesn’t run. The one who—” Your voice drops. “The one who kisses me like that.”

Your hands lift helplessly, falling again. “But I don’t know which you I’m getting anymore. I don’t know what you want from me. And it’s driving me insane.”

He stands there, breathing like he just ran a mile, chest rising and falling as your confession echoes between you — raw, trembling, disbelieving even to your own ears.

And then, finally, he moves.

Not toward you at first. Just a step back, like your words punched the air out of him and he needs space to take it in. His hand drags through his hair, slow and rough, like he’s trying to physically pull his thoughts together. When he looks at you again, his eyes are different — wide, unguarded, stripped of every wall he usually hides behind.

“Jesus,” he whispers, more to himself than to you. “You think I don’t want you?”

You flinch, because the hurt is still hot, still burning through your ribs. “Of course you do,” you mutter, voice cracked, bitter. “In private. When no one’s looking. When it’s easy.”

He shakes his head immediately — sharp, almost desperate — like the thought alone guts him. “No. That’s not—” He stops, jaw tight, breath unsteady. “I’m bad at this. I know I am. I know I pulled away. I know I didn’t say enough. I know I didn’t say anything. And I should’ve. I should’ve talked to you instead of shutting down.”

He swallows hard, shoulders rising with a breath that sounds like it hurts. “The truth is you… you scare the hell out of me.”

You blink, taken off guard. “What?”

“You do.” His voice is rough, thick with honesty he’s clearly terrified to give. “Because I’ve never felt like this before. Not with anyone. And I didn’t want to ruin it. I didn’t want to—” His throat works. “I didn’t want to screw this up so I told myself to slow down,” he continues, eyes never leaving you. “To back off. To take a breath before I did something stupid. But then I saw that guy leaning into you, and I—”

He cuts himself off, shaking his head as if the memory alone ignites something hot in his chest. “I lost it. I didn’t think. I didn’t plan it. I just—"

He takes another step toward you, close enough that the bass of the club vibrates between your bodies. "I needed him to know you weren’t available. And I needed you to know that I’m not going anywhere.”

Your throat tightens again, this time for a different reason. He sees the tears gathering at your lashes — anger, confusion, affection, all of it — and his voice softens. “I’m sorry,” he says, quiet but firm.

“I’m so damn sorry for making you doubt any of this. I never meant to hurt you. I’ve just… I’ve been trying to play it safe. And every time I’m around you, I get so far past ‘safe’ I can’t see straight.”

You look away for a second, swallowing down the remaining hurt. “You still kissed me in front of everyone,” you say, the last edges of your anger clinging to your words. “You put me in a position you know you’d hate. You blindsided me.”

He nods — not defensive, not dismissive — but with the weight of someone who knows he deserves that. “I know,” he murmurs. “And I can’t take that moment back. But I swear to you, I didn’t kiss you to make a scene. I kissed you because I’ve been wanting to for days and I was too scared to do it when it mattered. And tonight, I… I couldn’t hold it in anymore.”

You hold his gaze, searching, still wary.

He steps just a little closer — close enough for his voice to fall softer, steadier, honest in a way that makes your chest tighten. “I don’t want to confuse you,” he says. “I don’t want to be hot one day and cold the next. I don’t want you wondering where you stand with me. I don’t want you thinking I don’t want you the way you want me.”

Your breath shakes, because the moment feels too big, too raw, too close.

“I want this,” he says, finally, clearly, like he’s saying something he should’ve said days ago.

"When things get real for me — really real — I get in my head. I overthink. I freeze.” A humourless laugh slips out of him. “You said that earlier. And you’re right. I do. I hate eyes on me. I hate people knowing too much. I hate the idea of anyone watching something I haven’t figured out how to protect yet.”

His eyes flick briefly down, then back up. “And you’re the one thing I want to protect the most. Which makes me… an idiot.”

You huff out a shaky breath. “Joe—”

“I’m not making excuses,” he cuts in gently. “I’m telling you why I screwed this up so badly. Why I panicked. Why I pulled away even though it killed me.” He pauses, searching your face like the next words matter more than anything he’s said tonight. “I’ve never loved someone the way I love you. Not even close.”

The words settle between you, warm and trembling and undeniably real. You’re still hurt. You’re still unsure. But you’re also listening and he sees that — sees your breathing slow, the anger easing but not gone, your eyes softening even as your walls stay up.

He takes one final half-step closer, barely brushing your space. “You’re allowed to still be mad,” he says, voice low. “Just… don’t walk away from me yet. Not tonight.”

You drag a hand through your hair and look away because it’s too much — the heat of his body against yours, the sincerity in his voice, the way he’s looking at you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your hurt. It hits you harder than the alcohol ever could. Too intense. Too real.

And suddenly the anger you’ve been clinging to like a shield doesn’t feel sharp anymore. It softens at the edges, cooling into something molten and heavy in your chest — heartbreak and hope twisted together until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

Your throat tightens. You swallow. Once. Twice.

“I’m still mad,” you say eventually, voice quiet, almost swallowed by the music.

“I know.”

“But I’m not walking away.”

He exhales shakily — relief, disbelief, something softer beneath it — like he hadn’t let himself hope for that answer until this second.

“Okay,” he whispers.

“Okay,” you echo.

Neither of you move, and for a long moment, the tension hangs — taut, fragile, a wire stretched between two people who know the stakes and are terrified of snapping it. 

You feel the weight of your own indecision. Every instinct tells you to retreat, to step back and reclaim the space that’s suddenly been invaded by something more than words, more than anger, more than anything you thought you were prepared to handle tonight. But another part — a part that hasn’t stopped hoping, that hasn’t stopped wanting him despite everything — keeps you rooted, trembling in place.

Finally, he does something small. Simple. Almost imperceptible if you weren’t watching for it. He extends his hand toward you, palm up, fingers slightly curled as though asking permission rather than demanding.

It’s not a surrender. It’s not a promise. It’s an olive branch — a fragile, trembling offer of something neither of you knows how to define yet.

Your hand hovers in the air, unsure if it wants to meet his or withdraw entirely. Your chest rises and falls, and you glance down at the space between your fingertips, the world shrinking to the narrow stretch of air separating you both.

It’s tempting. Dangerous. It’s hope wrapped in apology and a little fear, and it makes your pulse jump in a way that’s entirely unfair. You’re not sure if you trust it. You’re not sure you trust him. But you also know that something inside you — something stubborn, something that refuses to let go — wants to reach out.

You lift your hand slowly, almost involuntarily, letting your fingers brush against his. It’s tentative, a test, a quiet truce. And when his hand closes gently over yours, warm and firm, it’s not perfect, it’s not complete, but it’s a start.

Your fingers barely settle into his before he’s already moving — slow, steady, like he’s afraid any sudden motion might spook you, but certain enough that you feel the quiet resolve threaded into the gesture. His hand wraps fully around yours, warm and grounding, as he guides you through the crowd.

The people around you blur into shadows and color as he leads you, weaving between dancers and bodies and the pulse of the bass. He stays close — closer than he needs to. His arm brushes yours with every step, his thumb tracing absent-minded, almost nervous circles against the back of your hand.

It’s a contradiction in motion: soft, hesitant touches paired with a grip that refuses to let you drift even an inch farther than he wants you. You feel it with each step — that shift in him. That decision. That choice.

When you reach the booth where your friends are still gathered, laughing and talking over music, Joe slows but doesn’t let go. If anything, his hand tightens on yours, like instinct takes over before thought can catch up.

Your friends look up — first at you, then at him — and confusion flickers across a few faces because Joe Burrow doesn’t do this. He doesn’t wear his feelings where anyone can see them.

Tonight though, he stays.

He slides in behind you, hand drifting from your fingers to your waist, settling there with a familiarity that is very much not subtle. His thumb presses into your hip bone, slow and possessive. You swear you feel heat bloom under your skin. Then, as the conversation around you picks up again, he leans down — like it’s nothing, natural — and rests his cheek briefly against your temple.

You go still because that? That’s not a Joe move. Not the Joe everyone else knows, at least.

His hand doesn’t stay still long. It slips lower, fingers brushing along your hip, then the curve of your thigh when you shift. When you move closer to your friends, his hand returns to your lower back, guiding you without pushing. When you lean forward to grab your drink, his palm finds your waist again, sliding under the hem of your top just enough that you feel the heat of his skin against yours. It’s not once, not twice, but constant.

He’s glued to you — physically, emotionally, magnetically — like his body refuses to accept even an inch of distance. And every time he touches you, it feels a little less like a claim and a little more like a confession he doesn’t know how to speak aloud.

Your friends notice. How could they not?

His arm around your waist as you talk. His fingers brushing your knuckles when you take a sip. The way he leans down to say something only to you, his breath warm against your ear. The absent slide of his hand along your hip when someone else steps close to you in the crowded booth and he instinctively pulls you nearer.

It’s jealous, possessive, needy. It’s devotion edged with fear — the kind that says don’t go far, I’m still figuring out how to deserve you.

He doesn’t even pretend to go back to his boys. They glance over once or twice, eyebrows raised, but Joe? He doesn’t move. Doesn’t waver. He sits with you — stays with you — like this is where he was supposed to be all along.

For the first time… he lets himself be yours in public. And God, you can feel it. Every brush of his fingers. Every protective shift of his body. Every subtle press of affection he gives without even realizing who’s watching. 

It sends warmth sweeping through you — slow, dizzying, undeniable. It builds slowly like heat rising beneath your skin, like something thick and honey-sweet settling low in your stomach. Because the longer he stays pressed against you, the more undeniable it becomes: Joe isn’t hiding you — not tonight, not anymore.

He doesn’t let go of you when the night winds down. Not when your friends begin gathering their things, not when you slide out of the booth, not when he guides you toward the exit with a hand on your lower back like he’s afraid the crowd might swallow you again.

Outside, the air is cooler, quieter, but his touch stays warm on your skin.

His car is parked a block away, and even then — even with fewer people, fewer eyes — Joe sticks close. His fingers find yours again, not tentative this time, not searching. Certain. Firm. Like he’s made a decision and the only thing left is to follow it.

He opens the passenger door for you and you settle into the seat as he rounds the car and slides into his own. For a moment, the only sound is the engine turning over and the muted rush of traffic in the distance.

Then his hand falls onto your knee.

His palm rests there like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His thumb makes a slow pass over your skin, a subtle stroke that sends a pulse straight up your spine. He doesn’t look at you when he does it, doesn’t announce it, doesn’t wait for your reaction. He just… keeps it there. As if he’s been waiting all night to touch you in a way that isn’t frantic or apologetic or desperate — just real.

The city lights flash across his face as he drives — sharp lines softened by the dark, jaw tight with concentration, eyes fixed on the road. But every few seconds, that thumb moves again, a slow, rhythmic sweep side to side that feels more like reassurance than anything he could say out loud.

You feel your muscles unwind, inch by inch. The anger’s gone. The ache is still there — a bruise beneath the ribs — but what’s rising in its place is quieter, warmer. Something that feels dangerously close to peace.

By the time he pulls into your driveway, the tension between you has softened into something fragile but steady — a truce held together by touch and the promise of trying again. He squeezes your knee once before letting go. And as the engine cuts off and the silence settles, you realise you’re no longer bracing for the next hurt, just waiting to see what comes next. 

The night isn’t healed, not by a long shot, but it’s no longer breaking. It’s beginning.

YOU DON’T BREAK OPEN ALL AT ONCE. You settle back into each other slowly — in the quiet, in the in-between moments, in the subtle ways your walls start lowering without either of you calling attention to it.

You start noticing the little things first: the way he reaches for your hand when you leave restaurants, fingers lacing through yours like muscle memory finally allowed to be muscle memory again. The way his palm settles on the small of your back at events, guiding you through crowds like you’re something he refuses to lose track of. And sometimes — when he thinks no one is watching, or maybe when he’s finally stopped caring if they are — he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

Nothing big. Nothing loud.

Just steps. 

Steps you don’t rush him through, steps he takes on his own, steady and sincere. You’re proud of him for that — not for being perfect, not for performing, but for trying. For choosing closeness even when he still gets nervous about being seen.

And tonight, that quiet confidence he’s been building, the small gestures that have made your days feel warmer, they trail behind him all the way to the stadium.

The anticipation, the way your chest tightens at the thought of seeing him in action, it all laces itself into the nerves that curl low in your stomach. It’s game day, and even though you’ve gotten used to his routines, even though you’ve learned how to exist alongside his world without breaking it, you still can’t help the familiar, fluttering worry that comes every time he’s out there, fighting, giving everything he has.

The hum of the stadium seeps through the glass, low and steady, vibrating faintly under your fingertips as you sit perched on the window sill, knees pulled up to your chest. Your phone rests in your lap, screen glowing softly, fingers unconsciously tugging at your nails.

You hadn’t seen him yet this morning. You’d sent him a quick good luck message earlier that morning; he’d liked it, a tiny acknowledgment that warmed you despite the distance.

You were familiar with the rhythm he needed: solitary mornings, quiet preparation, the sort of headspace that let him focus on what he does best. The night before had been just as you liked it — him at the kitchen table, eyes on film study, coffee cup warm between his hands, and you on the living room couch, book in hand, quietly near but co-existing seperately.

Your gaze drifts out the glass, scanning the field, and there he is — Joe, phone in hand, and definitely not doing warmups. Your brow furrows. That’s strange, you think. He’s always out early, getting his stretches in, warming up his body and mind. 

And then your phone dings, vibrating softly against your thigh. You glance down, picking it up, and the notification makes your chest flutter:

Joey 💞 Come to the sideline today? Joey 💞 I want to see you before the game.

You look back up, catching him glancing up at your suite, scanning the window like he knows exactly where you are. You shake your head, smiling despite the nerves curling in your stomach, even though you’re sure he can’t see you from here.

Excusing yourself from the cluster of familiar faces in the suite — Robin, Jimmy, his cousins, childhood friends, old teammates — you make your way toward the elevator, heart hammering in that anxious-but-excited rhythm you only get with him.

You don’t come down to the sidelines often. The suite is your safe space — private, quiet, free from cameras, free from people watching your every gesture. And, admittedly, you worry about what your nerves might do to him if you’re too close on game day — about how your anxiety might project onto him, about how easily it could distract the calm, controlled focus he fights to maintain.

You push the caution aside, letting your feet carry you forward, toward him, toward the pre-game moment you both somehow need.

The elevator doors open, spilling you out into the pulse of the stadium. The noise hits you in waves — cheers from early-arriving fans, the sharp whistles of staff moving across the field, the clatter of equipment being readied. Lights glare, people bustle, cameras flash somewhere in the distance, and the smell of turf and sweat hangs heavy in the air.

You navigate through the flurry, careful not to collide with staff or players warming up, until you reach the barrier that separates spectators from the field. You lean against it lightly, knees brushing the metal, scanning the chaos for him. Your chest hammers as your eyes dart across the sideline, catching movement, a familiar silhouette.

There he is — Joe, standing a few yards away, talking to a couple of guys in his pre-game huddle, phone tucked under his arm. For a moment, he doesn’t notice you, and your chest tightens just slightly with nerves, your hands fidgeting at the barrier. Then your eyes meet, and something in the world stills. You give him a half-wave, a small, tentative gesture, and his lips twitch upward in recognition. That little smile, that familiar spark, makes your pulse jump.

He excuses himself from the group, weaving through the sideline with casual confidence, and you brace yourself for what you think will come next: maybe a quick hello, a soft touch on the shoulder, a brief hug. The type of acknowledgment that keeps the balance between public and private, the kind of gentle connection that doesn’t draw attention.

But then — everything changes.

He locks eyes with you, moves with determination that cuts through the cameras, the flashing lights, the shouting crowd. He doesn’t hesitate. By the time he reaches you, he’s closing the space entirely, both arms wrapping around you, and your knees go weak from the sheer force of it. Before you can even process it, before your brain can tell your heart to slow down, he kisses you.

Not a quick peck. Not a polite gesture. A full, certain kiss, the kind that’s been building between you for weeks, months even, now unleashed without restraint, without apology. The noise of the crowd, the cameras, the world around you — it all disappears. The cheers ripple across the field, cameras flash, teammates glance your way, and the broadcast catches the moment for everyone watching at home, but none of it touches the quiet intensity of the moment you’re trapped in.

You freeze for a heartbeat, stunned. Your arms wrap around him instinctively, melting into the warmth of him, into the certainty of his presence, and for the first time in weeks, you feel completely untethered in the best way possible.

His lips part from yours just long enough for him to whisper against your ear, voice low and raw, “I don’t care who sees anymore.”

And just like that, he’s jogging back toward the field, slipping into warmups, but not before planting another quick, sharp kiss on your lips — enough to make the crowd react, enough to set your heart racing in a way that will linger for hours. Your cheeks burn, warmth spreading from your chest outward, and even as the adrenaline races through you, a calm settles behind it. 

The flashes, the cameras, the world watching — it doesn’t matter. Because tonight, in front of everyone, he chose you. Chose you without hesitation, without reservation, without the usual carefulness that keeps him guarded.

And as you pull yourself upright, gripping the barrier with one hand, your phone forgotten at your side, you realise something crystal clear: you finally have him out loud. No more holding back, no more careful distance, no more private gestures kept behind closed doors.

Your Joe, in front of everyone, just chose you and you know with an unshakable certainty that he’ll never hold you at arm’s length again.

GLOOMY CLOUDS AND a faint breeze do little to tame the sticky sweat clinging to you like second skin, Mississippi’s unrelenting humidity still managing to make your life more difficult, even though it’s 69 degrees in late October. It’s by far the biggest disadvantage to cheering in the SEC–the heat that lasts essentially half the season. It doesn’t help that you’re currently squished in Davis Wade Stadium’s rather small entrance tunnel alongside many other overheated dancers and rowdy football players with not a care for the sweat dripping down their backs. Still, you plan on hitting your marks diligently, welcoming the outbursts of displeasure from the crowd that are bound to ensue once you take to the field. 

You try to glance around for any signal of when you’ll be released from your confinement, only to get lost in the array of jerseys and uniforms that flood the scene until you lock eyes with stormy blue ones that you usually know all too well.

Joe. 

Though right now, just before you all break towards the field in a mad rush, there’s something in those eyes that always feel unrecognizable before a game. You understand why they’re slightly blown out, the mad fury that comes with his competitive nature showing. You understand his dilated pupils, knowing the dopamine seeping into his system isn’t unlike the feeling he gets when he’s giving into his desires and pounding into your sopping cunt relentlessly, because you’ve watched those black pits grow larger and larger as you’ve trembled beneath him. You understand his furrowed brows, a result of his narrow concentration and attention to detail. You can even see the plays he’s drilling in his brain, his eyes occasionally darting as he goes through his first, second, and third read on each call. 

You can almost see him, until something is off. It’s different each time, or is it the same each time? You can never really put your finger on it. A certain eye twitch when his thought is interrupted, a specific way his blinking slows, a flash of green that never quite goes away until the clock hits zero. It’s gotta be something right?

Whatever it is, you can’t stop looking for it, and Joe doesn’t break eye contact with you. But the fire in his body reminds you of a conversation you had mere hours ago.

Each step you take off the bus feels more refreshing than the last, the breezy Fall air filling your nose a much needed change from the stale suffocation you experienced on the bus. You hang around when you get off, waiting for your teammates with Ja’marr who’s babbling about how his ditzy high school girlfriend ended up at Mississippi State. 

“She legitimately thought brown cows made chocolate milk bro. I can’t make this shit up,” Ja’marr rants with a laugh, quickly downing his third Gogo Squeez before shoving the trash in his pocket. He nods a greeting at Joe who’s the next to step off the boys’ bus. “We gotta cook these hoes, I’m tellin’ you. Wanna make it hilariously bad for them,” he points out, giving Joe a pat on the shoulder as he approaches.

“Conference opponent? Yeah, I want them embarrassed,” Joe agrees with a smirk, unwrapping a caramel apple sucker and popping it into his mouth. You roll your eyes, but can’t help but stare as his strong jaw clenches, moving the lollipop around with his tongue. 

“Oh come on, it’ll be light work. These dudes are trash,” Ja’marr defends as he gives you a teasing shove.

“I just want you to win, I don’t care how you do it,” you groan, snatching Ja’marr’s fourth Gogo Squeez out of his hands for yourself. 

“We’re gonna go off, I’d bet on it,” Joe challenges you, that competitive glint in his eye growing stronger by the moment. 

“I ain’t got no money for that,” Ja’marr shakes his head, doing a double take when he sees Raya stepping off the Tiger Girls bus, suddenly forgetting your conversation all together. “I’ll see you in the locker room bro…” He trails off, patting Joe’s shoulder again and letting his feet carry him over to the freshman. You follow his gaze, giggling when you notice who Ja’marr’s latest target is. 

“So what do I get if I do good?” Joe grins cockily, clearly focused on the late night activities you two are sure to get up to when you get back to Louisiana. Ever since you and Joe agreed to take things slow, it feels like the both of you have been insatiable when it comes to sex, partially because every time you get it on it feels like there’s some kind of time limit. There’s always a practice, class, or essay to get to. 

An idea pops into your head, as you’re well aware Joe hasn’t been able to have you for nearly as long as he’d like. Maybe the promise of more than one round would be perfect motivation to make Mississippi State pay…

“How about this,” you smirk, gripping the back of Joe’s neck and pulling his ear down to your lips. “Tonight, when we get back to Baton Rouge, you’re gonna want to have me all to yourself. And when you do…I’ll let you make me cum for each touchdown pass you throw,” you whisper seductively, lightly scratching the hair on the back of his neck.

Joe’s grip on your waist immediately tightens as he groans softly in your ear. “You don’t know what you’re in for. Deal,” he whispers back, pressing a quick kiss to your temple that causes your heart to leap and your body to heat. 

And as he walked off, you saw it. That thing in his eyes that you don’t quite know.

You’re snapped out of your daze when Joe turns to face the wall of the tunnel, taking a long breath before ramming his helmet-clad head into the wall three times. The piercing clank rings out, and a few Mississippi Bulldogs snap their heads around at the sharp sound only to be met by the disturbing sight of Joe abusing the walls of their tunnel–and his helmet. The sight only causes your anticipation to build, as if the nervous energy of your teammates and boisterous presence of the boys wasn’t doing enough to spike your heart rate. 

You breathe in, then out slowly, closing your eyes and using the opportunity to bask in the feeling. These moments are what you live for. When you come back to reality, it feels like no time has passed, but you’re being ushered onto the field with only one directive:  Go!

The team bursts from the tunnel in purple and gold, welcoming the side chatter and inevitable boos that come from the crowd on away games. Of course you still skip right to your position on the sideline and plaster a wide smile on your face for the travelling Tigers that line the away side, a good amount of LSU gear breaking up the sea of white and burgundy. 

You can immediately tell that this is going to be one of those easy games that you fly right through. Aside from the fact that you’ve been strutting through routines the best you have this entire season, 3:30pm games in significantly smaller stadiums are simply less electrifying and nerve wracking, which means you won’t be thinking too hard. 60,000 spectators may have intimidated a Wagner girl. Bowling Green, New Mexico State, maybe even a UNC Tarheel who’s too engrossed in her books to realize the weight an SEC team like M State carries. But you? An LSU Tiger Girl? You can’t help but think…It’s cute! 

As you expected, the game has started before you can even blink. Grace calls out a short cheer after the kickoff in support of the defense, then all eyes are on the boys.

The first quarter is a relentless back and forth between both defenses, that you don’t much care for at all. The Tigers get a huge stop on 4th & 1 in the middle of the field which has you hooting and hollering, until the Bulldogs get a goal line stop after a long drive and force LSU into a field goal. On offense Mississippi manages to chew up a lot of clock as well, but thankfully come out empty handed with only a minute left in the first quarter. By the start of the second, Joe is on his own 30 starting to work his way up the field.

The LSU offense makes smooth work of the Bulldogs with an explosive run and a few quick passes to the tight end Moss, until they’re forced into another short field goal by Cade York. Luckily, the ball is back in Joe’s hands quickly when the Tigers’ defense forces a fumble at the 45. Your frustration starts to bubble when Mississippi’s aggression starts to show, tackles looking very physical, nasty words being exchanged, and even a facemask penalty being called on both Joe and an O-lineman. It’s by far your least favorite part of football, the risk of injury, and it doesn’t help your anxiety any more when Joe is blown up by a DT on the very next play. Cheers of excitement fill the stadium, and you hold your breath until he jumps right back up, casually handing the ball to the referee. Unfortunately the sack pushes you far behind the sticks, so LSU settles for another field goal, making it 9-0. 

Your frustration starts to morph into anxiety as Mississippi starts barrelling down the field, big play after big play being made by the guys in maroon. Soon enough the Bulldogs are in the endzone. “Shit,” You sigh under your breath, your eyes darting around the field as M State fans go crazy all around you. When you’re unranked and you score on the #2 team in the nation, it doesn’t matter if you’re still losing. You rub it in their face. 

As each team switches personnel for the kickoff, you tilt your head towards the sideline and see Joe having a focused conversation with a coach, grabbing his helmet and preparing to take the field. That look in his eye is fiercer than ever with a hint of frustration mixed in, but mostly his calm, cool, collected demeanor. When they finish their conversation Joe meets your eye, and his brooding facade cracks for a split second, the faintest smirk flashing across his face. It’s a look so intense you have to break eye contact, willing yourself to focus on the crowd as Grace calls out another cheer. Your heart thuds against your ribcage as you recall your agreement, and the fact that LSU hasn’t scored a single touchdown–field goals only.

The kickoff return made by Clyde is impressive, and yards are tacked on for a facemask foul, putting LSU at the 40 yard line. The offense jogs onto the field afterwards, Joe now looking casual as ever as he lines up in shotgun. On the very first snap, he fakes a handoff, and throws a deep shot to Racey McMath for a 60 yarder. Touchdown. 

Your jaw drops in disbelief, and you can’t help but jump and holler with the rest of your team in the wake of a very quick turnaround. Every ounce of creeping anxiety you had is immediately diminished, the momentum swinging right back to LSU because of how badly Joe torched the M State defense. 

“That’s one,” you mutter to yourself with a smile, your heart starting to race even faster when you think of just how many touchdowns Joe could throw the rest of the game with determination like that. Your cheers are a little louder, smile a little wider, and hops a little higher as the defense takes the field, your shoulders finally relaxing now that the Tigers have very clear control over the game. 

Your point is proven when Mississippi starts playing frantically, resulting in penalties and an interception. Joe plows down the field again, this time hitting Ja’marr on a slant for a second touchdown right before the end of the first half. You feel like you’re cruising, confidently performing each cheer 

The score is 22-7 going into the back half of the game, and each team starts off strong with two defensive stops. Mississippi’s final hope doesn’t last long though, because Joe just heads right back on the field and dissects their defense, reading coverages as easy as a children’s book. The Tigers’ stomp down the field is swift, and it’s not long before Joe is slithering in the pocket, manipulating it’s structure until Derrick Dillon is open for a 40 yard bomb at the back of the endzone. Three. The three and out from Mississippi goes by in a flash, then LSU goes back to strutting down the field, a laser down the middle to Justin turning into another tuddy. Oh god, you think to yourself. That’s four… Now at 36-7, it’s obvious what was once a struggle in the first quarter now feels like a layup, the offense moving with such ease you’d think they’re playing a little league flag team. 

Entering the fourth quarter, Joe comes in for what you imagine will be his last drive of the game, considering how far ahead you are. There’s been a lull in the game ever since the last touchdown, with plenty of fans leaving due to the game being pretty much decided. This is where you really start to go on autopilot.

That is, until the flash of a very quick edge rusher catches your eye. He barrels for Joe, who attempts to dodge, but ends up getting halfway caught by the falling defender. The DE is practically on his knees, clinging to Joe’s waist as he starts to run, and ends up latching on to the waistband on the back of his shorts. As Joe runs, the rusher doesn’t let go in an attempt to get him down, but just ends up pulling down his shorts. You’re not quite sure how they’ve ended up in this position, but Joe’s ass is suddenly on display for the entire stadium. Your hand shoots up to cover your mouth in shock, and you feel an incredulous laugh bubble up your throat. After feeling a hefty waft of air on his behind, Joe hobbles down, accepting the sack and hastily trying to pull up his shorts. 

“What just happened?” Tay asks next to you, various murmurs and laughter filling the sideline and stadium. Your eyes widen when you look to the jumbo screen, where a replay of the sack is being shown in taunting slow motion. The entire stadium reacts to the play, some groans, whistles, and lots of laughs. 

“Oh no,” you laugh in disbelief, not quite sure what else to do besides be thankful his entire bottom half wasn’t exposed, though it’s not like Joe has anything to be ashamed of in that department. It might’ve actually been kind of amazing if he managed to escape the sack and throw a dot while his huge dick was swinging around. 

“That’s your man?” Tay teases with a giggle. You roll your eyes with a smile.

He’s gonna be hearing about this all night.

The guys carry on as if nothing has happened, and end up going three and out because of The Sack. Second stringers start warming up, so you start to dig down deep and gather all of your energy to push through these final nine minutes. You could cheer through close game fourth quarters for days, but when it’s a blowout, all you want to do is get back on the bus and to the Bayou. Luckily there’s not much to cheer for once Joe and the rest of the starters are out of the game, only some back and forth possessions and a Mississippi touchdown that means nothing to you. You let out a deep sigh when Myles gets in victory formation, your now sweat-filled uniform getting more and more uncomfortable by the minute. The team sticks around for a few final goodbyes to the crowd before packing up all of your things, and heading straight for the locker room. 

The smooth, cool granite countertop digs into your lower back, Joe’s warm hands holding you in place by your hips. His hot mouth is on yours with such force that you find yourself having to lean back, placing both hands on either side of his flushed face. The adrenaline from the game still flows through both of you, Joe’s breath scorching your skin while your chest heaves with every gasp of air you manage to take. His hands are typically controlling with a sense of rhythm, almost like a choreographed dance he always shows you to follow. But now, in the wake of your surrender to him only a few nights ago, and the fiery dominance that only comes from victory? They lose their collected nature, and toss you around with nothing but pure, gripping assertion of his inevitable power over you.

Joe’s grip is on your waist, traveling to your ass before fisting the flesh in his large palms and forcing your clothed center onto his. A groan tumbles out of your mouth at the friction, the heat between your legs pooling so suddenly that you’re caught off guard. Joe just continues to take what he wants, reaching for your jaw and shoving your head to the side for easy access to your neck. He consumes you, every caress of his tongue and drag of his mouth dropping you further into desperation, while he tugs you around like a helpless ragdoll. 

“How many?” Joe rumbles sharply from his spot on your neck, blowing cool air onto the spot before grinding his hips into yours again. The sensations make your jaw drop, and you’re left speechless for a few seconds until you remember the agreement you made before the game. “Tell me,” Joe commands.

“Four,” you let out a high pitched gasp as Joe slots his taut thigh between your legs, his punishing grip falling back to your hips. He tugs you down onto him, dragging your hips in slow, delicious circles over the bulged muscles to force friction onto your center. The pleasure shoots through you, unyielding. 

“Four touchdowns, good girl,” Joe praises, pressing a short kiss to your panting mouth before looking you in the eye with a heated stare. His pupils are blown, and a dark shadow crosses his features that you can only describe as predatory.  “How many times are you gonna cum for me tonight?” he growls and pushes you harder onto his thigh, switching his teasing circles out for an intense back and forth grind that has you rutting onto him in desperation. 

“F-four,” you falter, the heat of the new movement causing your eyes to flutter shut and soft moans to fall from your lips. The arousal starts to pulse through you, firing shock after shock of pleasure, and you’re suddenly gripping onto Joe’s shirt for dear life. 

“Mhm,” Joe groans, forcing your hips to slow to a pace of his liking when you get too carried away. The prominent bulge in his sweatpants reveals how much he’s enjoying watching you falter, and you’re tempted to touch him, but you know as soon as you drop your hand from his shoulders it’ll be snatched away. Desperation starts to boil low in your belly as Joe continues to keep you at a moderate pace, building you up much slower than you’d like. Eventually he guides the both of you to his room, sitting on the edge of the bed and plopping you right back down on his thigh. You’re in motion immediately after, back to building yourself up slowly. 

Joe’s lips slip to your neck as he starts grinding you harder, faster against him, the heat of his mouth on your neck doing little to calm your rapid heartbeat. You ache for more, but the friction is just enough for you to be teetering on the edge, not entirely sure how Joe’s already managed to consume you without taking your clothes off. 

“Joe,” you gasp in his ear, and he just growls in response, yanking you faster against him. Your first orgasm of the night washes over you soothingly, almost like the calm before the storm. A little something to take the edge off before the real fun begins. You still pant against Joe’s neck, wondering how much of your voice will be left after this. 

“Count,” Joe demands gruffly, his warm breath fanning against your neck. “I wanna hear you.”

“One,” you sigh, still recovering from your high as Joe pulls off his T-shirt and yours. He’s not afraid to toss you around, grabbing your waist and throwing you on your back so your head is on his pillows. Your sweats and panties, that are now soaked with your release, are removed from you slowly, Joe taking the time to admire the way your gorgeous curves are revealed to him. Once all your clothes are gone, he just can’t stop touching, kneading, caressing.

“Gonna let me taste you?” Joe murmurs darkly, his large hands feeling everywhere on your body before he separates your legs. Your previous release is still glistening on your folds, the cool air hitting it causing you to shiver. The look in Joe’s eyes is purely primal as he makes eye contact with you, leaning down to be face to face with your cunt. 

“Always,” you whisper in response, entranced by the way Joe’s hands glide on your thighs, the feather light touches managing to spark more arousal in you. He blows on your center, the coolness making you shiver again, before it’s immediately replaced by Joe’s scorching tongue. The intense contrast makes you gasp, your fingers gripping the sheets beneath you as Joe starts to circle your entrance with his tongue. He glides back up to your clit, pressing his tongue flat against it and licking a stripe, then heading back down to your entrance to repeat the process. The rhythm is intoxicating, mounting your pleasure up again with each flick of his smooth tongue against your aching core. Soft moans leave your mouth freely, and your chest starts to heave when Joe starts dipping into your entrance, letting the friction of his nose against your clit give you stimulation there. You can feel yourself start to throb against his mouth, and you instinctively start to squirm before his hands against your thighs stop you. Joe drags you to the edge again, this time far more intense than the last. He doesn’t remove his mouth from your cunt once, humming in satisfaction when he feels you start to frantically clench. 

“Fuck- two!” You whine, grinding yourself into Joe’s face as you climax. This one feels like fire, scorching your body and leaving you breathless, where the only thing that’s keeping you grounded is the sheets between your fists. Joe continues to groan as you ride it out, feeling like he’s in heaven watching you come undone above him. It only spurs him on further to get you going again, and again. 

Joe pulls away and you look down at him, bringing up a hand to trace his strong, glistening jaw. You start to feel like you're floating, your high not exactly leaving you as Joe rises to his knees and frees himself of his sweatpants and boxers, revealing his hard cock. Your libido has never been this high before, but the sight of Joe giving himself a few quick strokes, his head thrown back and right bicep protruding as he works over his huge cock over and over, awakens another beast inside of you. You just know you need him inside you, pounding relentlessly until you can’t fucking stand anymore. There’s not much else to think of besides your wanting, your needing, and you need him. 

It’s written all over your face the way you’re gawking over Joe, your doe eyes transfixed by his lazy rhythm. He notices, and a cocky, open mouthed smirk stretches across his face as he continues pumping slowly, making the image that much more intoxicating. “Needin’ somethin’?” he asks you in a pants, raising a brow to hear your response. 

“Your cock,” you respond automatically, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. Your dirty words cause Joe to stop stroking, his eyes narrowing possessively at you before pouncing. He grips the back of one of your knees, throwing it over his shoulder before sliding into you in one swift motion. He fills you to the brim, the feeling making your eyes flutter shut and a shocked, high pitched moan to leave your mouth. Joe shoves himself deep, leaning into you on each snap of his hips so your noses almost touch. Sparks shoot up your body, every angle he’s hitting makes you more delirious as your climax already starts to build much quicker than the previous. 

“I’ll give you what you need, baby. Every time,” Joe pants against your mouth, grunting on a particularly hard thrust. “All you have to do is ask.” He’s everywhere, and you can feel yourself squeezing him tight, your vision getting blurry when he hits that one spot. Once he’s found it he never lets up, and your third orgasm is suddenly knocking the wind out of you.

“Three,” you practically yell, your body shaking as you get overwhelmed, every part of you feeling like fire. You don’t even know how to think because your mind turns to goo, the fervent pleasure never ending and burning into your brain. The daze you’re in could be heaven, but you’re not sure. You don’t need to be. 

Joe wastes no time grabbing your waist and flipping you over so your face is smashed in the pillows, and your ass is up. You know what he wants, and in your haze you subconsciously get on your knees and arch your back, keeping your head firmly planted. Your center is so exposed, all of your arousal dripping around your thighs and out of your cunt, but you couldn’t care less right now. 

“Jesus, you’re perfect,” Joe pants as he glides his hands over your round, perky ass, finally gripping your hips and yanking you back onto his cock impossibly deep. He sets a punishing pace and gives you no time to recover, the new angle giving you no control, just allowing him to drill deeper and deeper. The force of his thrusts push your head further into the pillow, and you feel some of the cotton material in your mouth as your jaw goes slack, every nerve ending in your body overloaded with the sensation of Joe filling you like this. Your eyes instinctively roll to the back of your head, intelligible noises and words falling from your lips as you practically drool into the pillow. “My perfect girl, losing her fucking mind for me,” Joe grunts from behind, a cocky laugh falling from his lips after. “You got anything to say? Feel too good? Hm?” He coos, unwavering in his pace but the slight shake in his voice gives him away–he’s close.

“Ng-,” you blubber incoherently against the pillow, the intoxicating cocktail of pain, pleasure, and the pressure of Joe’s dick brushing your cervix too much to bear. “Ah-, no,” you manage. “Just- please! Please, please, please…I can’t…I need…” you beg, not entirely sure what you’re begging for. 

“Just one more sweetheart,” Joe soothes, letting one of his hands drop to your puffy clit. He starts rubbing circles on the overstimulated area, driving you right to the brink of orgasm and madness. “Don’t you think I deserve it?” He mocks, pushing himself into you harder.

“You deserve it, Joe,” you gasp, feeling your fourth orgasm barreling towards you with his words. Every sensation starts to blur together, and white hot fire starts to simmer deep in your core. 

“Give it to me, baby. Lemme- hear you,” Joe groans shakily, throwing his head back. He rips your orgasm out of you, your eyes screwing shut as your loud, piercing, uncontrollable moans fill the room, a guttural “Four!” standing out against the rest. The pain and the pleasure bleed together, sending you into another dimension as you helplessly clamp down on Joe’s cock over and over. He’s almost as loud as you, your name falling from his lips like a prayer as his hot cum fills you, the combination of both of your arousal making the wet slap of his hips into yours that much more pronounced. You shudder through your orgasm, thighs shaking, nails clawing, mind numbing. 

As you finally return to Earth, Joe slides out of you slowly, running his hands up and down your back soothingly. Your breathing is ragged as he coaxes you up onto all fours, stepping off the bed saying, “I’ll clean you up, one sec.” Your vision is blurry for a few seconds as you rise, your body still trembling from the intensity of the night. You try to breathe in and out slowly, and bask in the relief of the cool cloth Joe places on your center, but you just can’t stop the tremors from wracking through your body. Joe notices, immediately flipping you around and scooping you into his arms to carry into the bathroom, pressing a light kiss to your forehead before plopping you onto the toilet. You realize he’s already gotten black briefs on, and you suddenly feel exposed.

“Y’gotta pee, honey,” Joe instructs, going into his medicine cabinet and pulling out a brand new toothbrush, along with some other skincare items you might want to use. He eyes you worriedly, quick to pull out Advil along with the rest of the items.

“I can’t stop shaking,” you laugh nervously, trying to use your hands to cover yourself as your heart rate starts to rise in panic. 

“I’m getting you clothes, I’ll be right back,” Joe promises, darting out of the bathroom. While he’s gone you will yourself to pee, thinking of the god awful UTI you’re avoiding as motivation. When Joe gets back, you silently thank him for grabbing your boy briefs, not in the mood to deal with a flimsy thong that will just overstimulate you even further. You hold onto his strong shoulders for balance while he has you step into the leg holes, pulling the soft cotton all the way up before rubbing your still-shaking thighs comfortingly. Your heart rate starts to return to normal, and Joe stands so he can pull his black “Geaux Tigers” hoodie over your head, his clean woody scent providing you with a safety blanket you didn’t realize you needed. 

“You okay sweetheart? C’mere,” Joe mumbles with pinched brows and a frown, smoothing his large hands down your sides before pulling you into him. Your face squishes against his warm chest, and the tremors slowly fade as you take deep breaths, focusing on the feeling of Joe’s fingers lightly scratching your scalp. “That was a lot, huh?” Joe mumbles.

“No, I’m okay,” you finally pipe up, finding your voice after Joe’s wizardry cures your anxiety. “That was fucking insane. I’ve never gotten like that after sex, I’m sorry,” you chuckle, just relieved that shaky feeling is gone. 

“Don’t ever apologize for that,” Joe is quick to correct you. “If you ever need anything after, you tell me and it’s done. The important thing is that you just breathe and focus on me. I do the work.”

“Okay,” you whisper, slightly pulling away from your embrace with a mischievous smile. “...KitKats?” you ask in a sing-songy voice, giggling when Joe smiles and rolls his eyes playfully. It’s not long after that you’re scooped up again, both of you now cackling as Joe runs with you in his arms into the kitchen. Both of you start to wind down as your exhaustion starts creeping in, munching on a couple KitKat bars deliriously before swaying lethargically back into Joe’s bed. 

Both of you are softly whispering back and forth, recounting stories from the day, or the latest news headline, or random interests. Joe’s heavy duvet helps you sink into the mattress, and combined with you and Joe’s shared body heat, cozy warmth blooms from every part of your body. You feel at peace like this, as if time has stopped and you’re just talking to each other on the moon, gravity ceasing to exist while you float. Your collective drowsiness is growing, but neither of you want to sleep, because that would mean to break eye contact, to stop exchanging smiles and hearing each other’s laugh. 

It’s moments like these where you wonder if what you have is something more than just two friends who like to have sex. You both want to get there one day, but when is that one day? Because sometimes it feels like it’s already happening right now. 

Well, besides the fact that the fucker hasn’t taken you out on an actual date yet. 

“...like the Sun for example. It takes about eight minutes for the heat and light from the Sun to reach the Earth’s surface, so technically if the Sun were to randomly explode or something, we’d still have eight minutes before we’d freeze to death,” Joe explains in a hushed whisper, the current topic being world altering events.

“Hmm,” you hum sleepily, adjusting the covers so they’re pulled up to your chin. “So I get eight minutes? I think I’d just streak. Gotta do it once, right?” You joke, giggling at the thought of immediately stripping in the middle of campus, running freely while your classmates ponder their own demise. 

“Streaking is a good one,” Joe agrees. “Or arson.”

“Arson?” You laugh in surprise, not expecting your typical mediator to carry such rage. “What are you burning down?”

“I don’t know. Mike’s cage. Free him already!” Joe demands with a smile.

“Eight minutes of chaos,” you nod, unable to hide the goofy grin on your face.

“Exactly!”

“Well, let’s hope you at least finish the season before the world ends,” you conclude, watching as Joe nods, his face suddenly sobering at the mention of football. There’s a glint of eagerness in his soft features as he shuffles closer to you, grabbing one of your hands from gripping the blanket and playing with your fingers gently. He looks like a kid again, full of innocence and wonder.

“You know…I think we can do it,” Joe whispers, like it’s a wish that won’t come true if he says it out loud. “I think we can beat anyone. Everyone.” The admission lingers in the air, and you feel like you can barely breathe. You don’t want to break this moment, because you know he doesn’t get moments like this often. Where he can voice his honest thoughts about the team, and admit his biggest dreams without the pressure of everyone watching to see if they will come true. Where he can just want things for himself without feeling guilty about it. 

“You can do anything,” you finally whisper, staring down at your tangled hands. “That’s how hard you work, Joe.” He quickly turns bashful, letting out a deep sigh and bringing your hand up to his lips for a kiss. Slowly, he drags your hand around his neck and leans back, using his other arm to pull you so you’re halfway on top of him, your head nuzzled into the crook of his neck. 

“I hope you’re right.”

That Monday morning alarm hits you like a freight train. 

You stumble around Joe’s apartment, shoving all of your strewn about items into your backpack in the worst way possible. Unfortunately there’s no time for organization, as you need to make it back to your apartment, get ready, and leave on time with your roommates for your lift. And you’re late.

“You know, we could just go together and it would save you a lot of time,” Joe calls out from his sprawled out position, his gravelly morning voice making you want to hop right back in bed with him. You stare at him knowingly.

“You know how that looks,” you frown, not in the mood to piss your ex off and ruin your day. 

“How do you think this looks?” he jokes with a smirk, gesturing to his naked body in bed while you scamper around picking up your clothes from the night before. 

“I’m leaving,” you laugh, blowing him a playful kiss before heading out the door. 

You make it back to your apartment with just enough time to get yourself together and walk with the roommates to the athletic facility. All of you lazily mope across campus, ritually waving and saying hello to Mike on the way. 

Once you arrive at the gym, you’re happy to discover that you’ll be doing group sets, which means everyone gets in groups of four, and you’ll each switch off doing sets so you get accurate rest time. Of course your group of four is already decided, and essentially turns into a gossip circle every time.

“How was your night?” Grace asks you with a smirk, going under the squat rack and positioning the bar on her shoulders to start her reps, while Kelia moves behind her to spot. 

“Good,” you murmur, a tiny smile and a blush blooming on your cheeks as your mind starts replaying the events of last night.

Fuck.

Tay analyzes your expression, barking out a laugh as you struggle to keep your cool. “Oh this girl is getting dicked down. I feel so bad for Joe’s neighbors,” she teases, taking frequent sips from her water. 

“You were like this last week too. I can’t believe our best friend has moved out,” Kelia shakes her head with a smile, helping Grace get the bar back on the rack once she’s done. “He needs to count his days, y’all don’t even have the label yet!”

“I know,” you sigh, setting your water bottle down to get ready for your set. “Sometimes it feels like it, though. I mean we definitely act like more than hook up buddies.”

“I believe your time will come soon enough, because I actually have some important news to share,” Grace admits, a Cheshire Cat grin spreading across her face. You all whip your head around to her, eyes wide and jaws dropped. 

“Oh my god-” Tay squeals, and anticipation bubbles in the air.

“Justin asked me to be his girlfriend,” Grace sighs happily, her happy feet bouncing around when she reveals her big announcement. 

“Babe, when?” you gasp, excitement bursting in your stomach. 

“I could cry right now,” Kelia chokes out, fanning her face and dramatically covering her mouth.

“We went on our third date last night and it went so well,” Grace starts, the giddy grin on her face making your heart melt. “He drove me home after obviously, and when he walked me up to the door he had this necklace he wanted to give me, and had this whole speech about how he wants to commit to me, and just…asked.” It’s then that you notice a beautiful opal necklace she’s been twirling around her fingers, the iridescence of the gem making her smile sparkle and her skin glow. Her birthstone. 

“That’s the cutest shit everrr,” you coo, immediately wrapping your arms around the giggly girl. The newest couple on the block is the topic of your conversation for the rest of the workout, each of you asking questions about the date and how he treats Grace. You can’t help but imagine what it will be like when…or if you and Joe finally make things serious. The idea of having him all to yourself makes your heart race, imagining what your life would look like when he ends up getting drafted. Is he the type to buy you gifts for fun, like Justin? If he’s playing professionally he’d surely have the money. Or does he prefer doing kind things for you, acts of service that make your day to day life easier?

You’ve always imagined the free time you’ll have after you graduate, free of the gruelling schedule of a student athlete, but now there’s someone new in the mix. A strong, sexy, hard working boyfriend you come home to, cooking dinner together before he drills you into the bed every single night. Yeah, you could definitely get used to that. 

These thoughts swirl around your head all morning, taunting and teasing you as you go through your workout and attempt to focus in class. Every time you think you’ve moved on, a new fantasy floats across your brain, stirring a longing in you that you can’t tame for the life of you. 

Would he miss you when he starts training for the combine? Calling you at odd hours of the night with his hard cock sprang to attention, greedily sliding his hand up and down his shaft as he instructs you to touch yourself with him? I bet he’d book me a one way flight the next morning. He’d be too eager to wait. Would you finally be able to watch him from the comfort of a seat in the stands, with no physical responsibilities besides a good luck kiss and downing a cold beer? Telling him how well he played, praising him until you’re finally alone and can bask in the victory sex you’ve been practicing since your LSU days? 

By the end of your class you’re practically panting, gnawing on your knuckles in an attempt to distract yourself from the fact that Joe has you absolutely obsessed with him—and more specifically his dick. You hastily gather your things, storming out of the lecture with only one possibility that could keep you stable:  coffee. You make a beeline for CC’s, tapping your foot anxiously as you wait in line for your order to be taken. 

“Hi, can I get a-” you start ordering, jumping out of your skin when your phone buzzes violently in your hands. You flick your eyes down to check who it is, every part of you screaming when you see Joe. As your heart starts to race, memories from the morning come rushing back, completely distracting you from the task at hand.

“Um…hello? Ma’am?” The annoyed student employee taking your order tries to bring you back to reality, and you shake your head vigorously.

“S-sorry! Um, just a small latte…iced, iced small latte with sugar free vanilla,” you stutter out as you fumble with your wallet, digging it out of your backpack and barely registering your payment before your eyes are glued back onto your phone.

Joe: You were in my bed only hours ago and I need you again

Joe: I only have a little bit of time before my QB meeting, but I don’t really gaf right now

Your heart starts racing, and you almost ditch your coffee, until your name is immediately called. You monotonously mutter a thanks, your only thought from this point forward being Joe. All rational thought is abandoned as you race across campus, the ache between your legs growing with every step you take, and only one person you’re thinking of who can satisfy it. You imagine what he’s doing right now, waiting for you to arrive, counting down the minutes until his meeting. It’s really been no time at all by the time you’re at his door, testing the handle to see if it’s open so you can just walk in yourself

You’re surprised when it twists, but nonetheless you push onward, immediately being greeted by the sight of Joe slouched on his couch, scrolling through his phone until his eyes pop up to you. He’s in black sweats and a tight black tee, an outfit so simple sending you spiraling. 

“Hey,” you greet, your voice shakier than you intended.

“Oh you want it bad, huh?” Joe asks gruffly, letting out a light chuckle towards the end.  “Came runnin’ all the way from the Law Center? That should be at least a 20 minute walk.” Your throat goes dry, and your eyes flick to the time. You cut it down to 13 minutes without even realizing. 

“Fast on my feet,” you shrug, the anticipation already killing you as Joe stalks towards you with intent. His hands are quick to grab your waist, pulling you against him.

“So you weren’t dripping for me on your way over here?” Joe asks darkly, trailing his hands over your ass and squeezing. Your breath hitches, your brain going into a frenzy because he’s right. You’ve been craving him all morning. “Squeezing your thighs together just to settle the ache?” He continues, pressing his mouth to your neck in light, separated kisses that cause your heart to thud violently. “Don’t lie to me, baby.”

You look to your feet, and notice a prominent bulge in Joe’s black sweatpants, the tent teasing you just like he is. “Looks like someone else needs it just as bad,” you taunt, running your fingertips over Joe’s clothed erection teasingly. He hisses, immediately grabbing your jaw and attacking your lips, making out with you feverishly. The fire that’s been burning inside you is finally being fanned, and the both of you are quick to move to the couch with you on top of him.

“Clock’s ticking,” you pant, gripping the neck of Joe’s shirt and tugging it off with urgency. He’s quick to do the same to you, kneading your tits and rolling your nipples as soon as they’re in his line of sight. 

“Fuck,” Joe mutters between your feverish kisses, getting to work on your bottoms by swiping them off in one fell swoop. Usually you might be embarrassed by the sight of your panties that are stained with your arousal from thinking about Joe all day, but he looks at your cunt like he needs it, and suddenly you can’t feel embarrassed, only hot. You help Joe with his sweatpants and boxers, both of your frantic hands yanking the material off of him “Ah,” he hisses when his dick springs free, his tip already pink and dripping with precum. 

Still perched on Joe’s lap, you pull off of his mouth with a pop, lightly sucking his bottom lip before letting it snap back into place. You admire his flushed face for a moment, eyes blown in adoration and lips pouted in a silent plea, before flipping yourself around on his lap so your back is to his front. “Let’s speed this up,” you suggest, leaning forward to place your hands on the couch on either side of his calves. You slowly arch your back, grinding on his hard cock slightly before inching backwards, so your ass moves up his chest and pushes him flat on the couch. When you stop, you’re both face to face with where you need each other most, in the 69 position. 

“Oh fuck,” Joe whines, bringing his large, warm hands up to your hips before letting them circle your ass. Before he has time to do much else, you admire his pretty dick, slick with some of your arousal from grinding into him, and kitten-lick the tip.

“Fuck, baby,” Joe breathes out, his handsy rhythm on your hips going still as he throws his head back in pleasure. You giggle before taking the entire head in your mouth, bobbing your head up and down and taking more and more of him each time. You let your tongue protrude at the bottom of your mouth, licking a stripe on the top side of his cock on each stroke.  “Holy shit, juuust like that,” he groans, pulling your ass down so your dripping pussy lands right on his face.

Joe wastes no time teasing, and starts lapping at your clit like there’s no tomorrow. The intense shock of pleasure makes you moan, and eggs you on to bob faster on Joe’s dick. The parts of him you can’t fit you start jerking off with one hand at the base, and you swear you see stars when Joe slides down to give some attention to your entrance, causing the scruff on his chin to scrape deliciously across your clit. Hot breaths, deep groans, and wet, erotic slurps are the only sounds in the room, both of you barrelling towards orgasm after a long morning of anticipation. 

You feel Joe’s patterns on your cunt start to grow more erratic, and his sounds of pleasure getting more desperate, pleading. Your own desperation is at a hilt, especially because Joe is practically unhinging his jaw to allow his tongue to dance around everywhere. You start to take him as far back as you can, now lightly playing with his balls as his tongue prods your entrance a few times, then comes back up to circle your clit and suck hard. Both of you subconsciously start grinding into each other, Joe’s face pressed flush against your pussy, and his cock hitting the back of your throat.

Your orgasm hits you out of nowhere, the combination of Joe’s tongue on your core and dick in your mouth making you break. Pleasure bursts through you as Joe keeps rutting into your mouth, and tears start to prick at your eyes when you start choking and gagging. Your climax remedies the pain, fusing with it perfectly, and you can’t do anything but moan profusely around Joe’s cock. “Mmhm,” Joe hums as you choke on his dick, the vibration triggering a second hotter wave of your orgasm to hit. He finishes immediately after, not letting up from your cunt as he starts to grunt and groan, ropes of his cum filling your mouth. Eventually his hips stutter as both of you start to come down from your highs, pulling away from each other and panting profusely. You crawl around and lay on his chest, the both of you basking in a few moments of peace before Joe’s eyes shoot open. 

“QB meeting,” he snaps, instantly remembering that he’s supposed to be heading somewhere right now. When he checks his phone, finding he was supposed to leave five minutes ago, he mutters, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” You’re immediately in panic mode as well, running to his room and grabbing a fresh pair of boxers from his drawers and throwing them down the hall. You both move in hushed silence, focused on getting Joe out the door as fast as humanly possible.

“I can’t be late, this is what I told myself I wouldn’t do,” Joe scolds himself, grabbing one of his disgusting protein bars from the pantry and slinging his bag around his back quickly. 

“You’ll be okay, tell them your mom called,” you suggest, pulling on the last of your clothes as Joe heads for the door. 

“Oh that’s a good one,” Joe nods at your suggestion. “Sorry, I’ll see you later, okay? You can leave whenever, the door auto locks!” He calls out, the door slamming shut behind him. When it does, you immediately squeal.

This boy has me on cloud nine. 

Cloud nine lasts for a solid four days.

Thursday, you jolt awake from a dreamless sleep, your alarm sounding much louder than usual. You groan and quickly tap “Stop,” bringing your hand to your head when a piercing headache immediately burns in your skull. You frown in dismay, slowly propping yourself up on an elbow to get your lamp on, until the next symptom hits. Before you can even touch your water, a deep inhale is immediately blocked by congestion, sending you into a dry coughing frenzy where you notice an acute soreness in your throat. 

“No no…maybe I’m just tired!” you tell yourself, the ache in your limbs as you slowly slide out of bed telling you otherwise. As you grab your bedside water bottle trudge to your bathroom in hopes of a steamy shower, coughs start to come up your throat again, this time in quick, unrelenting succession. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

You immediately start to chug, hoping water will magically cure you of all your current problems, but all it does is subdue the coughing and quench your thirst. Your head continues to pound, and breathing from your nose is still a workout. Still, you continue on with your plan, getting undressed and jumping into your scorching shower. Your muscles are able to relax, but you’re only in there for five minutes before you have to start getting ready for practice, giving the steam little time to clear your congestion. 

You huff in frustration as you dry yourself off, sniffing and sighing in the process. Every minute that passes you grow less optimistic that these symptoms will fade, yet you still get dressed and pull together all of your practice gear, rolling your eyes to yourself as you open your bedroom door. 

When you walk down the hall, backpack fastened and duffel in hand, you realize all of your other roommates are waiting for you by the front door. 

I must’ve taken longer in the shower than I thought…

Grace is the first to look up from her phone and notice you. “You ready?” she asks, her face turning slightly concerned when she notices your slightly ragged state.

“Yeah,” You croak with a plastered smile, immediately clearing your throat to correct yourself, until a couple of coughs overtake you. After a lame attempt at waving them off you say, “Um, yeah, I’m ready.” 

All three of the girls look at you like you’re bat-shit. “Hell no you’re not!” Kelia responds, quickly crossing her arms. “You know Coach K will have your head if you come into practice sick,” she points out, stalking up to you and yanking your duffel out of your hand. 

You throw your head back exasperatedly. “I am not sick! I had something in my throat,” you protest, trying to look to your other friends for help, only to be met with two shaking heads. 

“Okay Ms. Sniffles,” Kelia chuckles dryly, gripping one of your shoulders and rotating you 180, then giving you a light push down the hallway back to your bedroom. “I could hear you through the damn wall,” she clarifies, continuing to guide you to your confinements until you’re fully back in your domain, your lips in a pout. She drops your duffel by your desk, then guards your doorway by crossing her arms in front of it in defiance. It’s like she’s daring you to try to leave, the both of you facing off in some kind of staring contest until you finally give in, slipping your backpack off your shoulder with an eye roll. 

She’s right, anyway. Coach Kandace will have your head if you come to practice sick.

You learned that the hard way already…

When it’s your first year as a Tiger Girl, you’re obviously still learning the ropes. You want to make a good impression, show that you’re a leader, while also blending into the background with the older, more seasoned dancers. Each of you are very talented, but can you be responsible? Collaborative? Mature? None of you want to crack under the pressure, or be the one that can’t show up for the team when you’re needed. 

You remember the day all too well. 

You almost never get sick, but moving from a small suburban town to a school of 40,000 exposes you to all kinds of germs your immune system is not used to. It certainly doesn’t help that you and Kelia were both vomited on at the same Halloweekend frat party the previous weekend. So really, you’re not all that surprised when you wake up with some random illness that makes you drowsy and weak. 

But there’s something gnawing at you:  when it’s your first year as a Tiger Girl, you’re obviously still learning the ropes. You want to make a good impression, show that you’re a leader, while also blending into the background with the older, more seasoned dancers. Each of you are very talented, but can you be responsible? Collaborative? Mature? None of you want to crack under the pressure, or be the one that can’t show up for the team when you’re needed. 

“I can tough it out,” you tell yourself. You don’t feel that bad, and nothing is physically impairing you from participating in practice, so you should be there for the team. This is how you can show that you’re committed to being great here, and deserve to continue being a Tiger Girl. 

You hack your way through classes all day, taking the occasional DayQuil to subdue the symptoms, but it seems like nothing is working. By the time you show up to practice, you’re noticeably unwell, but you don’t think it’s something you should be concerned about. You plan on dancing through it. 

You walk into the studio, shoving your bag and other items in your cubby, top row, second on the left. A few girls say hello, sending questionable glances your way when you respond in a broken nasally voice, but continue preparing with stretches. Shortly after Coach Kandace enters, rounding all of you up to begin warmups, until she catches your eye. Her eyes immediately narrow, and she doesn’t hesitate to question you in front of everyone. “What’s up with you?” she asks bluntly, her scowl deepening.

Everyone turns to you, and it doesn’t take long for your cheeks to start burning. You don’t think you look that bad. “Um…nothing. I’m fine,” your weak voice rings out, the evidence of your poor health on full display. There’s a tense silence for a few moments, until Coach finally grumbles and stalks over to you, grabbing your arm to pull you out of the studio and swiftly into the hall.

Once you round the corner, she whips around to face you. “Are you sick?” she demands. 

“Um…I don’t think so. I have a cough, but I can still practice,” you answer slowly, feeling like you’re walking over landmines. 

“So you have a cough, and you’re congested, but you still came to practice?” she clarifies in an accusatory tone, like she’s in disbelief that you would do such a thing. Your stomach drops, and now you think you might actually be sick. 

“..Yes,” you respond in a soft voice, not expecting the tone of her question to be so harsh. You felt fine going into this, but now you feel like you fucked up. 

Coach scoffs and throws her hands up, barking out a short, “Follow me.” She’s stomping off in a flash, and you follow her through a maze of hallways you haven’t figured out yet until you happen upon a door that says, “Trainer.” Coach waltzes through, and you peer inside to find Tanner, the head athletic trainer at LSU. You met him once during the preseason as a part of your short Tiger Girls orientation, but you haven’t had any health problems until now, so you haven’t had to visit him personally. 

“Tanner, give her a fucking Gatorade and a sleeping pill or something, I don’t know,” Coach Kadence orders with a sigh and an eye roll. You study the space around you, noticing you’re in some kind of medical space with all of the examination beds. There’s a small TV in a corner, a large drink fridge, and a full wall with various medical supplies. Athlete tape. Band-aids. IVs. Inflatable casts. 

Coach sits you on one of the beds, immediately bringing a finger up with a deep scowl still etched on her face. “You do not ever come to my practice if you’re sick. You may think you have a lot to work on, want to improve, want to be a part of the team, but you’re not being a hero by spreading your bad germs onto everyone else,” she scolds you sternly, causing you to cower. “And you’re certainly not helping yourself by making it stretch on longer than it needs to. Do better,” she finishes with a huff, immediately stalking out of the room afterwards. 

There’s a silence that stretches in the room for a few seconds, until Tanner lets out a light snicker. You slowly turn your head to him. “What did I do?” You ask quietly with wide eyes. You’ve seen Coach Kadance scold girls, and it’s a scary sight, but almost never has it been directed at you. You thought you were doing good by the team and all Coach did was tell you you’re an idiot for being there. 

“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” Tanner shakes his head with a nice smile. “She’d rather you actually rest instead of risking the health of everyone else. Without just one soldier, a team can adapt and survive. Take five of 'em out? You have to change your whole game plan.” Tanner’s analogies sounded less like dance and more like football, but you got the jist either way. 

“She’s just a stickler for this kind of thing. Thinks it’s irresponsible to not understand your own body and what it’s telling you,” he continues, finding a Tylenol bottle on his wall of supplies and shaking a pill out. “But you get it now, right?” Tanner asks, holding out his fist for a fist bump.

“Yeah, I guess,” you mutter, letting your heart rate settle now that you understand where Coach is coming from. 

“Good. Now, what Gatorade flavor?”

“Blue!”

Kelia relaxes once your backpack touches the ground, finally convinced you are in fact giving up on going to practice. “I’ll let Coach know when we get there, but text her anyway,” Kelia calls out as she leaves, giving you privacy to get back into your pajamas.

“I will,” you grumble out, already feeling your body overheating from the little movement you’ve been making this morning. “I’ll be ready for the game!” you call out after the girls when you hear the front door open, opening the drawer on your bedside table to find your Tylenol bottle, pop two pills, and dry swallow. 

“I’ll believe you after you rest!” Grace calls back, the rumble of a door slamming shut immediately following. The thud ricochets through your brain and slices through, causing you to wince and pinch the bridge of your nose in hopes of dulling the pain. After recovering, you get on your phone and text Coach.

You: Woke up a little congested, taking the day to recover. I’ll be ready for Saturday 👍

Coach Kadence: Thanks. Keep me updated. - K

You let out a heavy sigh, disappointed in your body’s cells for giving up so easily to whatever you seemed to have caught. It doesn’t matter now though, all that does is recovery, because you’ll be damned if you miss a single game this season. You slowly peel your practice attire from your body, changing into a fresh pair of loose sweats. The feeling of the soft fabric swallowing you is already making you lethargic, and you barely make the two steps to your bed where you promptly pass out cold. 

The day passes by very slowly, even though you’re not awake for most of it. You’re in and out of slumber, occasionally waking up to tentatively knaw on a banana, use twenty tissues to clear your nose, or change the temperature of the room for the hundredth time. At one point you somehow stay awake for long enough of a stretch that you get two assignments turned in for next week, anticipating that you will still have your weekend occupied with the Auburn game. Unfortunately the mental fatigue brings your consistent headache to a fever pitch, and you decide to let yourself head right back to sleep around 4pm. 

You’re tangled in your heavy duvet, sleeping like the dead, when you feel a light, soothing hand run up and down your back. The hand is large, but gentle, careful not to startle you, and you know only one person who touches you with such tenderness. 

“Y/N? Time to wake up sweetheart,” Joe’s quiet voice calls out, his light scratches on your back still coaxing you out of your slumber. Eventually you shift, fluttering your eyes open to see Joe crouched by the side of your bed, adoration in his eyes and a small bemused smile on his face as he watches you intently. 

“Hi pretty girl,” He laughs softly at your confused, tired expression. You immediately pull your sheets up over your head, well aware of how swollen your face feels, how ratty your hair has gotten throughout your hours of sleep, and how snotty your nose must look. You feel awful, and being forced into revealing your gremlin self to Joe feels like further cruel and unusual punishment. 

“I thought we could have a movie date,” Joe offers, grabbing the top of your duvet and pulling it down slowly to reveal your face again. 

“How did you even get in here?” You ask grumpily, furrowing your brows. Joe says nothing and just dangles Kelia’s infamous LSU keychain in your face. “That girl and her keys,” you glare at the item, flopping onto your back so you can get up.

“She’s trying to help you out while you’re sick,” Joe defends.

“I am not sick,” you deny childishly, pointing an accusing finger at Joe. “It’s- it’s getting dryer in Louisiana. I’m just adjusting to it.”

“Hmm, okay,” Joe responds skeptically, raising one of his eyebrows. “Then why are you pouting like that?”

“I just feel horrible,” you whine, throwing your head back onto your pillow. 

“Okay, let’s elaborate,” Joe laughs, bringing a hand up to your head to brush a stray hair out of your face.

“I’m so hot-”

“You’re telling me.”

“-that’s not funny. And all of my food tastes bad, and I don’t know what to eat anyway, and I haven’t had any coffee because I probably shouldn’t, and…and my face feels so puffy!” You rant, not really caring if you sound like a brat. Your body feels like it’s trying to kill you. 

“Hmm,” Joe hums, looking around the room before jumping into action. “Well, let’s start by gettin’ out of bed and changing. That’ll cool you down,” he instructs, standing with his hands on his hips.

“I can’t get up,” you whisper dramatically, flailing both of your arms out to your sides. A yelp falls from your lips when your covers are yanked from you, and Joe starts carrying you bridal style across the room.

“Says who?” Joe smirks, walking over to your dresser so you can pick your clothes. One by one, Joe fixes each of your problems, ordering you your favorite pizza and putting on a cooling face mask with you to aid with your puffiness. You joke and laugh together as you smooth out the lines of the sheet on each others’ faces, and of course you have to snap a picture of Joe, because you don’t know if you’ll ever get him to do this again. By the time the pizza arrives you’re ready for your movie, the both of you curling up in bed with your laptop on your lap.

You do a double take when Joe emerges from the bathroom, seeing large tortoise frames sit on the bridge of his nose. “Oh wow,” you comment, admiring his new nerdy, domestic look. “You wear glasses?” 

“What? Can’t be perfect all the time,” he defends himself, sliding into the bed next to you before pausing. “...Why? Do they look bad?”

“No, no! They’re cute,” you confirm. “I’ve just never seen you wear them.”

“Well, I don’t like to, but it’s good for me to put ‘em on for a few hours before I sleep so I can give my eyes a break from the dryness of the contacts,” Joe mutters defensively.

“Of course you know that,” you laugh.

“At least I’m not in denial of my health. Maybe when you’re all better tomorrow you’ll learn that all you need to cure a cold is rest.”

“It is not a cold!” you protest with an overdramatic pout, dramatically crossing your arms and glaring when Joe rolls his four eyes. “It’s allergies, I’m allergic to…to international law case studies and cute quarterbacks with poor eyesight.”

“Well, you do know what cures allergies to international law case studies and quarterbacks with poor eyesight, don’t you?” Joe asks as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, blinking at you matter of factly and trying to cover up the pink appearing on his cheeks. You roll your eyes, fighting the smile that threatens to stretch across your face as you shrug offhandedly. “Movies, duh,” he finally scoffs, snatching your laptop from your hands and typing in Netflix at the top. “Oooh, we could watch Empire Strikes Back?”

“Erm, sure. I just won’t know what’s happening, you’ll have to catch me up,” you respond awkwardly, not exactly opposed to Star Wars, just indifferent. Joe’s typing ceases altogether, and he slowly turns his head to face you fully.

Here we go.

“Are you trying to tell me that you’ve never seen Star Wars?” he mutters lowly in disbelief. 

“I’ve just never gotten around to it, I guess. It doesn’t seem that interesting, and I already know the end. ‘Luke, I am your father!’ and all that,” you defend yourself, not really seeing the big deal.

“You’ve never seen Star Wars? Star Wars?!” Joe repeats, louder this time like he actually believes it. “Oh no, we’re watching Episode Four.”

“What? Why wouldn’t we start on Episode One?” 

“Episode Four is Episode One,” Joe explains, rolling his eyes playfully as if this was common knowledge.

“Then why don’t they call it Episode-”

“All you need to know is this is the first one that was ever released. ‘Kay?” Joe interrupts, a goofy smile gracing his features as he gears up to press play.

“Nerd alert!” whisper teasingly, well aware of how fitting his glasses are for this moment. 

“Damn right,” Joe nods proudly, his eyes immediately flicking back to the screen. You admire him for a few moments, a soft smile playing on your lips as you watch him in his element, partaking in something other than football that he’s truly passionate about. “Pay attention!”

“Okay, okay!”

Friday you wake up feeling ten times better, rejuvenated and ready to practice. Sleep really is the best remedy for any kind of illness, and there’s a part of you that knows the other party responsible for your recovery is Joe. Not only did he help you rest, but even now the memories of your movie night–like making fun of C3-PO every time he made an appearance–causes an uncontrollable smile to stretch across your face, any lingering symptoms you may have now overshadowed by a certain quarterback. You feel light as a feather despite the rainy weather, unbothered enough by the time you take your temperature that night to overlook your reading, that’s still slightly above average…

Saturday is a different story. Your headache returns tenfold, and your stuffy nose is swapped out for a queasy stomach. Considering your vast recovery from yesterday, you’re able to easily blame it on the sushi you ate Friday night, a possible bad batch among the uncooked fish. Fortunately you’re able to push through your morning schedule, with your roommates’ game day excitement keeping you happy, and a quick shower causing your headache to dull slightly. 

Arrivals go well enough, and you’re thankful you don’t feel your stomach get worse when you bounce around, trying to entertain screaming tailgaters that are hoping for a glimpse of their favorite player. The only time you feel your stomach turn is when you notice the #9 ranked Auburn players, recalling a moment from last week where Joe was watching film. It seemed like every other play the D-linemen managed to get their hands on the QB, shedding blocks like they were nothing before ramming into their target. The main talk in the building all week has been these defensive tackles, and how they’re some of the nastiest in college football right now. 

So yeah, you get a little anxious. 

But being unwell has nothing to do with it…or so you tell yourself. It’s almost believable until you’re in the tunnel, gearing up to sprint onto the field. Cheers, hollers, and hype speeches come from every corner, ricocheting off the walls and into your skull, burning you with every sharp sound. The headache is returning, and this time you’re not sure if you’ll get an opportunity to try to make it stop. The confined space doesn’t make it any easier, as you look around for any way out of the sea of people only to find none. Just over 100 athletes all getting hyped up to play in the biggest game of the season up to this point.

You’re thankful when you’re told to run out, desperate to escape your somewhat claustrophobic confinements, but regret is quick to slap you in the face. As soon as you exit the tunnel, a tidal wave of even more noise hits you, the piercing sound almost causing your ears to ring. Not only that, but you feel your stomach tumbling around as you run, unhappy with how much effort you’re exerting in such a hot, sticky environment. The nausea doesn’t subside when you arrive at your allotted position on the sideline next to Tay, and you begin to wonder where you went wrong in your decision making these past couple days. 

The game starts promptly at 3:30pm, and you start to take deep breaths in preparation for what you’re thinking is going to be a long game for you. LSU starts on defense, managing to get to third down after putting plenty of pressure on the true freshman quarterback Bo Nix. On third down, the crowd starts to make as much noise as possible to rattle him, and when it works they go crazy again, causing your head to start throbbing and another wave of nausea to wash over you. All you can do is smile weakly, continuing to fight through your cheers with as much energy as you can manage in your miserable state. LSU’s offense goes three and out as well, the rhythm not quite there yet against this tough Auburn defense. 

Fortunately for the team but unfortunately for you, Auburn is quickly on third down again, and the crowd rumbles even louder than it did last time. Sharp pain pierces you again, your stomach pinching and your face growing hotter. When they actually convert, you can feel the disappointment in the crowd, which just mounts when defensive pass interference is called. Auburn is inching closer, so the crowd grows restless, thundering when a tipped pass is almost intercepted, and getting so overwhelming on third and goal that Auburn commits a false start. Death Valley is sent into a frenzy, loving their direct impact on the game, but unknowing of their direct impact on your wellness. You start to get seriously concerned when Auburn is stopped on 4th down, and your saliva starts to flood your mouth from the sickness.

Come on, you’re okay! You tell yourself. They’ll settle down.

You’re hopeful when Joe and company start to put together a solid drive down the field, but a sack and a false start ruin your chances at points. The crowd comes back to play when Auburn is on offense, causing another false start with their noise that has you reeling from the after effects. At this point you feel like you’re fighting for your life, forced to smile and dance while your stomach is in knots and your body burns. As if it couldn’t get any worse, Joe makes a big run on 3rd and 12, running towards the endline until a linebacker crushes him. Your anxiety spikes even though he pops right back up, getting another reminder of just how nasty this defense is going to treat him. You start to take huge breaths in through your nose and out through your mouth, trying to calm your bubbling stomach and panicked brain.

Death Valley thunders louder and louder as LSU gets closer and closer to the endzone, the offense finally picking up their pace. You’re still willing your body not to give up, your lip starting to quiver and your chest starting to shake when Joe throws a deep shot at the end zone, connecting with Terrace Marshall Jr. on a 20 yard touchdown pass.

The crowd erupts, ecstatic the LSU offense is back in business after a slow start, and the sound is deafening. You’re immediately thrust into your “T-I-G-E-R-S” touchdown cheer, and suddenly you can feel your pounding heartbeat in your head, eyes, nose and throat. The blinding rays of the sun are inescapable, blurring together with the stadium screens in an overwhelming frenzy that hurdles your nausea to a fever pitch. When you’re finally able to stop bouncing around, the tumbling, queasy sensation in your belly lands a hard sucker punch, and the unmistakably familiar bile of acid that starts climbing your throat tells you exactly what you’re in for. Panic alarms set off in your brain, and you quickly scan the area for anything that can help you, until your eyes land on the blue medical tent to your left. You rush over to the tent as the nausea starts to overpower every other feeling, getting flustered looks from the medic and the player being attended to, but you don’t much care. Your eyes start to burn, and you snatch the small trash can sitting right next to the table just in time, because next thing you know you’re emptying the contents of your stomach into the tin’s plastic bag. 

You’re not sure how long you’re hunched over, gripping the sides of the bag with white knuckles–your brain tends to black out moments like these and surrender, chanting, You’ll feel better after! You don’t see the chunky aftermath either, too consumed with stray hot tears and the ache in your throat to witness it, but the damage must be bad enough, because after the player exits, the kind middle aged medic guides you to the chair next to her with a soft smile. As you pant, trying to recover from your escapade, a dixie cup filled with water is quickly thrust into your hand. You accept it gratefully, the medic telling you to clear out your mouth and just spit onto the turf. You eye her warily, feeling like you could go for round two with the trash can just thinking about all the bacteria you’re coming into contact with being in this space.

The medic laughs as she ties up the sorry trash bag you vomited in, discarding it into a much larger, heavy duty bin on wheels that you hadn’t seen before. “Honey, this field has some of the best turf in the business. Don’t think too hard about it, there’s a drainage system,” she advises, pulling on a fresh set of gloves. You shrug meekly, gathering water in your mouth before spitting it right back out onto the turf below you. 

Makes sense why Joe does this shit all the time with his water.

A few more rounds of swishing and spitting later, your stomach starts to feel somewhat relieved and your dixie cup is empty. The medic is ready with a disposable toothbrush and another water-filled cup, and you thank her quietly before cleaning your mouth out. Muffles from the sideline tell you there was a bit of a scuffle on the kickoff, and Death Valley responds in kind with another rumble of cheers, even though it’s only Auburn’s first down. There’s another eruption from the crowd. Bo Nix dropped the snap.

When you’re finished brushing, you take generous gulps of the water, the cool liquid subduing the burn in your throat from the prolonged gagging. “You’ve got this routine down pat, huh? Happens often?” you ask the woman afterwards as the pounding in your head dulls only slightly. You wipe your mouth with a small napkin she has at the ready. 

“Let’s just say you should be glad you didn’t have a helmet on when it happened to you,” she answers with a grin, your face scrunching up at the image she’s put in your head. You still don’t feel the greatest as the woman continues on with a couple quick checks, shining a light in your eyes, testing your reflexes, and asking you questions. You pass with flying colors, until she frowns at your temperature. You quickly dart your eyes over the medic’s shoulder where you can see the girls have already adjusted their formation in response to your absence. The woman is about to speak up when you beat her to it. 

“Thank you, but I really need to get back out there,” you smile warily as you stand, well aware of the throbbing in your body that’s refused to let up, but ready to tough it out anyways.

“I’m not so sure-” the woman calls after you before a new, tougher voice cuts her off.

“What are you doing in here?” Coach Kandace demands immediately, thrusting both hands onto her hips into a questioning stance. Her eyes dart from you to the medic while you stand like a deer caught in headlights, fishing for an answer. 

“I’m f-” 

“She ran in here and hurled into the trash. Here’s her temp,” the medic cuts you off with a strict synopsis, getting straight to business with Coach and flashing her the bright red 99.8 ºF on the thermometer. “Not too bad, but not promising.”

Fuck.

Coach Kandace’s eyes immediately screw shut into a glare, crossing her arms angrily before jutting her head backwards. “Get up, I’m taking you to the locker room.”

“What? But-” you protest desperately, even though you know it’s no use. 

“Not a word!” Coach snaps back, and you’re quickly silenced. Her stormy eyes remain on you as you sulk in shame, knowing exactly what she’s thinking. That you pushed too hard. That you weren’t honest with yourself about your health. That you’re acting like a child instead of an athlete. 

Which, you won’t deny. You just thought you could get away with it. And now there’s this big scene.

Coach Kandace puts a hovering hand on the small of your back as she guides you off of the field and back towards the tunnel. You take one glance back at Death Valley, the crowd noise crescendoing as an Auburn third down draws closer, before Coach gives you one last light push onwards. Your head drops as you enter the tunnel and the cheers start to muffle, the thudding in your head returning full throttle. A groan unwillingly escapes your lips, and you bring a hand up to your temple to try to ease some of the tension. 

Coach’s bitter laugh rings out beside you as you’re ushered into the locker room, making a beeline for your stall. “Yeah, I don’t feel bad for you. And I’m not going to scold you about it right now either, because frankly, I know you know better, and this whole ordeal seems like punishment enough,” she barks out as you start to pull out your purple and white post-game sweatset. 

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, yanking a makeup remover wipe out of a travel sized container and swiping the cool sheet all over your face. There’s slight relief in pulling off your lashes, wiping off your sweaty makeup, and tugging that tight ass ponytail out. 

“I’m sure you feel sorry right now. Get changed and meet me outside,” Coach orders, and stomps out of the locker room without another word. You take your time getting dressed, using the time to regroup and bask in the silence. You peel off your sticky, sweaty uniform, suddenly very thankful you were able to throw your sweats in the dryer for 15 minutes before you left your apartment this morning, because the cotton fabric feels soft and fresh against your skin. By the time you finish tying the laces on your purple and white New Balances, you finally feel ready to call it a day, accept your defeat, and get an earful from Coach Kandace. 

You exit the locker room slowly, peering around the corner before silently standing to full attention in front of Coach. She just nods her head with the same hard look on her face, you following her as she slips down a hallway and into the trainer’s room. The head athletic trainer, Tanner, looks to be organizing wraps when the both of you enter, nodding his head at Coach in acknowledgement.

“What’s up?” he chirps, glancing at you questioningly. Your eyes scan the familiar room, a few examination booths and various medical equipment you couldn’t care less about being the main highlights. The fluorescent lights bore you, and the stale scent makes your throat dry. 

“She’s out. Vomit, a bit of a fever, and is kind of a wreck, so just give her a bed and don’t let her leave,” Coach answers gruffly, giving you a light shove before making a dramatic exit, likely back out to the stadium to watch the rest of your teammates. 

Tanner lets out a hearty laugh at her blunt statement, putting away the last of the wraps and patting a bed. “Get up here. You never learn, do you?” he asks with a teasing smile, grabbing a blue Gatorade from the fridge in the corner and handing it to you. Realization washes over you as you recall your memories from freshman year, before you knew of Coach’s disdain for sick dancers. 

“I guess not,” you respond with a chuckle. “But I really thought I could get through it! I felt so much better yesterday…” You trail off, your heart skipping a beat when you remember the reason why. Because Joe was with you the night before.

Suddenly, Tanner’s head snaps up to the small TV perched in the corner of the room where the game is being broadcasted. You tune in, hearing the faint cheers of spectators and booming voices of the announcers as Clyde catches a dump-off pass from Joe for a short gain. “I’m wondering if this is gonna be roughing the passer,” one of the commentators notes as the camera cuts back to Joe, who–to your horror–is limping back into the huddle. “Hit to the knees of the quarterback, Joe Burrow…” The announcer trails off as the referees make the call.

Your back immediately straightens and your hand flies to your mouth when the slow-mo replay runs, showing an Auburn D-lineman lunging for Joe’s right knee soon after he passes, and yanking him down awkwardly. A second closer look makes your stomach lurch, and all you can do is watch as Joe’s face contorts in pain, looking to have yelled out as he went down. 

This is exactly what I was worried about!

Both you and Tanner watch intently as the camera stays on him in the huddle and information. He’s not obviously limping, but walking awkwardly, clearly a little affected by the hit. “What are you going to do?” you ask Tanner in desperation, gesturing to the TV in panic. Surely this is his job. Right?

Tanner just looks at you apologetically and shrugs. “Nothing, unless he comes out and gets checked out by Donna.”

“He’ll never do that. Not unless he can’t get up,” you argue, searching for some way to make sure he’s okay. Tanner just nods. 

You worriedly continue watching, disappointed when the offense can’t convert on 4th & 1, turning it over on downs for Auburn. The Gatorade in your hands is slowly consumed, your hope being restored when Auburn goes three and out again, until it’s quickly crushed. While trying to receive the punt, the returner fumbles the football and Auburn recovers it on the 22, which means they’re already knocking on the door of the endzone. They get it on the 1 yard line on fourth down, and to your dismay a QB sneak is all that’s needed to get the touchdown. LSU is down 10-7, and the only bright side is that the offense seems to have gotten back into gear. 

Everything seems like it’s coming crashing down as the offense claws their way up the field. They’re managing to convert, but every play feels like a battle. One play, Auburn jumps early, and before the officials can blow the play dead Joe takes a hard wack from a rusher, getting pancaked into the ground. A hot mic picks up his mangled groan as he’s helped up by his center, and you can barely watch as he adjusts his wrecked jersey. Not only that, but he looks panicked in the pocket, unfocused and bouncing around too much. LSU ends up settling for a field goal, and you shrugging your shoulders when Auburn gets the ball and throws an interception with four seconds left in the half. 

“Something’s not right with Joe,” Tanner grumbles, shuffling through scans on his computer.

“It’s probably his leg that you refuse to look at,” you glare at him, only half serious. 

Tanner shakes his head, and sighs, “Trust me. It’s not that.” You roll your eyes, more annoyed at Joe for his stubbornness than you are at the trainers. You know it’s not their fault Joe wouldn’t touch them with a ten foot pole unless he was legitimately dying. 

When the game starts back up, LSU has the ball, and Joe clearly hasn’t collected himself yet. His throws are off target, the D-line pressure is getting to him, and he just seems so tense. The two teams go back and forth a few times, Auburn sneaking away with a field goal, but for the most part it’s just a defensive heavy football game. LSU even gets all the way down to the one yard line on fourth down, and the Auburn defense keeps them out, keeping themselves up at 10-13. You get the stop, but Joe throws an interception on a deep ball to Ja’marr right afterwards, and you can feel LSU losing control. The defense continues to carry LSU through the game with a stop yet again, and LSU gets great field position on the punt. On the next drive, Coach O finally finds what will trip this tough-as-nails Auburn up–runs. Clyde plows down the field and eventually into the endzone, the missed extra point on a bad hold making it 16-3 with LSU up. After another stop, Joe heads back on the field with a somewhat clearer mind. He still has happy feet, taking some unnecessary steps in the pocket that could trip him up, but he starts completing his passes again with confidence, even running for a conversion on third down. 

The fourth quarter starts with LSU around the 25, gearing up to get some points on the board and extend their small lead. You hold out the number four with your fingers in your lap to match the fans in the stadium and players on the field that hold their own hands up in anticipation. Your heart leaps as the team starts to look like it usually does, hope creeping back into your chest as the crowd gets louder and louder. Five yards out from the goal line the announcers point out LSU’s interesting formation, with no one but Joe in the shotgun and five blockers on four defenders. They anticipate Joe’s run, and just as they figure, he bursts up the middle and into the endzone no problem. A wide smile stretches across your face as you hear the crowd roar from both the TV and the rumbling above you, Joe beating on his chest and celebrating with his teammates. Relief fills you instantly, because even though the game isn’t over, Joe seems to be recovering from whatever rattled him earlier. 

The game turns defensive again after that, both teams getting nastier as time ticks on with personal fouls and heated conversations. Bo Nix finally starts to crack under the pressure of Death Valley, with false starts and intentional grounding getting called every other play that Auburn's on offense. He manages to get a touchdown off a few bad calls with 2:30 left, so you’re hoping LSU can just hold on to the ball for a couple first downs. You end up getting extra time taken off due to a holding call, and LSU is able to hold on to the ball for the rest of the game. 

You feel like you can finally breathe, and you notice that the throbbing in your head has significantly diminished due to finally being away from the loudest stadium in college football. “Fucking nail biter,” Tanner sighs, grabbing an energy drink from the fridge and cracking it open for himself. 

“Can I leave now?” You ask lamely, now wanting nothing more than to check in on Joe and pass the fuck out in your bed. 

“I can’t release you until Coach comes in,” Tanner replies, tossing you a water bottle. You throw your head back and groan, about to protest before you hear loud voices right outside the door. 

“-the authority to invade her medical privacy. You have no right to my athletes, just as I have no right to go asking about yours!” You hear Coach Kandace’s shrill, scolding voice. 

“Why can’t I just see her? At least tell me that she’s okay-” 

“Do not open that door-” Coach booms, obviously unsuccessful as the door swings wide open immediately afterwards. The last person you expect to see in here, Joe, comes barreling in, still dirty, sweating, and panting from his game.

“I actually have to see Tanner-” Joe sasses like a smartass, stopping mid sentence when he notices you. His eyes soften, his shoulders dropping in relief as he instinctively reaches out for you. 

“You have to see me?” Tanner smirks, interrupting his moment and breaking the silence. 

“Um…” Joe fumbles, awkwardness filling the air as he formulates his lie. “Uh, yes, my elbow,” he coughs. “It’s just a scratch but um…I thought it would be…important…for you to see.” 

“Not your knee?” Tanner raises his eyebrows, his eyes flicking down to Joe’s right leg. Joe tries to protest, but Tanner beats him to it. “Save it. You’ve waved me off with torn rib cartilage,” he mumbles, lazily digging through a drawer in his desk. “Lemme get a bandaid for your boo boo,” he teases.

Once Tanner’s occupied, Joe is immediately by your side. “Are you okay? What happened, why weren’t you out there?” He questions you in quick succession, his eyes darting around your body in search of any physical harm. 

“I’m fine, I got sick. Guess I should’ve taken Friday off too,” you confirm, trying to not let your heart beat too fast with the way he’s looking at you. “Are you okay? I saw that low hit and freaked,” you ask next, panic evident in your tone. 

“I’ll be sore tomorrow, but that’s it,” Joe waves it off, still analysing your every feature to make sure nothing is out of sorts. 

“Is everything okay?”

“I just…I couldn’t find you,” Joe mutters, the admission making your heart stop. The possibility of you not being okay affected him just as much as it affected you, and that thought makes you melt. He’s worried. 

“Get those cleats out of my medical space!” A loud, sassy voice rings out, and the woman who helped you in the blue tent comes barging in.

“Sorry, Mrs. Duchatellier,” Joe apologies like a child, looking at you with an “Oops!” face. 

“It’s Donna. And I don’t care if you want to come see your girlfriend, but please do it after you get out of those nasty ass clothes,” Donna rants, plopping down on a rolling chair and yanking on a pair of medical gloves. 

Heat instantly rushes to your face at the mention of that word. Girlfriend. 

It’s something you’ve been thinking about lately for sure. It’s just not your main topic of conversation with Joe, and that unconfirmed title leaves an uncomfortable sting in the air that will have to be soothed eventually.

“We’ll get out of your hair.”

That isn’t the last time that word throws you off. 

The following week is a bye week for the football team, and everyone seems happier with the lighter practice schedule. You Tiger Girls are able to focus on your routines for Nationals, going through choreography to see how you can make it more difficult, more impressive to judges. The football team gets extra time to rehab any injuries, get their minds right, and get an extra step ahead on preparations for their next opponent. 

Alabama. 

While some players are letting that daunting word drift to the back of their minds until next week, others don’t see this week as a week of rejuvenation and clarity—they see it as an opportunity to push harder.

One of those players being Joe. 

You don’t necessarily blame him for being more focused than ever. Last season when LSU played Alabama, it was nothing short of an embarrassment with punt after punt in Death Valley. The Tigers didn’t score a single point the entire game, and the one time LSU finally managed to get into the red zone, they were down 29-0 with three minutes left in the game. Then Joe threw an interception into the endzone. You remember being on the sidelines, hope draining from your face after almost every play, and still plastering on a smile to perform your cheers. By the end of the game, you were staring at practically empty stands feeling like you could burst into tears on the spot. At the time you were ranked third in the nation with only one loss, and it felt like if you could win that game you’d have a real shot at the playoffs. 

All of that hope was brutally stomped on, squished like an inconvenient ant under Nick Saban’s boot. 

Given how much that loss haunts you as a bystander, you can’t imagine how Joe is feeling having played the game. You can understand him going in early on Monday. Reviewing the Auburn game, pointing out certain holes that need to be filled on plays that didn’t work, especially given that he didn’t play up to his standard. You can even accept him staying late for an extra meeting with coaches, starting to expand the playbook to include more finesse and confuse the Alabama defense. On Tuesday, he starts to take it too far. 

Practice just ended for you and your roommates, thirty minutes earlier than the boys, and you’re all frantically cleaning the apartment in preparation for your guests. Joe, Justin and Ja’marr agreed to come over for a relaxing movie night and to discuss your bye-weekend plans, which just so happens to be celebrating Grace’s birthday, combined with the infamous Halloweekend. Last season you were lucky enough to have your bye week around Halloween as well, and it serves as the perfect excuse to let loose before the season really ramps up. Thanksgiving is around the corner, which means you’ll only have a couple of weeks before winter break, then a couple more weeks before Nationals.

It’s safe to say everyone's looking forward to one last hurrah before you’ll all be drowning in workouts, cold tubs, and finals. 

The stress has been showing in the cleanliness of your apartment, not that it’s unbearably disgusting, just less organized and fresh as you prefer. Kelia immediately whips out the vacuum, capturing every unwelcome crumb on the floor, while you busy yourself in the kitchen running the dishwasher and wiping down the countertops. Grace dusts and pulls out a warm smelling candle, while Tay switches out the trash and loads up the laundry. You all make quick work of the apartment, exchanging cute high fives afterwards.

Now that you’re satisfied and feeling more put together, you retreat to your room for a quick body shower, washing the grime from practice away. Pajama shorts and a casual sweatshirt are calling your name, and when you change you feel your shoulders finally relax, knowing all of your schoolwork for the week is done and the only responsibility you have this week is easy practices. When you stroll out to the living room you’re half expecting the guys to already be here, but you only find your roommates.

“Guys aren’t here yet?” You frown, looking at the time. “It’s been a while.”

“I was just thinking that,” Tay comments from the kitchen while pouring herself a glass of water. “Should I text them?” She asks.

“Maybe, just to make sure they remember,” Grace calls out from the couch, rolling her eyes and scrolling through her laptop to find a place to order food from. Tay starts tapping on her phone.

mike’s secret service 🐯😎

Taytay: y’all get lost or what, damn

Ja’marr: we were waiting for joe 

Ja’marr: dude on mission impossible or smth rn

Ja’marr: be der in 10

You get the notifications on your phone from the group chat, and when you read the texts, you can’t help but sigh worriedly. You could see a clear shift in Joe’s demeanor yesterday, one you know comes from this game. There’s nothing wrong with being focused on such a big game, but when you observe the slouch in his stance, and the dark bags under his eyes, your brain goes into high alert looking for signs that he’s overworking himself. Hearing that he’s holding everyone up to stay in the building just a little longer is not a good sign.

“They’ll be here soon,” Tay announces, strolling over to the couch and plopping down, looking over Grace’s shoulder to give input on dinner. You decide to join her, commenting on the calling you hear from your stomach in regards to noodles. Hot comfort food just sounds perfect while you watch whatever weird, esoteric horror film Kelia and Ja’marr are bound to convince you all to watch.

Soon enough there’s a knock on your door, and disgruntled greetings flow through the air as the tired football players mosey over to the living room. Everyone’s body language screams irritation, the worst of them to be Joe, who enters last. 

Oh god, he’s a wreck. 

Joe practically drags himself into the room, his posture dead and lethargic. As he inches closer, you notice his hair in complete disarray, and the harsh redness of his eyes, most likely from staring at screens all morning, afternoon, and evening. There’s even a slight twitch in his hands and a certain tightness in his chest that just makes everything about him so worn out. Tense.

“Sorry y’all, Joe had us waitin’ out there for 20 fuckin’ minutes,” Ja’marr grumbles with an eye roll, immediately making himself at home by throwing his bag by the door and falling into a bean bag you dragged out from Tay’s room. Justin does the same, shooing Tay away with a glare and claiming his spot next to Grace.

“Extra time with Coach?” Kelia jokes, raising her brow at Joe, who’s still by the door slowly putting his things down and rolling his neck. 

“Again?” You add on, raising your brows at Joe with a concerned look. Joe’s head snaps over at the sound of your voice, locking eyes with you and reading your worried expression. He remains distant, searching for words for a second. 

“Just some quick things,” Joe mutters, making his way over and sinking next to you on the couch, wordlessly draping an arm around your shoulder and pulling you into his chest. The action is meant to soothe you, convince you that he’s okay, but the frantic look in his eyes and jittering leg keep you anxious. 

“Okay what is everyone wearing this weekend? Because I haven’t thought about it one bit,” Tay snorts, scrolling through Pinterest for ideas.

Kelia groans in response. “I don’t know. Something easy,” she grumbles. 

“You wouldn’t have to go shopping if you went as a neurotic bitch,” Ja’marr quips, earning a hard glare and pillow to the face from Kelia. 

“We’re doing Joker and Harley Quinn,” Justin motions to himself and Grace. “What about you Joe?”

Joe’s head snaps over again, making it clear he’s been zoning out for most of the conversation, but he must’ve picked up enough to answer the question after a moment. “I haven’t thought about it,” he sighs, bringing a hand up behind his head to scratch his neck. “Honestly, I really don’t even know if I should go. I don’t want to get off track before next week,” he mumbles, starting to rub his fingers on his temple. Your heart sinks, hurt that Joe can’t take one weekend away from football to be with his friends, and you’re starting to think you’ve had enough of this moody, do-or-die Joe. The rest of the room agrees, because noises of protests immediately break out. 

“Oh come on, Joe,” Justin scoffs.

“You have to go-” 

“And it’s my birthday,” Grace mutters softly, furrowing her brows. 

“Joe, stop being a hardass. This is the only weekend you’re gonna get for the rest of the season,” Ja’marr scolds.

“Sorry I wanna win the fucking game,” Joe snaps, his voice laced with petty sarcasm. Stillness falls over the room at his outburst, everyone unsure how to respond. It’s clear the stress of a “few” extra practices and meetings have pushed Joe to a breaking point, one where his competitive edge takes precedence over his relationships. 

Once again, Ja’marr will always break any silences. 

“Damn, I ain’t think you would stay this bitchy in front of your girlfriend,” Ja’marr quips with an eye roll, motioning offhandedly to you.

There’s that word again.

It simmers in the air uncomfortably again, everyone now not only staring at Joe but staring at you. A silent question of, What are you going to do? A stench.

“You smell,” you mutter, shoving Joe off of you slightly. Soon after you rise, waving a beckoning hand and walking towards your bedroom. “I have one of your sweatshirts you can wear.” You’re only half serious, the other half being the need to get Joe alone so you can talk to him without prying eyes. Joe eyes you apprehensively, but you can see the regret in his eyes as he stands and follows. He didn’t mean to be harsh. 

“I’m ordering the food,” Grace timidly calls after you.

“That’s fine, I’m not hungry,” you reply, your appetite suddenly gone after such a bitter start to the night. Once you’re in your bedroom you let out a deep sigh and put your hands on your hips, spinning around when the door clicks shut.

“Text Grace what you want right now, I’m not playin’,” Joe is quick to speak out with a challenging scowl on his face. 

“We can both do that in a second. Get in my shower first, you really do stink and I don’t want to talk to you until you cool down a little more,” you stop him dead in his tracks, meeting his expression with authority of your own. You’re not the one who’s being an asshole, so you’re not backing down. 

Joe flickers his eyes between yours, shoulders tense and jaw set as he thinks, before slowly releasing them. “Alright,” he announces quietly, still steaming as he takes a towel you offer him, then slides into your bathroom without a word. Your room remains silent as you move, texting Grace both of your food orders before finding his sweatshirt amongst your things, along with a pair of sweatshorts he must have left some other time. You shove the clothes into the dryer in the hall while he washes himself, then take the remaining time to sit on your bed and get your own thoughts together. 

He shouldn’t be pushing this hard. What if something happens to him? 

All but ten minutes later, Joe strolls out of the bathroom with your towel hanging low on his waist. You’d be lying if you said you aren’t momentarily distracted by him as he brings a dry wash cloth he must have found in your cabinet up to his head to run through his moppy hair. The way his bicep bulges as he works the towel around, his solid abs contracting with the movement, and that damn towel sliding lower ever so slightly to show off more of his V line, all while stray water droplets slowly slide down his physique, outlining every ridge and curve. It’s tempting to say the least. But you don’t have time for that.

You quickly step out to retrieve Joe’s clothes from the dryer, and when you return you force yourself to look past the broadness of Joe’s shoulders and notice that they’re slightly more relaxed than before, but still heavy. His face has gone from thunderous to cloudy and timid, softer but still concealed. You hand him his warm clothes wordlessly, noticing he’s already tugged boxers on to save you from that distraction. His eyes flick up to you as he pulls the light grey sweat shorts on, and a sigh falls from his lips.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Joe grumbles softly, a slight edge to his tone as he throws the sweatshirt over his head and falls into a slouched sitting position on your bed. He immediately hunches over, placing his elbows on his knees and letting his hands comb through his hair for a moment. Every movement feels like it may be his last before he passes out from exhaustion, and you’re well aware he’s teetering on the edge of his breaking point, and you can’t help the overwhelming sympathy that washes over you. He looks so soft, so worn, so tired.  

“Because I can see how badly you’re burying yourself in this,” you counter, trying to sound equally stern as you do upset. 

“This is normal,” Joe counters frustratedly, lifting his head to make eye contact with you. “Plenty of guys in the league work this hard every week. This is how you beat the best.”

“By showing up at my door practically a corpse? Is that how you plan on rolling up to Tuscaloosa?” You snap, the authoritative bite in your tone increasing by the moment. Him putting all this pressure on himself isn’t healthy, and you refuse to let him take it out on you, or worse, himself. “By the way, you’re not in the league yet, Joe. You’re still a kid.”

Joe scoffs at that, shaking his head. “I’m fine. My body’s fine,” he shrugs off defensively.

“Why are you bullshitting? You can barely stand, and your mind is anywhere else but here,” you accuse, silently begging for him to just give it a rest. 

“Stop staring at me like that,” Joe grits out, his patience and temper wearing thin. “I am not a kid, I can fucking do this,” he snaps like he did in the living room, only this time his voice shakes–but you don’t sense anger. His retaliation catches you off guard. That brooding face he always wears has finally cracked, and he’s given you a glimpse into why he’s really pushing this hard. For a moment, the only sounds in the room are Joe’s heavy breaths, each of you locking eyes to try to communicate something you can’t say out loud yet. 

“I never said you couldn’t,” you reply softly. “In fact, I remember telling you you could do anything.”

Suddenly, you completely understand where all of this is coming from–the distant glances, the piles of work, the frustrated outbursts–because you said this exact thing to Joe after you two first hooked up. When Joe just wanted to comfort you, you went on the defense, quickly pushing him away because you were panicking, because of your insecurities. Because you were scared. 

He doesn’t think your look is one of pity–he thinks it’s one of doubt. 

He thinks I don’t believe in him. Because he’s scared. 

And how does Joe cope with being scared? He prepares. 

“Joe,” you whisper, slowly approaching him. His face falls when you say his name, and you watch as his mask chips away at each of your words, a quiet, tired man lying beneath it. “There isn’t a single doubt in my mind that you have everything it takes to beat this team. Your poise, your skills, your mind–it’s all there. But in order for those things to be in tip top shape, you can’t burn out,” you continue as you slot yourself between Joe’s legs, using both of your hands to cradle his jaw and keep his helpless eyes on yours. 

“And honey, you’re burning yourself out,” you admit softly. Joe breaks at those words, his body crumbling as he throws his arms around your lower back and shoves his face into your stomach. One of your hands threads through his hair while the other falls to his back, scratching softy as Joe shudders, only a couple tears wetting your sweatshirt.

“Everything just needs to be perfect,” Joe chokes out desperately, breathing in deeply through his nose, and out through his mouth between broken sentences. “This is what I do, this is how I operate, this is how I deal with the pressure. I can’t get shut out again, the whole state is counting on me.” 

“And you’re not going to disappoint them. But you need to be upright in order to show up for them,” you soothe, your heart breaking in two at his words. You’re just glad he’s finally letting you share some of the weight, leaning on you as a support system and not just a cheerleader that praises him when he’s on top of the world. There are a few moments where this is finally understood between the two of you, that you don’t have to do any of this alone. “Just breathe, and trust yourself. Can you do that?” You ask softly, pulling his head back with one hand so you can look in his eyes again. They’re a little glassy, and still red, but you finally see relief in them.

“Yes,” Joe breathes out, closing his eyes and letting his head fall into your palm. “I’m so tired,” he admits in a broken voice, and you see his body slowly falling out of fight or flight mode.

“I know, baby. Let’s go back out and relax,” you hum, stroking your thumb across his flushed cheek a couple of times before fully pulling back and grabbing his hands. Joe lets out a big exhale from his mouth, nodding as you pull him up from his position on your bed. Hand in hand you both start to exit the room, until Joe stops dead in his tracks and tugs at the sweatshirt you’ve given him. Technically his sweatshirt, but it’s been yours for the past couple of months. 

“I’m not fucking keeping this thing,” he grumbles, giving you a pointed look. His serious look makes you laugh unexpectedly, and your heart finally starts to lighten up after such an intense conversation.

“I don’t expect you to,” you smile, giggling again when Joe nods and continues right back on his slow journey down the hall with you. 

Both of you are grateful when you walk into the kitchen and the smell of Chinese comfort food wafts over to you, your stomach rumbling on cue. Debates about the selected movie float around the room as containers of hot food are handed out, Grace always unsure of the horror genre until the film starts and she gets into it. It feels easy to slide back into the routine, and when you sneak a glance at Joe you see his shoulders relaxing as well. Everyone’s jokes and laughter move to the living room, where you all take up couches, beanbags, and arm chairs, the two movie experts quickly taking the two beanbags in front of the coffee table so they can be as close to the TV as possible.

“It came out this past summer, I’ve already watched it four times I think,” Kelia raves as she relentlessly forks noodles into her mouth. 

“Isn’t Midsummer some Swedish holiday? How is that horror?” Justin mumbles sassily, leaning into Grace as they squeeze into an armchair together. 

“It’s Midsommar. And yes, it’s a Swedish holiday…you’ll see…” Ja’marr clarifies with a smirk, sharing a knowing look with Kelia.

The movie starts, and your friends start to quiet down as the plot thickens and the relationships strain. Everyone’s food is finished quickly, leaving each of you with full, satisfied stomachs and unwinding muscles, a gentle calm settling over everyone as you start leaning in to hang on to Florence Pugh’s performance. Eventually, Joe removes himself from your side to grab a blanket, draping it over the both of you before curling back up against you. You’re only twenty minutes into the movie, but you can feel Joe’s head growing heavier and heavier against your shoulder, so you lean over and whisper, “Why don’t you just lay down?”

Joe looks up at you and furrows his eyebrows cutely, so you just pat your thigh and put a hand on his shoulder, guiding him down so his head rests on your lap. You let him take all of the blanket, watching as he extends his legs along the rest of the couch and lets out a big sigh once he’s finally in a comfortable position. After all but two minutes of threading your fingers through his soft, fluffy hair, you can see his breath even out and sleep overtake him, the tension-filled crease in his forehead finally fading. The sight almost makes you cry when you remember how he walked in here, and when he confessed to you how much pressure he’s been putting himself under. 

You continue watching the movie, occasionally running your fingers through Joe’s hair again, or softly scratching his back when he adjusts slightly in his sleep. There’s a moment where Ja’marr and Kelia look back at the two of you and realize what’s happened, and your heart strings pull when Ja'marr flashes you an unfamiliar look:  gratitude. You’re not sure how often Joe confesses things like doubt to his best friend, because they are boys after all, but part of you knows that it doesn’t matter if Joe’s told him or not–he knows. He knows that Joe is putting everything on the line for this game, and it’s been affecting him. 

And he knows that for whatever reason, you’re the answer. You’re his answer.

You don’t say anything to each other, and Ja’marr just turns around and gets right back into the film, but you think about that look periodically throughout the movie, your heart warming each time. When Midsommar is finally finished, it’s only 9:30, but you still wake up Joe and lead him to your room so he can just sleep through the night. His wobbly steps and groggy expression make you laugh, his mind clearly not fully on this Earth because he almost flops right on Kelia’s bed instead of yours. When you finally get him in the right room and close your door, he says something you don’t expect.

“I don’t wanna go to bed,” Joe mumbles from under your covers, looking swallowed in your duvet but a wide awake look in his eyes.

“What?” You laugh, dotting some extra moisturizer on your face even though you already did your skincare earlier. “Why?”

“It’s only 9:30 and I just fucked up my sleep schedule with that nap,” Joe groans, rubbing his eyes and grabbing your laptop from the foot of the bed. “And I’m actually kinda pissed I missed the movie, it looked interesting,”

“So you want me to watch it again?” You ask with an amused look, hopping into bed next to him. Warmth immediately envelopes you, causing you to pull the sheets all the way up to your chin and snuggle up to Joe’s side as he opens your laptop and unlocks it with your finger.

“Star Wars?” Joe whines, putting on an exaggerated pout and wide puppy eyes to lure you in. The two of you have been continuing watching the movie series on and off ever since your sick day, and Joe has been dying to get to the next movie in the lineup, Attack of the Clones. You’re really not tired, and figure this is a good way for him to end an emotional day.

“Sure,” you laugh as Joe fist bumps the air, immediately searching for the movie on Disney Plus.

The image of the film pops up, and a gasp falls from Joe’s lips, his eyes going wide until a knowing look and a smug smirk. “I know exactly who we should be for Halloween this weekend.” 

“Who?”

Bass booms throughout the small bathroom, Drake’s Headlines filling you with even more confidence than the alcohol coursing through your bloodstream. Kelia lets out a big, “Ohhhh!” at the opening notes, and you pause your lip liner to rap the opening verse with her. 

I might be too strung out on compliments Overdosed on confidence Started not to give a fuck and stopped fearin' the consequence Drinkin' every night because we drink to my accomplishments Faded way too long, I'm floatin' in and out of consciousness And they sayin' I'm back, I'd agree with that I just take my time with all this shit, I still believe in that I had someone tell me I fell off, oooh I needed that And they want to see me pick back up, well where'd I leave it at?

Both of you are feeling yourselves, dolled up from head to toe for every college students’ favorite holiday. Tay, the household bartender, made you a cranberry lemon drop martini that’s now sitting in a red solo cup on the sink counter, surrounded by every beauty product known to man. You pick up the drink, finishing it off in a couple of large gulps so you can slide on your lip gloss and top off your makeup. 

“If we don’t take pictures and start pregaming now, there’s no way we’ll be leaving by 10!” You hear Grace call out from the hall, the stomp of her boots giving away her anxious need to stick to your loose schedule. The plan is to leave by 10 so you get to Bogie’s around 10:30, and the clock reads 8:45, so you’re not surprised Grace is already rushing you to get out and get moving, even though the guys haven’t shown up yet. 

You take one last look at yourself in the mirror, doing a once over of your costume to make sure you’re not forgetting anything. Small white booty shorts hug your curves, accentuating the shape of your ass just right, and a loose silver belt hangs low on your hips. Your top leaves little to the imagination as well, the cropped, long sleeve, skin tight fabric at least covering all the way up to your neck. Your matching white go-go boots are knee high, and silver bands wrap around your biceps as well, a nice accent you thought made a huge difference in people guessing who you’re dressed as. Your hair is pulled back in a loose bun, letting your glowy makeup shine and your eyes pop.

You look hot, and you know it. 

Neither you, nor Kelia bother to clean up her bathroom before departing it, knowing you will get an earful from Grace if you’re not out for pictures in the next sixty seconds. Luckily you make it out into the living room just in time to see Joe, Justin and Ja’marr give greetings at the door, a pack of beer and a bottle of tequila in their hands. Everyone’s costumes look great, but your jaw almost hits the floor when you see your counterpart. 

Joe struts in with confidence, the black robes draped around him partially opened to show off his tan, chiseled chest. A brown leather belt cinches his waist, showing off his figure and making his shoulders look extra broad, and a black, strappy glove covers only his right hand. In it, he carries the centerpiece of his costume–a bright blue lightsaber. 

“Hello, my gorgeous Padme,” Joe beams at you, trailing his eyes up and down your figure a million times as he slides his ungloved hand around your waist. The heat behind his gaze and his hard, exposed chest that’s now right in front of you makes you blush, and you struggle to look up and meet his gaze for a moment. 

“Hello, my handsome Anakin,” you reply, easily trailing your palms up Joe’s exposed chest and around his neck to pull him down for a slow, sensual kiss. Neither of you want to pull away, but the racket happening around you as Grace starts directing pictures is hard to ignore, so you share one last charged glance before tuning in to the instructions being given. 

Everyone takes turns getting pictures in group, duo, and solo shots of their choosing, your speaker eventually getting moved from the bathroom into the living room to get everyone hyped up for the evening. Of course everyone hollers when Justin goes in for a kiss on Grace during their Joker and Harley Quinn photoshoot, and does the same for you when Joe decides to plant one. Giggles start to float through the group as the alcohol starts working its magic, and when you’ve all had enough of pictures, you get to sipping some more. 

From Rattlin Bog, to stack cup, to cup pong, and a card game you never really understood the rules to, each of you feel tipsy enough by 10 to order an Uber right on Grace’s schedule. When the driver is two minutes away, Kelia dramatically crowns Grace the birthday queen with a 21st birthday sash and tiara you got on Amazon for $10, so she can wear it to the bar. 

Everyone piles into the Uber, the anticipation level high as you head to your first stop of the night, a popular bar at LSU called Bogie’s. You really don’t plan to be there long, Grace just wants to be able to use her ID for the first time, and most of the rest of you aren’t even 21 yet. The real party starts at your next stop, a big house party hosted by Terrace Marshall from the team. But being in Tigerland, the area of downtown where all the college bars are, is excitement enough to get your night rolling.

When you step out of the uber, the vibes do not disappoint. It’s chillier than you’d like in your tiny outfit, but your alcohol blanket works wonders, and the bustle of students in flashy costumes combined with the electrifying lights of the bars distracts you from the nip in the air. You know that everyone you see is anticipating the fun night, bouncing off the walls with excitement.

What you don’t realize until you walk up to the line for the bar, is that people will stare. You’ve only walked 15 steps up to the entrance with the guys, and you’ve already seen some passerby do double takes, one very drunk guy even pointing at Joe and hooting, “Let’s geaux Jeaux!” Joe just stiffens, laughs semi-awkwardly and gives the guy a point back as if to say thank you. You can see now why he can be so against going out–it’s not always fun to be watched. 

Joe, Justin, Grace and Tay start to actually walk towards the line, the rest of you under-21-year-olds about to split off and find some restaurant to just sit at a table and chill. Until suddenly, one of the bouncers at the entrance walks up to Justin, dapping him up and giving him a bro-like greeting. The bouncer takes one look at all of you with not only Justin, but Ja’marr and Joe, and brings all of you to the front of the line, not an ID in sight. After all of you are mostly in, Grace goes back and says, “Wait!”

“Can you just…look at mine?” She asks sheepishly, handing him her real ID that shows the date of her birthday–two days ago. 

The bouncer finally notices that her sash and tiara are not a part of her costume, recognition flashing across his features as he laughs. “Yeah, sure,” he agrees, taking her ID and scanning the date. Tay is quick to pull out her phone snapping silly pictures of Grace getting carded with her real ID for the first time. “Happy Birthday, Grace,” he boasts as he hands it back and quickly moves on to the next in line. Grace walks back up to the group with a wide smile, and all of you cheer goofily, happy she not only got her one wish for the night, but that the rest of you got in scathe-free as well thanks to Justin and the guys.

Bogie’s is fun. The music is loud, but not too loud to the point where you all can’t laugh and joke around at the bar, nursing only a shot and a drink each so you can keep the party going without getting too hammered before Terrace’s. There are moments where you can feel it, the people staring again, but each time you just look at Joe and put your hand on his arm, watching as the panic in his eyes slowly dissipates when things never evolve into a spectacle. Luckily everyone is kind enough, usually not saying much to him if they say anything at all, but you know what he’s thinking anyway–he wants to leave sooner rather than later.

Fortunately it doesn’t take long for each of you to finish your drinks and be ready for Terrace’s, making Joe let out a big sigh of relief. The second Uber is more expensive, and a longer wait, but now that you’re all thoroughly enjoying the after effects of the alcohol, it feels like you blink and you’re standing in front of a huge family home, decorated to the nines in a classic Halloween theme. 

Justin had explained that the house is Terrace’s late grandparents, and his mom has simply been too caught up in work since they died to have it sold, renovated, or touched at all. It’s not like she needs the money, and selling a house is a huge hassle, so she had no problem allowing Terrace to throw a rager and get in the good graces of the team in his first year. Still, you weren’t expecting a quarter mile long driveway, extensive foliage and a big brick house with balconies for days sitting on two acres of land. 

As you walk up to the open entrance, muted, thumping bass fills your ears, an exciting promise of what’s in store for the rest of the night. All of you take glances around at people filtering in and out of the house, particularly the blunt rotation ensuing on the porch, and point out unique costumes and decorations. When you finally arrive at the partially open double doors, Ja’marr is the first to walk up, peering in before looking back at the rest of you.

“Ready?” He asks with a mischievous smile, rubbing his palms together as everyone excitedly follows him into the blue light and fog. You’re immediately greeted by the smell of sweat and alcohol, the once muted bassline of the house music playing now blaring into your ears and vibrating in your throat. It’s somewhat dark, but the various bright LEDs that occasionally flash on the beat help you make out lots of bodies, everyone either drinking, dancing, laughing, or all three. It’s when you look up that you finally notice the fake cobwebs stretched across the ceiling and walls, lined with plastic spiders.

“God damn Terrace!” Kelia exclaims over the music, her eyes just as wide as yours as they explore the packed house. 

“Let’s go get drinks,” Ja’marr nods at everyone, continuing to lead the way even though none of you have ever been here before–including him. Eventually your group finds the massive kitchen, where countless red solo cups and an extremely wide variety of liquor and booze fill up the entire expanse of the rectangular island. Right next to the kitchen is a cleared out dining room, where a very intense game of cup pong is being played by none other than the host himself. Rowdy party goers, some of which are players you recognize, crowd around the table as spectators to the seemingly epic match. As you approach, Terrace sinks a cup with a plop, earning cheers from the crowd.

“Aye, what’s good, man?” Justin claps a hand on Terrace’s shoulder after he daps up his pong teammate, and Terrace is even happier to see Justin than he was to make that shot. 

“What’s up Jets? I’m good, bro I’m just locked in. Glad all you guys could make it,” Terrace booms with a smile, dapping each of the guys up with questionable aim. 

“This place is sick, I can’t believe it,” Grace comments, still looking around and taking it all in. 

“Hey thanks, birthday girl! Y’all can take anything from the kitchen by the way, just watch your drinks cause I’m not dealin’ with that roofie shit,” Terrace replies, taking a reluctant sip from his mixed drink after someone on the other side makes their shot. 

“‘Preciate it bro,” Joe nods, and all of you take the hint to help yourselves to anything on the table. You turn, your eyes still trying to adjust to the lack of light throughout the space as you look through all of your options, a small smirk tugging on your lips when you notice the Casamigos. Automatically, slightly drunk you reaches out her hand, grabbing the neck of the bottle along with two cups, two lime slices and salt with unapologetic confidence. Before you can think too hard about it, you slowly turn to face Joe, who’s already eyeing your actions with a hint of a smirk. From his still exposed chest, to the sweat already prickling at his skin and in his hair, making him push it back in the exact way you like, you just can’t stop yourself from feeling hot under his gaze.

“Wanna do a body shot?”

Joe throws his head back with a laugh, his eyes crinkling when he meets your gaze again. “With me?” He asks jokingly, stepping closer so he can put his large, warm hands on your hips. 

Your face falls deadpan at his joke. “No, with Ja’marr,” you reply sarcastically, nodding at the man who’s currently measuring out Tay’s drink like he’s an alchemist. Joe’s gaze hardens at that joke, suddenly not in a joking mood at all.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he huffs out, which makes you giggle. “Where are you putting the salt?”

Without hesitation, you duck your head down, slowly licking a long stripe from the bottom of Joe’s abs up to his sternum, looking up at him with wide eyes and an innocent smile once you’ve finished your work. 

“Jesus, you’re gonna kill me,” he groans as you start pressing salt where you licked, the wetness helping the pebbles stick to his skin. 

“Shhh,” you hush him with the lime wedge, sticking it in his mouth so the rind is between his teeth. He smiles with it in his mouth, watching as you pour your shot into one of the solo cups. When you’re done, you look back up at him again, holding eye contact as you lick the salt off his chest sensually. The tequila’s next, the burn sliding all the way down your throat, and finally you bring your hand up to Joe’s jaw, pulling him down so you can pluck the lime wedge from his mouth. The acid liquid soothes the heat from the shot, but does little to tame the heat rising into your cheeks due to the way Joe is staring at you like he could eat you. 

“My turn,” Joe murmurs with darkened eyes, leaning in close to snatch the salt from the counter behind you. His musky, woody scent overtakes you, causing your heart to flutter, and you almost gasp when Joe hooks his hands under your upper thighs and lifts you onto the cool granite countertop. He leans down, and your jaw drops when he flicks his tongue on your stomach, tracing around your exposed belly button in a big circle. He presses the salt against your skin teasingly, a sly smirk playing across his lips as he pours a hefty shot into the second solo cup and leans back down.

Shivers wrack through your body as Joe’s warm, wet tongue slides against your stomach, a wave of heat washing over you when he laps at the salt below your belly button, so, so close to your waistband. He rises to take the shot, locking eyes with you and wrapping a firm hand around your neck to angle your face towards his. He sits there for a few moments, his gaze wandering from your eyes to your mouth as he teases you, letting his breath fan over your lips a few times before slowly removing the lime. Your heart beats a mile a minute, and you’re suddenly desperate to jump his bones, but you know this isn’t the time, or the place. He just wants to rattle you like you rattled him.

“Fair enough,” you sigh, hot and bothered all over. Joe’s proud of his work, removing the lime from his mouth with a little laugh that makes your heart soar. 

“What do you want to drink, pretty girl?” Joe asks, grabbing an unopened Bud Flight from a twelve back and pouring it into his cup.

“Hmm, surprise me,” you chirp. “But whatever it is needs tequila,” you clarify pointedly. Joe’s goofy laugh rings out again.

“Okay,” he agrees, eventually handing you a citrus concoction that tastes like oranges, pineapples and mangoes all at once. You hum with gratitude, hopping off the counter as Kelia challenges Ja’marr to a game of cup pong, the two of them rounding the island in a heated exchange.

“Aye Terrace, we get next!” Ja’marr calls out, and everyone filters over to watch the end of the current game. You lean over a couple shoulders to see the game, getting up on your tippy toes and feeling Joe’s arm slide easily around your waist. After only a few moments you get the uncomfortable feeling you’re being watched, so you start flickering your eyes into the dark corners, until you find the exact eyes that have been on you.

Cam. 

He’s dressed in an all orange jumpsuit, an ugly sneer naturally etched onto his face that you never saw before. Your throat catches as his eyes linger, a mischievous glare in them while he mutters something to another football player. A pit starts to form as he continues to talk and stare, his friend’s eyes eventually flickering over to you, a similar furrow etching in his brows as well as Cam’s. He’s talking about you, and it’s hurting more than you’d care to admit.

But if this situation has taught you anything, it’s that things are always going to hurt you more than you think. You’re always going to feel more than you want to, and it’s how you choose to deal with it that’s going to define who you are. 

“Why do you look embarrassed?” Kelia is suddenly at your side, looking at you and Cam dumbfounded.

“I’m not embarrassed,” you argue, looking awkwardly at the ground, then back at your ex. “He’s definitely talking about me though,” you mutter, anger and frustration bubbling along with that pit sitting low in your belly.

“If you don’t want to be embarrassed, don’t be,” Kelia tells you firmly, turning you towards her by your shoulder and looking you dead in the eye. “Embarrassment is a choice.” Kelia has always had this philosophy, that as long as you own who you are and the choices you make, that you can never really be embarrassed, because you’re not ashamed of who you are. She’s right, and you’ve been trying to adopt this philosophy for yourself, but sometimes you just need a little reminder. 

“So, are you embarrassed?” She asks pointedly, patiently awaiting your answer with her hands on her hips. You think about her question. What should you be embarrassed of? You loved him with everything in you, trusted him because you should’ve been able to, and moved on when he betrayed you. There is nothing for you to be ashamed of.

“No, he should be,” you respond firmly, giving a solid nod and focusing back on the game.

“That’s better,” Kelia cheers, throwing her arms around your shoulder with a giggle, the both of you suddenly bursting into cheers when Terrance hits the game winning shot.

As the night continues on, you forget all about Cam and his stupid friends. From Ja’marr and Kelia’s riveting game of cup pong, to getting to know some more LSU players on the offensive side of the ball, to dancing to your favorite songs the DJ plays, every moment is full of laughter and loose shoulders. And as it gets later, the alcohol flows more freely, some of you starting to take wobbly steps and slur certain words. Eventually you all find a game room, where there’s a pool table, a poker table, and Joe’s favorite–a ping pong table.

“Man you suck!” Tay pouts and drops her paddle on the table, throwing her hands up in defeat before taking another sip from her drink. 

“Don’t hate the player, hate the game,” Joe responds, a wide, cocky grin spreading across his face when he flips his paddle, catching it perfectly before setting it back on the table. You’re about to walk over and tease Tay, when the opening guitar riff of one of the most iconic party anthems of the century floods your ears. All of you gasp at the sound, immediately breaking out into giggles before racing to the living room, where a makeshift dance floor has been formed. Every one of you quickly launches into your best dance moves, singing the opening lyrics along with everyone else in the room.

Comin' out of my cage and I've been doin' just fine Gotta, gotta be down because I want it all It started out with a kiss, how did it end up like this? It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss

You’re all dramatically acting out the lyrics, cackling when Ja’marr and Justin start hitting the Get the Gat dance move, prompting the rest of you to follow suit. 

Now I'm falling asleep and she's calling a cab While he's having a smoke and she's taking a drag Now they're goin' to bed and my stomach is sick And it's all in my head...

Each of you are flowing with the music, not a care in the world what anyone watching could be thinking about you at that moment. You feel free, and when you catch Joe’s eyes, you know exactly what you need to do on this next lyric. “But she's touching his chest, now,” you sing, dramatically running your palm down Joe’s pecks. 

“He takes off her dress, now, let me go,” Joe sings back, sliding his hands around your waist and down to your ass as he pulls you close, the both of you grinning from ear to ear when your noses touch. You feel like you’re on top of the world, and Joe’s close proximity only makes your heart race faster, especially when he pulls back and grabs your hand so he can start frantically spinning you to the music. Your laughter floats over the melody, the giggles interrupting your beautiful vocal performance.

And I just can't look, it's killing me

They're taking control…

On the chorus, you just have to over exaggerate your acting and dance moves again. There is no other way to sing this section–only melodrama. 

Jealousy Turning saints into the sea Swimming through sick lullabies Choking on your alibi

The entire crowd comes alive at the end of the chorus, everyone shouting with each other.

But it's just the price I pay Destiny is calling me Open up my eager eyes… 'Cause I'm Mr. Brightside

As the song continues, everyone’s performances never falter, each of you taking turns singing to and with each other, busting out dance moves you couldn’t reenact if you tried. Just when the high of the song feels like it’ll last forever the last, “I neverrr!” gets screamed out, and you’re left breathless. 

Each of you are still recovering from your dance party as you attempt to exit the dance floor, following Tay and Justin who are both requesting another drink from the kitchen. Joe grabs your hand so as not to lose you amongst the sea of bodies, and you carelessly let him tug you across the room.

Everyone is taking the time to fill up their drinks, your new orange juice and tequila combo feeling like a step up from the unopened beer can Kelia handed you previously. You take a few sips, savoring the taste until Terrace, who’s on the other side of the kitchen nods at you. “Can you grab some more solo cups? They’re in that cabinet behind you,” he asks before concentrating back on his task at hand–concocting a Bitch Cup for the next round of stack cup. 

“Sure,” you chirp. You turn over your shoulder, maybe a little too quickly, because when you do, you step right into a solid body. You gasp as their entire bright red drink pours right down your front, ruining your once white costume with the sticky substance. When you slowly bring your eyes up to face your perpetrator, you aren’t surprised by the sly smirk of the person staring back at you.

Cam.

“Whoops,” he sighs, his voice carrying no hint of actual remorse. Your jaw hangs as you’re still processing what’s happened, Grace racing over with paper towels and immediately starting to pat at your clothes, but it’s no use. 

“What the fuck?!” Kelia growls, wasting no time stomping over to the scene. Joe is hot on her trail, fuming. Cam doesn’t seem to mind their presence, eyeing you up and down. His gaze used to make you feel wanted–now it just makes you feel violated.

“Maybe if you were wearing a little more fabric it wouldn’t be as bad,” he sneers, about to turn and walk away. “Fucking slut.”

You bark a laugh in Cam’s face, his words rolling off of you easily. You know you look hot, and at this point you couldn’t give less of a fuck about what he thinks. But your laugh makes him turn back, not liking that his insult didn’t hit as hard as expected. “Okay bitch,” you spit out, venom lacing your tone in the pettiest way possible. “I’m the slut? You tried to bang both of us at the same time. At least I’m not resorting to fucking a lame. That’s all you can ever get after me.”

“I mean come on, that shit you pulled with the hickeys? Have some fucking class,” he rolls his eyes as if he’s disappointed, shooting a glare at Joe until a sickly smirk curls on his lip. “Makes though. We all know Burrow’s a pillow princess anyway.” 

“Oh buddy,” Joe interjects, slapping a not-so friendly pat onto Cam’s shoulder and stepping between the two of you. You can just feel just testosterone brewing between them, each of their needs to be the one to come out on top growing by the second. You would’ve been able to handle Cam yourself, but once he brought up Joe’s name, it became his fight too.

Oh please do not fight and get hurt, please. 

“Don’t start talking about shit you know nothing about,” Joe clarifies semi-calmly, still squaring up uncomfortably close to Cam. Joe towers over him, but that doesn’t stop Cam from pushing further.

“Oh no I think I know everything about this,” Cam lets out a wicked drunken laugh, getting far too close to Joe than you’d like. “I had her for two years, remember?” He says possessively, in an attempt to gain dominance, which you know Joe will feel the need to stomp in an instant. Unfortunately, you can’t lie and say the rage rolling off his figure right now isn’t causing heat to surge to your core. But to your surprise, even though Joe seems to still be radiating anger, he just lets out a bitter, mocking laugh. 

“Aww, you want me to tell you what it’s actually like making her scream? I’ll even let you sit and watch if you’re good,” Joe teases, tucking his head down slightly as if he was talking to a child, demeaning Cam in the worst way possible. His comment causes Cam’s face to drop in shock, fishing for words that won’t come out. Everyone else listening is taken aback as well, even a gasp leaving Kelia’s mouth before a smile curls on her lips. The embarrassing visual of Joe fucking you in front of Cam, better than he ever could, has a huge effect on Cam, and you relish in it. It’s true, Cam isn’t even half the man Joe is in bed, and you can tell that truth is all Cam is thinking about.

Joe’s clapback stings Cam, bad, but it’s not enough for you. It feels like your arm moves on its own accord as you lift up your red solo cup, jutting it towards his face to empty its contents onto him. Your sticky drink coats Cam’s face, hair and chest, cutting off his helpless stuttering and triggering a shocked reaction from everyone around you. 

“Holy shit!” Ja’marr hoots, bringing a fist up to his mouth and laughing. Everyone else reacts similarly, a few scattered claps and amused gasps egging you on. 

“Wetter than you ever got me,” You shrug while staring at Cam’s shocked, dripping face, smug smirk stretching wide across your lips as you slam your now empty cup back onto the island. 

“That might just be our cue,” Tay notes, nodding her head up towards the clock that reads 2:22am. She’s right–it’s late, and this whole thing makes for the perfect dramatic exit. The entire group starts to file out of the kitchen, most of you still laughing and joking about the whole scene in front of everyone. 

“Well have a good night, cunt!” Kelia waves cheerily at Cam, cackling and continuing to mock your ex as Ja’marr leads her away from the kitchen. 

“You have balls,” Justin boasts, dapping you up once you all exit the house, even though you’re not quite sure you reciprocated the action correctly. 

“The look on his face, I died!” Grace giggles.

“And you?!” Kelia points at Joe, her eyes going wide. “I didn’t think you had it in you Joe, but you had him gagged!”

“Gagged?” Joe asks with furrowed brows, clearly not understanding Kelia’s internet slang. Each of you get into the Uber one by one, finding comfort in your ears no longer ringing. 

“Oh god. Nevermind.”

By the time you’re back at Joe’s, you can tell something is off. Some other time you might just attribute it to him being tired or drunk, but you knew he’d stopped drinking hours ago, and the ticked off raise of his brow made you think it was more than just the late hour that was getting to him.

“That party was fun, it was nice of Terrace to throw,” you comment, testing the waters of his mood.

“Yeah,” Joe mutters, continuing to remove the layers of his costume until he’s down to his boxers. It’s late–so late, and you hate that the sight alone gets you going. Maybe it’s the little alcohol left in your system, or maybe it’s just that he’s that damn fine. Still, his answer isn’t what you’re looking for, so you just keep prying.

“I mean…fun until the end I guess,” you try, wondering if he’s still just pissed Cam said those things to you. But his annoyance doesn’t just seem directed at Cam, it feels directed towards you. Your ears perk up when you hear Joe quietly scoff, shaking his head as he runs his fingers through his hair in the mirror. “Okay, what’s going on?” You ask, hoping he’ll just tell you so you don’t have to investigate. Joe turns to you and tries to shrug, about to speak until he eyes you up and down, his face hard with frustration by the time he gets back up to your eyes. 

Suddenly you get it. All the sex talk, the dick measuring. He’s still worried about Cam. “Are you jealous?” You ask teasingly, plopping down on Joe’s bed to remove your heels and other accessories. 

“I’m not jealous,” Joe denies with an eye roll, moving around his room again in a haste, snapping open his water bottle. Finally he settles on just going into his bathroom, pulling some IcyHot out of a drawer. “I meant what I said, he can’t make you feel like I can.” 

Joe uncaps the rolling stick, sliding the soothing cream over a sore part of his exposed thigh. You watch, amused as his confident look slowly grows frustrated again. “He can’t…can he?”

“No, Joe,” you confirm, a smirk stretching across your lips as Joe’s true colors really start to show. “So that’s what this is.”

“What?”

“You’re still thinking about what he said about you being a pillow princess,” you taunt him, unable to fathom how he really thinks that’s true. Sex with the two of you has always been a two way street–if anything he treats you more often than you treat him. Another scoff of denial leaves Joe’s lips, along with an eye roll, and you know just what he needs to actually get over it. 

You let out a long, over dramatic sigh as you grab one of Joe’s small throw pillows, gearing up to annoy this man the only way you can think of at the current moment

“Joey…” you call out, following with a light throw of the pillow that hits him square in the bicep. He’s quick to shoot you a glare, but stays mostly patient for now. 

“I really don’t have the mental capacity for this right now, let’s talk in the morning,” he grumbles, standing at full height and moving his IcyHot stick up to his bicep.

You don’t like that answer, and you can feel yourself getting wetter just looking at him rolling the soothing substance over the ridges of his muscles, so you throw another pillow. 

“Seriously? It’s 3am,” Joe exclaims, the annoyance in his voice growing quickly. You don’t care. You’re going to throw until he pounces. This time it’s a bigger duvet pillow that hits him square in the head. 

“We’ll talk about this in the morning,” he finally snaps, his frustration from before finally coming back full force. 

“I don’t want to talk,” you explain innocently, and this time Joe watches as you unabashedly grab the other duvet pillow, gearing up to throw it his way. It hits him right in the face, and when it falls, Joe is doing his best to keep his breathing steady. You’ve already found another plush pillow to follow up your attack. 

“Throw one more fucking thing at me Y/N, I swear to god,” Joe threatens between his teeth, almost seething. 

You launch the last pillow at him, and this time he blocks it with ease.

Joe stalks over to you on the bed like you’re prey, his eyes wild and hands clawing, and your smile turns into a smirk when he pounces, immediately straddling you and shoving you onto your back. “Take this fucking thing out,” he growls, staring at your hair and tugging at the bun, desperate to undo the knot and let your hair fall free. You oblige, fishing the hair tie out and shaking out your hair as Joe flings off your stained shirt, his mouth latching onto your chest as soon as he’s able. The heat of the moment sends shocks of pleasure through you, adding to the anticipation you’ve already been feeling in your core throughout the night. He’s looked delectable all night long, and all you’ve wanted to do is get dicked down. 

“Are you gonna prove-” you start, thinking maybe you haven’t done enough to get him riled up, but you’re so wrong. 

“I’ve had enough of your mouth tonight. You don’t get to cum until I say so,” Joe scolds, like it’s final and you have no say. And you suppose you don’t with the way he immediately yanks your shorts off and tosses them aside, diving into you nose first. The sudden pleasure causes you to swallow whatever response you had formed, the only noise escaping you a gasping moan. Joe wastes no time with you, setting a punishing pace, quickly navigating between your clit and your entrance in a way that leaves you breathless and whiny. From sucking, to circling, to lapping and blowing, shivers wrack through your body endlessly, and you find yourself nearing orgasm much quicker than you would’ve liked. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, he knows my body too well. He has me right where he wants me.

Just when it feels like you’ll be needing to beg for mercy, Joe pulls away, but instantly replaces his mouth with his fingers, sliding in and out just fast enough to keep you on the edge without giving you what you want. His demeanor is predatory as he looms over you, putting his cocky face right up to your fucked out face. “Call him,” Joe mutters in your ear, easily grabbing your phone from his bedside table and resting it on your bare chest as he continues to work his fingers in and out, keeping you compliant with his methodical pace. 

“What?” You pant, your eyes widening as you realize what he’s asking. He wants you to call Cam while he has you on the brink of orgasm, with not a chance in the world you’ll be able to hide exactly what you’re doing right now. 

“Fucking call him Y/N. Let him hear, or I don’t have to let you cum,” Joe demands, his hooded eyes watching you expectantly. Heat keeps crashing over you, and you know if you don’t do something now, you’re either going to cum before you’re told, or Joe will pull away completely, both of which sound agonizing. Your shaky hands grab your phone, your heart pounding as you unlock it and pull up Cam’s contact. You imagine him on the other end of the line, confused until you keep moaning breathlessly, then seething once he realizes what you’ve done. Your thumb hovers over his number, and you hesitate, not because it’s mean or he doesn’t deserve it. But because you don’t want him to hear you. He shouldn’t get to hear you. But your legs are starting to shake from how hard you’re holding back…

Joe laughs smugly above you, slowly removing his fingers from your center. “No!” You whimper desperately, your hips chasing his touch as you abandon your phone by throwing it on the bed. The band in your stomach loosens, the build up slightly fading but your core growing more sensitive. You’re backing away from the ledge, but you could be right back up there in no time if he just touched you. 

“You won’t do it, baby. And you wanna know why?” Joe asks mockingly, nodding to your phone that’s now locked and shunned away. You watch as he slowly guides the tip of his cock up to your entrance, his touch ghosting over your folds teasingly before sliding in tantalizingly slow. With your sensitivity having increased ten fold, soft, desperate moans are quick to leave your lips again as Joe expertly slides in and out. “Because this is all for me. And you know it,” he groans, sliding both of your calves over your shoulder so he can fold you in half, the new position allowing him to piston in and out of you faster and harder, hitting spots he couldn’t before. A loud, surprised yelp leaves your lips, and the heat inside of you builds faster as Joe leans down so you’re face to face, your moans tangling with his breath when he commands you.

“I’m the only one who gets to hear you like this. Because I’m the only one that will ever make you feel like this, the only one that will ruin you like this, the only one that will make you sound this fucking needy,” Joe pants into your mouth, his words making your brain go fuzzy with pleasure and submission, the possessive hold he has over you strengthening with each thrust. Suddenly it’s all about Joe, how good he makes you feel, and how you could never, ever go back to anything else. You can feel yourself barrelling toward orgasm, but you just can’t yet. 

“So don’t let him hear, let me hear. Who’s making you feel good Y/N?” he murmurs, pounding into you relentlessly. 

“You, Joe,” you cry out, not sure how much longer you can hold on. Every thrust prints so deep in your sopping cunt, and your eyes widen when you notice the protruding mark in your belly that appears each time Joe thrusts in. 

“That’s right,” Joe groans with a smug laugh, his dilated pupils examining you under him like a meal. “Fuck, you look so pretty. Feel so good, squeezing me so fuckin tight,” he whispers against your mouth, basking in your struggle to keep it together. He can tell you’re hanging on by a thread, moans desperate, jaw slack, eyes pleading. He fucking loves it. “Your pussy was made for me baby. Who’s this pussy for? Say it.” 

‘Y-you Joe,” you whimper. “I’m gonna-” 

“Who’s it for? Who’s giving it to you like this?” 

“You, Joe,” You repeat like a fucking prayer. You’re seeing stars, and the only thing your brain can latch onto is the fact that it’s Joe making you feel like this. That you should be grateful you get to be ruined by him in this way. “Thank you, Joe,” you whimper without a second thought, your release so tantalizingly close you feel tears start to well in your eyes. 

“Of course, baby,” Joe coos as his thrusts get sloppier, his veiny cock starting to pulse inside you. He starts thrusting a little slower, but slamming harder, going deeper, pushing you beyond your breaking point. “I’ll always be here to make you feel good. Now be good and cum.”

You finally teeter off that ledge, falling and crashing into your orgasm head on. The sounds that leave your mouth are obscene as every sensation overwhelms you, from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. Joe coaxes you through the avalanche, his hips never faltering as your orgasm triggers his own, the warmth of both of your releases combining to overwhelm you with dazzling heat. You’re both a mess by the end of it, panting hard, slick with sweat, still shivering from the aftershocks of pleasure. 

Joe’s eyes quickly turn soft as he gazes at your features, his baby blues flickering across your face and a hand coming up to brush some stray hairs off of your cheeks. You feel them get even redder due to the endearing attention, and your lips automatically tug upwards in a small smile as he slowly lowers your legs from his shoulders, allowing you to stretch to your full length again. Joe’s warm hands massage your calves and thighs before you both launch into your typical aftercare routine, sweet kisses and soothing touches being exchanged throughout. Eventually you’re back in bed, tangled together in a mess of pillows and sheets.

“Well, at least I can dime him up in practice.”

“You’re a nut.”

It all feels so surreal as you’re ushered off the ice cold bus, immediately being rushed into the away team’s locker room. The great Bryant-Denny Stadium looms large, the pregame energy in Tuscaloosa the only rival to LSU’s passionate fan base, and the nervous energy that only twinged in your stomach on the bus now courses through your veins at high speed.

Every week you win, there’s an expectation for more, more, more. You beat Texas, but can you beat Florida? You beat Florida, but can you beat Auburn? You beat Auburn, but the true test is this week…

Can you beat Alabama?

Everyone knows. Everyone knows that for the past thirteen years Nick Saban has been coaching the Crimson Tide, they have been the juggernaut. No college football program has been as consistently dominant as them. They win the conference championship every other year, are almost always in the playoffs, and boast five National Championship titles over the past nine years. 

Not only that, but the Tide is out for revenge. In 2015, Saban and his boys toppled an undefeated Clemson team in the championship, his fourth time being credited with the esteemed trophy. The following year, the exact same teams would go head to head, but this time, the Tigers would emerge victorious, marking the very first time Saban ever lost a National Championship game. Alabama was back for blood the next season, crushing Clemson in the semifinals and claiming a sweet, sweet victory over Georgia for another title. What no one expected was for Clemson to emerge again, undefeated again, winning the championship again.

Now, Clemson, Alabama, and LSU all remain lossless through 8 of 13 games, and Saban wants his revenge. Again. 

Warmups are over soon. Too soon. Even though everyone’s had an extra week to practice, for some reason it feels like you’re still not ready. You shake your head to yourself as you realize it’s not that you’re not physically ready–everyone has been sharp this week, with unwavering focus and commitment. It’s that you’re not emotionally ready. Lately you’ve felt like this game is do or die. Win this, or it all means nothing. Which isn’t true–life will always go on. 

You just want this really, really badly.

For Joe. 

Joe, who catches you coming out of the locker room to head to the field, and tugs you into a secluded hallway. Your throat catches, and you’re immediately concerned. He never does this on game days. He never wants to get too close, hell, he never even wants to talk to you on game days, his mind already compartmentalizing his personal life and that other Joe that comes out when he steps on the field. For him to reach out to you, his hands firm and needy as he rests them on your hips, eyes wide and frantic? Something must be wrong.

“Are you okay? What’s happening?” You quickly ask, resting a hand on his cheek and scanning his entire body for harm.

“I’m okay, I’m okay, I just…” Joe trails off, his eyes slowly losing their panicked look and settling into yours. He takes a deep breath, running his hands up and down your sides a few times and your heart begins to settle. “…started feeling the pressure like last Tuesday. Wanted to see your pretty eyes for a second.”

Your heart melts, and you feel like crying, the emotions of this game starting to get to you just as much as Joe. You throw your arms around his padded shoulders, nestling your face into his neck to try to hold off the few tears, both of you sighing together as you comfort each other. He rubs slow circles on your back, and you thread your fingers through his hair, each of you searching for a short moment of comfort amongst the whirlwind of pressure. “Can I do anything? Get you some water maybe?” You ask, starting to pull away to find a Gatorade station.

“No, no, just stay right here,” Joe says softly, pulling you tighter into his warm embrace with his gentle hands. He lets out a deep sigh of content, then chuckles to himself after a few moments. “It's crazy. You just exist, and I swear I breathe better.” A single warm tear falls from your cheek at his words, the combination of finally feeling wanted and finally feeling safe overwhelming you in the moment. 

Alabama players are heard getting rowdy in the main hallway, likely heading to the tunnel to run out, and the commotion causes the both of you to pull away. Joe’s head snaps over to the sea of red jerseys, and slowly but surely, you see it. In real time, you watch as he goes from Joe, to a man you’ve only seen from afar, a stone cold killer out for crimson blood. 

Even up close, it’s hard to see exactly what it is–that thing in his eyes. 

“I gotta go,” Joe mutters, even the low rumble of his voice now with a sinister tone you only hear in his cadence. He doesn’t take his eyes off the players as he straightens up, sauntering over to the tunnel with the demeanor of an assassin. 

Eventually you shake it off, stalking towards the tunnel yourself when the bright red invading your every line of sight causes you to start overthinking. Memories start to flood through your brain from when you played Bama last season. It’s a game you frequently push back, where the anger and frustration was palpable, and how could it not be when LSU didn’t score a single point through all four quarters? Helmets being banged on benches, coaches shaking their heads in dismay, running through the defensive cheers over and over and over. Now you try to bury those memories further, because they no longer come with only remorse, but with the crippling anxiety that this game could turn out the exact same way. 

You round a corner, and suddenly you’re face to face with the entrance to Bryant-Denny Stadium, when everything goes quiet. 

The memories flickering through your brain, Joe’s cadence from practice ringing through your ears, Coach Kandace’s whistle prompting another run through of a number. Every bit of it is drowned out by the rumble of the crowd, the hostile energy injecting into your veins like a fucking drug. You’d swear you’re high right now, in fact. You’re not sure if anyone says anything to you, or even how long you’re standing there waiting, soaking in the sound of your heartbeat in your ears and the vibration from the crowd noise in your chest, all you know is that it’s that time when you hear…

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Joe’s helmet slams against the wall methodically, and it wakes you up from your trance just in time to notice the CBS Sports employee prompt you. 

“Go!”

As if muscle memory, your body automatically springs into action, bursting out of the tunnel with a newfound confidence you can only attribute to the pure adrenaline coursing through your entire body. Tuscaloosa is on fire, every single spectator making as much noise as possible to express their profound gratitude for a football program so great. It’s so great, anybody is scared to come into their trap and try them on their best day. But you know what they say…

Walk into your trap, take over your trap. 

Your position you know all too well, shimmying your poms as a greeting to the die hard Alabama crowd who’d rather see you packing your things and loading the buses in defeat. You can’t blame them, the anticipation in you is already too much to bear as kickoff nears closer and closer, the moment you’ve been waiting for for two weeks now only minutes away. Not to mention you’re well aware most of the nation is watching, waiting to see who will crumble, and who will walk away with the last word. 

Your heart stops when you notice each sideline starting to send out their special teams, lining up in position. The crowd rumbles louder and louder, all 102,000 pairs of eyes in the stadium fixed on the football teetering on the kickoff stand, just waiting for that whistle to blare out loud and clear.

Football fans around the world circled November 9th on their calendar. They wondered, might they both be undefeated? Would it be a top five matchup?

They are. It is. 

It’s on. 

Alabama receives the opening kickoff, their star, Heisman contention quarterback Tua Tangovailoa navigating the field with ease. It looks easy–too easy for them to glide down the field, knocking on the door of the endzone at 3rd and goal. Then, out of thin air the Tigers are gifted a fumble, an LSU defensive player falling on it immediately, causing your stomach to turn when your offense comes out. You think of Joe’s firm, desperate words.

“I can’t get shut out again.”

The drive starts out with a few run plays, Alabama’s coverage clearly hellbent on shutting down Joe’s passing game. But he can’t keep quiet for long–on a 2nd and 3, he takes a deep shot to Ja’marr, dropping the ball in the bucket between two defenders. Your heart soars as things start to look up, but you try to tell yourself it’s just one play. The very next snap Joe throws a laser over the middle to Justin, gaining another 20 or so yards, immediately launching into the next play to try to catch the Alabama defense confused and on their heels. Joe drops back, and doesn’t hesitate to go yard again, this time hitting Ja’marr along the sideline, who runs three more yards into the endzone. You’re immediately jumping up and down in pure bliss, utter relief flooding you as your fears start to be proven wrong. This will not be like last time, and Joe will not be shut out. 

The broad smile on your face grows even larger as you watch the crowd, who was so boisterous and excited when you first greeted them. Now their mouths hang in utter shock, unsure of how they were so sure of a score five minutes ago, and are now down a touchdown with no points of their own to account for. 

More misfortune strikes for Alabama when LSU stops them around the 50 yard line. On the long snap, the Tide punter completely misses the ball, and it hits the side of his hand, bouncing onto the ground. A frenzy immediately ensues, every player clamoring for the ball, and the punter picks it up in an attempt to still punt it, but it’s no use. LSU players end up on top of him, securing prime field position. 

On the first play of the drive, Joe notices an Alabama player moseying off the field lazily, so he snaps the ball to get a 12 men on the field penalty called on the Tide. Alabama is falling apart, and the Tigers are able to capitalize on every single little mistake.

LSU ends up taking a field goal, and gives the ball back to Bama on a kickoff. Both the Tide and the Tigers go three and out, causing a slight lull in the game until Alabama gets their momentum on a punt returned for a touchdown. You watch the returner sprint downfield, your heart dropping as he keeps breaking tackles and weaving through players all the way until the end zone. The stadium erupts, and you hate to say it, but the noise gets in your head for a few brief moments.

You try to focus on the positive, that LSU will get the ball back and it’ll be in Joe’s hands. The drive starts at a moderate pace, the Tigers utilizing quick passes on short routes to take the heat off of Joe in the pocket. They chip at the field one by one with their yards after the catch, tiring out the Alabama defenders until someone slips up, dropping their coverage on Terrace. Joe hits him on a long slant, and with the amount of separation he has, he’s able to cruise into the end zone for an easy TD. You’re all smiles, launching into a touchdown cheer Grace calls for, until the extra point is missed. But you shake that off too, still grateful for six points and the lead. 

Alabama gets the ball back, barreling down the field at full speed. They seem unstoppable, like Joe will just have to keep getting touchdown after touchdown in order to win, until a false start seems to throw them off. LSU is able to hold Tua and the offense to a 4th and 1 in the middle of the field, and you hold your breath as an Alabama player gets lost in the big pile of bodies up the middle. Tide players signal a first down, Tigers signal a stop, and where the refs spot the ball, it’s just not 100% sure either way. The chain gang comes out to the middle of the field where the ball is spotted, a whole spectacle being made of the play as players gather around the ball to see the measurement. Finally they pull the chain taut right next to the ball, as far forward as it can go, and sure enough Alabama is one chain link short of a first down. LSU players celebrate, the defense earning some cheers from the few LSU fans in the crowd, and the offense gets their helmets on, ready to convert this defense stop into points. Of course Nick Saban challenges the spot, clawing for any way to keep the drive alive, but the call of the field stands, and the Tigers take over on downs for the second time today. LSU’s momentum is in full swing, and you can only hope they keep it. 

Your frustration boils when the offense can’t make anything of the big defensive play, having to punt it away after an annoying delay of game penalty. Unfortunately Alabama is quick to capitalize, scoring a touchdown on a deep throw from Tua, with a missed extra point making it 16-13 with LSU on top. The crowd starts to get into it at this point, with the game getting close and it nearing halftime, and the noise booming in your ears starts to make everything feel more intense. The Tigers are only able to get a field goal, extending their lead to six, but luckily the defense pulls through with a quick three and out, leaving the offense a whole 2:40 to score before halftime. Joe scrambles for a couple of runs, never sliding, which makes you nervous, but he’s able to get a couple first downs out of it. After a couple more quick lasers all around the field, the Tigers make it to the one yard line, and on third and goal, Clyde hurdles the entire pile in the middle to get LSU a touchdown. The two possession lead feels great, and your whirlwind of emotions start to steady when you look over at the sideline, seeing how confident and collected the entire Tigers bench looks. It’s almost like they all expected this–even though it went so terribly last time, they knew history was not going to repeat itself. 

And it’s clear Alabama was not ready for that.

With 23 seconds left in the half and Alabama’s two timeouts, you’re expecting them to at least attempt to get in field goal range. What you’re not expecting is for Tua to throw an interception on the first play of the drive, putting Joe on the 13 yard line with 11 seconds left. You just scored, and now LSU has an opportunity to twist the knife, laying one last blow before the half. Like it’s written in the stars, all it takes is one play for Joe to drop a dime in the corner of the endzone, giving Clyde his second touchdown of the night. Every LSU fan goes absolutely berserk, everyone’s energy and confidence levels at 110 thanks to the 20 point lead, and the offense’s clear domination. At this point, with a measly three seconds to go, Alabama knows better, and takes a knee to end the half. 

You’re on top of the world, but you know everything could change in the second half. You’re reminded of Nick Saban’s infamous ability to change his scheme on a dime, second half adjustments being his specialty when it comes to winning games. It’s why he wins as often as he does. When you head to the tunnel for a quick water break after your tumbling passes, a small TV showing coverage of the game catches your attention.

“Joe Burrow putting on a show, Edwards-Helaire putting on a show…Nick Saban doesn’t like the show,” you hear an announcer from the broadcast call, showing slow motion shots of LSU’s last touchdowns, and a shot of pissed off Saban shaking his head being the cherry on top. You know he’s in his locker room right now, scheming an incredible comeback that will crush the Tigers’ playoff chances, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t still a little bit nervous. 

The second half soon commences, and you’re reminded why you should be nervous. On the first drive, Joe’s arm gets hit while he’s gearing back to throw, causing a fumble recovered by Alabama. The defense is able to get the stop, but Bama matches it, getting the ball back in their hands. After that, their offense is able to pummel down the field, getting into the endzone and making the extra point. 

It’s okay! You tell yourself. We still have a 13 point lead. 

Your hope starts to slowly diminish when LSU gets stopped, making this game that once felt like a blowout feel like a one score game, even if Alabama hasn’t scored yet. You were right to feel that way, because with Alabama’s momentum picking up, and a few costly penalties on LSU, the Tide is in the end zone once again, making the score 33-27 with 14 minutes left in the game. 

Anything could happen now, and the only pressure continues to mound as the clock ticks down and the crowd grows louder. Each down feels like life or death as the LSU offense makes their way downfield, some plays causing your heart to lurch in the best and worst way possible. Joe gets a big run on 3rd and 5, sprinting 15 yards to get to the five yard line, knocking on the door of the end zone yet again. You thank god when Clyde makes a spin move around the pile, waltzing in for a touchdown to add another six points to your lead. At 39-27, Coach O wants to go for two points to make it a 14 point game, so that if Alabama does manage to get two touchdowns, they don’t automatically win on the extra point. That plan goes out the window when Joe throws an incomplete, but you tell yourself you can worry about that if Alabama manages to get two touchdowns. 

The Tide is starting to get scrappy, desperate for any points they can get their hands on as they move down the field. Ten minutes is a lot of time in football, but if you’re Alabama, you don’t just want to come back and win, you want to come back and embarrass your opponent. It’s all gas no breaks, with Bama screeching down the field to the five yard line, converting on a key 4th and 4 along the way. You’re back at fourth down on the five, every LSU fan cheering their heads off for the defense to hold them, but it’s no use. Tua throws a perfect out route TD, making it 39-24. Joe needs to score a touchdown to keep them from being able to tie it up on the final drive. A field goal would stretch their lead to 8, but then Alabama could still match them with a two point conversion–a touchdown would seal the game.

The crowd knows this, making noise on every play as if it’s third down just to try to throw the LSU offense. Sweat drips on your forehead, and your heartbeat rattles against your chest with no mercy, every bit of you begging for this drive to go well. You think of Joe, and the pressure he puts on himself, the weight of the state on his back and the eyes of the Heisman voters looming large. You think of his small confession to you after the Mississippi game. 

“You know…I think we can do it. I think we can beat anyone. Everyone.”

“You can do anything,” you whisper to yourself as you watch Joe take the field with daring confidence, recalling the response you gave to him that night. 

The drive starts off well enough, a long shot down the middle to Ja’marr giving LSU good momentum going into Alabama territory. Your emotions immediately flop again when Joe is sacked, but he’s not going down that easy, because the next play is another laser to Justin, putting them at the 35. After a run and a checkdown it’s 3rd and 2 at the 23, so you’re willing to kick a field goal if you’re stopped–but Joe doesn’t want a field goal. He drops back, watching as the pocket collapses and takes his opportunity to sprint downfield, getting 15 or so yards to get the 1st and goal at the seven yard line. 

“Come on, come on,” you whisper to yourself, looking over at Tay anxiously, who’s brows are also furrowed from stretch. She gives you a knowing look, showing she’s in the same boat you are, and you both turn your attention back onto the field for the snap. 

It’s a handoff to Clyde who heads to the outside, almost getting tripped up behind the line of scrimmage until he stiff arms, holding the defender off. Another player stuffs him up, stopping his momentum for a moment–but he can’t bring Clyde to the ground. He spins to break the tackle, taking two more steps forward to get into the end zone. A loud cry rips out of you, and you throw your hands up into the touchdown signal as all the girls around you start jumping and hugging unapologetically. Tay is quick to wrap you in a hug, both of you hopping around and cheering out of pure glee and relief. 

“Oh my god! Oh my god!” You scream over the LSU band, the smile never leaving your face as you all try to gather yourselves for a touchdown cheer. You hit every mark, but immediately turn back towards the field once your job is done. The sideline is alive, and your laughs bubble out uncontrollably when you notice Joe who’s doing a victory tour of head butts and high fives, every player and coach approaching him with congratulations or a hyped up cheer. Your heart swells as you watch him, knowing just how hard he’s worked and just how badly he wanted this.

Alabama scored a quick go ahead touchdown, but they still have to recover the onside kick, which would take a miracle. You hold your breath as the kick bounces, and cheer once again when Justin recovers the ball, securing LSU’s victory. 

Players, reporters, and coaches flood the field, pleasantries being exchanged as the sorry Alabama fans sluggishly exit the stadium. You laugh and converse with your teammates, each one of you absolutely glowing from a stellar win against one of the best teams in the nation. Every part of you is so happy, floating like a feather as you all grab your poms and materials to pack onto the bus. As you skip to the locker room with your friends, you catch a glimpse of another TV, showing the beginnings of an interview with Clyde. Suddenly Joe is on the screen, having no care for the live broadcast and grabbing Clyde’s shoulders, screaming into his ear with a huge smile on his face. Clyde and the interviewer laugh, welcoming Joe to the interview as he slings an arm around Clyde’s shoulder in a brotherly manner, towering over the 5 '7 running back. 

The CBS caster asks Clyde a few questions about the game before moving on to Joe. It’s all the usual post game stuff, until she asks a question that makes your ears perk up. “They call a draw play for you at the end there, you get the first down, you stand up. Was that your Heisman moment?” The interviewer asks, clearly wanting to know if Joe’s heard the noise surrounding him and the award for the best player in college football.

Joe just laughs with wide, unsure eyes. “I don’t know about all that, you know. We’re not done yet, it’s game nine. We got three more in the regular season then the SEC Championship, you know…this was never our goal, we got bigger goals than this,” Joe expertly avoids the question, humbly reiterating that there’s still more work to do before anyone starts thinking about awards or trophies.

Oh, he’s getting that Heisman, you think to yourself, full of complete and utter pride for the man you’d like to call yours. 

“Come on, there’s still people here!” Grace is suddenly tugging your arm, giddy as she tries to get you to come back on the field.

“What do you mean?” You laugh, letting her drag you wherever she’s headed.

“The fans. No one in LSU colors has left yet, and they’re all gathering along the barricade, let’s go!” She squeals, and bursts into a run with you hand in hand. When you make it back onto the field, you notice what she means. The stands are already barren, not an Alabama fan in sight, but on the other side of the endzone, there are a couple hundred people in purple and gold gathered in a clump, cheering at the crowd of remaining players and coaches in front of them. To your surprise, Grace guides you into the small sea of LSU players, coaches, and media, on her tiptoes in search of someone. It’s not long before she’s racing towards Justin, at least as fast as she can in a clump of loud, rowdy football players, and wraps him up in a big hug. You cackle at the two of them as they sway and hop around a little, then get curious as to whether or not Joe would want to see you. You think of the reporters, every sports station likely vying for any thread of his attention, and almost back out of the crowd until two strong hands grip your waist, flipping you around and pulling you into a bone crushing hug.

Joe. 

He lifts you off the ground slightly and shakes you like a rag doll, causing unfiltered laughs to fall from both of your lips. “You did it, congratulations!” You cheer, keeping your arms around his shoulders for stability as he puts you down and starts swaying. 

“That was so fucking fun,” Joe says in your ear. “I don’t know why anyone does drugs.” This makes you giggle stupidly, the both of you high on emotions and a much needed victory. He pulls back and you’re both beaming, until his face slowly softens as he looks in your eyes.

“I need to ask-” Joe grabs your hand, but it’s quickly ripped away when one of his defensive linemen bends down to hoist Joe onto his shoulder. Joe looks panicked for a moment until he’s up, and everyone around you immediately starts cheering as the King of Louisiana is put on display. The panic leaves Joe’s eyes as he looks over to the crowd of people still in the stands, who start hooting like crazy for him. Joe smiles, and puts up two L’s with his fingers, for Louisiana, and sticks out his tongue cockily for a goofy picture. He’s treated like royalty has the lineman whisks him off the field, both you and Grace laughing and joking when he shrugs and waves at you. There’s only one chant you hear as you start to follow the crowd of players into the tunnel, the booming sound and the claps carrying through the stadium and out into the night sky…

“Joe for Heisman! Joe for Heisman! Joe for Heisman!”

The ride home is joyful, but turns serene. For the first half you’re celebratory, dancing to your favorite songs, telling stories from the intense matchup, revealing the Alabama players who shit talked the most. But you are eventually pulled back down to Earth, your adrenaline no longer subduing the aches and pains you acquired during the long, physical game. A memory pops into your head from the postgame celebration, when Joe sounded like he needed to tell you something. You ask him about it, thinking now would be a perfect time since you’re finally away from the hubbub of the game, but he just nervously laughs in response, claiming to have forgotten. You’re skeptical, but let it slide for now, putting your focus back on the Star Wars movie you agreed on. When you arrive back in Baton Rouge, you’re expecting to simply get back in your cars and go home. 

The bus is still moving through the parking lot as you’re packing up your items, and the faint sound of cheering causes you to look out the window. You’re left speechless when you notice that there are crowds and crowds of people in LSU gear, all lining the path of the buses with signs and fist pumps. It’s the middle of the night, pitch black, but lined along chain linked fences are hundreds of LSU fans and students, cheering for players as they exit the bus. “Oh my god,” you exclaim, tapping your friends around you. “Look!” You point out the window, and everyone’s jaws drop.

“What the fuck?” Ja’marr says dumbfounded. 

“No way,” Tay gasps. 

“Are they here for us?” Justin asks in disbelief, each of you leaning over to see that as you keep moving, the crowd just keeps going, getting larger and larger as you get closer to the parking lot. When you do finally park behind a long chain linked fence, you see that the fence is lined with hundreds more fans, all cheering on players as they get off the bus. As everyone else on the bus notices the crowds, each of you start clamoring to get off, wanting to see the people’s faces yourselves. You’re right behind Joe as he thanks the driver, taking his first few steps off the bus and being welcomed by a booming wave of cheers, the crowd exploding as they recognize Joe as their Heisman-deserving QB1. 

“Holy shit,” Kelia whispers behind you in shock, both of you laughing as Joe warily approaches the crowd. He reaches his hand out against the fence, the cheers growing even louder as he makes contact and starts running along the line of the fence, accepting hoots and hollers as he passes. You and Kelia step off the bus in awe, letting Ja’marr copy Joe’s actions in greeting the grateful crowd in front of you. You all spend a few minutes out there, the boys showing their appreciation for the support with waves and high fives, before it really is time to hit the hay. 

The car ride back to Joe’s is far from what you expected. He’s fidgety and closed off, only taking quick glances at you when he thinks you aren’t looking, the sweat on his palms showing on the steering wheel. You never see Joe get nervous, and you can’t help but think it’s because of you. 

What did he need to tell me earlier? Is he okay? Did I do something wrong?

Doubt starts to flood into your mind, and neither of you end up exchanging a word as you make your way up to Joe’s apartment. He unlocks the door, then drops both of your bags off on the couch with a sigh, slowly turning back towards you. He looks at you, fully looks at you for the first time since the bus, and you can see it in his eyes.

He’s hiding something. 

Whatever it is doesn’t stop him from approaching you slowly, laying a gentle hand on your lower back before pulling you in for a slow, sweet kiss. He pulls a hand up to cradle your jaw as he captures your lips, completely tame and unhurried. It’s like he's just tasting you, enjoying you in his embrace. No heat, just a warm blanket and an electrifying spark that could keep you giddy for days on end. Every touch, every caress feels like a barrier of protection, an act of devotion towards you. 

You don’t know how long the two of you share this kiss before you pull away, Joe chasing your lips but just letting them land on your cheek. 

“What’s that for?” You ask, both of you sporting wide grins with your noses still inches apart. 

“Is it a crime to kiss m-” Joe stops himself, stammering for a second as the silence overtakes the room. He pulls away from you quickly, his cheeks flushed and his body language bashful, and you’ve decided you’ve had enough of the back and forth. 

“Okay, what is going on? Are you going to tell me?” You huff, crossing your arms and furrowing your brows. He’s being so cagey, and it’s making you nervous. Is it about what you did after the game? Should you not have gone up to him?

“No, nothing is going on, this is just…” he trails off, losing his words and sighing defeatedly. You get absolutely nothing out of that, so you throw your hands up, turning to just start getting ready for bed.

Guess we’re going to bed annoyed. 

“Okay wait, wait. There is something I need to tell you,” Joe stammers out, scratching the back of his neck. You turn to him expectantly, motioning for him to go on. “This is just a horrible time, I wanted to have this whole thing,” he then groans, his eyes starting to dart around as a nervous habit. “But I can’t wait to tell you so I’m just going to do it.”

After that he just starts blabbing to you in the most awkward but cute way, in the most Joe way, and your heart doesn’t quite know how to handle it. “I just want you to be with me. I want to see you after every game, and I just…I just want you here. All the time. You’re the first person I want to tell anything to. I jog off the field thinking about your smile. I’m so jealous those fuckers in the stands get to look at it all game. I don’t even know what I’m saying right now, and I know I’m not getting it right, but…fuck. Be my girlfriend. Be my girlfriend, and I promise, I promise, I’ll never let you worry about the tomatoes in your salad, or getting cold on the bus, or finding a ping pong partner, and I’ll definitely never let you even think that I want anyone else, because I don’t. I just can’t do any of this…life…without you. I don’t know how the fuck I was doing it before.”

His speech stuns you to silence, and there’s only one thing running through your brain.

He knows me.

“Say something?” Joe asks desperately, his voice small, like he’s said something wrong. “Please?”

You can’t say anything. You simply take two steps forward, fishing the collar of Joe’s shirt in your hand before pulling his lips to yours. The slow, deep, passionate kisses return, both of your lips telling each other how you really feel without speaking any words at all. Wide smiles occasionally interrupt, the both of you too smitten to keep kissing for long until one of you just has to bust out a grin. Eventually you’re both laughing, your forehead gently resting against his as you hold each other, swaying slowly back and forth.

“Yes,” you whisper, rubbing your palms in circles on Joe’s shoulders. “I’ll be your girlfriend, you dork.”

“Think we can work around your quarterback allergy?” Joe smiles, a cocky but amused grin stretching wide across his face.

“It’ll be tough, but I’ll take my chances,” you laugh, leaning in to place another small peck on his soft lips. Now Joe’s officially yours, you’re nervous you’ll get too addicted to his plump lips, kissing him every chance you get even if it’s small. 

The both of you fall into bed like you’re on a cloud, soaring high above Baton Rouge in your own little world. It doesn’t take long for the both of you to get sleepy, finally together and content in your intertwined lives, and the warmth that overtakes you when Joe pulls the comforter up is nothing compared to the warmth in your heart when you lock eyes with your boyfriend. 

You sprawl out on your side when Joe goes to grab a water, noticing a bright light coming from his bedroom window. A goofy smile stretches across your face and you stare out at the sky for a few minutes, watching as the waxing gibbous slowly rounds to almost full completion, presenting the most powerful phase–the full moon. Representative of abundance and achievement, a time where you reap the rewards of seeds planted long before, harvesting them in celebration and gratitude. 

A warm, calloused hand finds your waist and flattens itself against your stomach, pulling you back slightly until you’re pressed against Joe’s hard chest. His lips softly press on your shoulder, pecking you a few times before following your gaze out onto the vast Louisiana horizon. “I’ll take you to the moon, baby,” He mumbles, rubbing circles with his thumb onto your stomach and pressing another light kiss to your shoulder. Your heart squeezes as you look up at Joe, feeling as content as you ever have, not a worry in your head. You doze off peacefully, dreaming of galaxies far, far away, where football players can be astronauts, and tigers roam free as equals to humans. One of them curls up next to you in bed and promises protection from a cold world full of vegetables, solo ping pong, and boys that don’t know you. 

He knows me.

Notes.

Careful and spaced out, like they’re being placed on purpose. Like someone is trying not to wake you, but also can’t help themselves. There’s restraint in it, discipline even, which tells you more than the sound itself ever could.

You don’t move right away.

You stay curled on your side, cheek pressed into the pillow that still smells like him, blanket tangled around your legs. You’ve always slept like this, wrapped, contained, needing the pressure of something familiar to keep your nervous system settled. The room is washed in that late-morning glow that only happens on days when there’s no urgency and no alarm. Pale gold seeps through the curtains and lands in quiet patches across the duvet. Dust floats lazily in the light beams, like even the air is taking its time.

The music drifts again, a little clearer now, slipping up the stairwell and into the hallway like it’s searching for you.

It’s coming from downstairs.

Joe.

Your mouth curves into the pillow before you can stop it, because you know this sound. You know this choice. You know the way he ends up here when his mind won’t slow down, when his body needs movement without impact, when sleep won’t quite stick. This is what he does instead of pacing, instead of spiraling, instead of letting frustration settle too deeply into his bones. And you know what it means that he’s doing it now, on a day like this, when there’s nothing he has to be for anyone.

You breathe in slow, letting yourself listen.

The melody isn’t something you recognize, not exactly. It isn’t one of those songs that screams I learned this to impress you. Joe has never needed to perform for you. It’s more like… a thought. A feeling. Something that keeps starting, pausing, starting again, like he’s testing the shape of it as it leaves him.

You feel the quiet hum of your chest soften.

He didn’t play before 2023.

Not really.

Before the hand surgery, before the forced stillness, before the long hours where his body felt like it belonged to someone else for a while, football had always taken up all the space in his hands. All that coordination, all that control, everything he could do without thinking. His hands had always been tools, precise, powerful, dependable. And then suddenly, there had been time. Too much of it. And a hand that didn’t move the way his brain expected.

You remember how that had sat on him.

Not loudly. Joe’s not loud about pain. He absorbs it, catalogs it, minimizes it until it leaks out in quieter ways. But you’d seen it in the little things: the way he’d flex his fingers when he thought you weren’t watching, the way his jaw would lock when something that used to be easy suddenly wasn’t. The way he’d get quiet on days when the frustration was sharper than the soreness.

One of your patients tells you about it during your hand rotation. Their physical therapist recommended it, something small to keep their hands busy, something that felt productive without feeling like rehab. They say it helped. That it sped things up. That it gave them something to do when they were going stir-crazy.

You remember nodding along, professional on the outside, while the thought lodged itself somewhere deeper than it should have. You’d already pictured Joe without meaning to, already filtered the information through the lens of loving him.

So it sticks with you.

A couple weeks after his surgery, the two of you are on the couch with a movie on that neither of you is really watching. The TV throws soft blue light across the living room, sound low, forgotten. The blanket is pulled up over your legs. Joe’s tucked close, warm at your side, his good hand moving absently up and down your leg like he’s grounding himself without thinking about it.

You hesitate for half a second, feeling the weight of the thought, then say it anyway, because you’ve learned to push and when to simpy open a door.

“Have you ever thought about the piano?”

Joe blinks and turns his head toward you. “For what?”

“To play,” you say, like it’s obvious, even though it isn’t. “One of my patients told me about it. They said it really helped after their hand surgery.”

He gives you a look, half confused, half amused, thumb still tracing lazy lines against your leg. “Baby, you know I don’t play instruments.”

“I know, I just thought it might be a good idea,” you say quickly, because you’re not trying to make it a big thing. You never want him to feel fixed or managed. “And we have that empty space in the living room. We should at least get a piano or something for decoration.”

There’s the smallest pause. His hand stills for a beat before resuming its slow movement. His mouth twitches like he’s holding back a smile, eyes softening in a way that tells you he heard more than just the words.

“Whatever you want, love.” He kisses the top of your head, soft and easy. “Anything for my girl.”

You let it go after that.

You don’t push. You don’t bring it up again. You don’t even mention it when you catch him flexing his fingers absentmindedly, or when he stares a little too long at his hand some nights. You just file it away with everything else you’ve learned about loving him, sometimes the best way to help is to plant the idea and give him room to find it on his own.

And then, a couple weeks later, he brings it up.

Not as a big plan. Not as some inspirational “new hobby” speech. Just… a sentence tossed into the air like he didn’t want it to matter too much, like he was testing whether it was safe to want this.

“I might learn,” he’d said, leaning against the kitchen counter, eyes on the floor like he was trying to act casual about wanting something. “Just to keep my hand moving.”

You’d looked at him then, really looked at him, and felt that ache that always comes when you love someone who carries things too quietly.

“What would you play?” you’d asked.

Joe had shrugged, but it hadn’t been dismissive. More like uncertain. Vulnerable, in that way he rarely lets himself be. “I don’t know. Something.”

And then it was scales. Then it was simple chords. Then it was him sitting at the bench late at night, shoulders hunched, face tight with concentration, watching endless YouTube videos, repeating the same measure over and over until the sound finally matched what he wanted. You'd recognize that look anywhere, the same one he gets when he refuses to quit.

It hadn’t been pretty at first.

You remember him exhaling sharply when his fingers wouldn’t land right, the quick flicker of irritation across his face. You remember the way he’d lift his hand and stare at it for a second, like he was trying to convince it to cooperate. You remember how you’d sit nearby, pretending to scroll, pretending to read, because you knew he needed you there, but he also needed the space to struggle without being watched too closely.

Sometimes he’d look up, eyes a little dark around the edges, and murmur, “This is stupid.”

And you’d just shake your head gently, soft but firm, because you’ve never let him belittle himself in front of you. “It’s not stupid. It’s hard. That’s different.”

He’d scoff quietly, but he’d keep going.

He always keeps going.

Now, the music coming up the stairs is different.

Now, it sounds like him.

You finally roll out of bed, slow and unhurried. The floor is cool under your feet, a tiny shock that makes you blink yourself fully awake. You tug on the oversized sweatshirt tossed over the chair, his sweatshirt, obviously, because everything of his is somehow yours too. It smells like laundry detergent and him, that warm clean scent that makes your chest feel steadier the second it hits you.

You pad down the hall, hair messy, eyes still heavy. The house is quiet in the way it only gets to be when the world can’t reach you. No notifications. No voices. No obligations pressing against the walls.

Just notes drifting upward like a secret.

As you start down the stairs, the music gets clearer. The living room comes into view in pieces, sunlight across the hardwood, a throw blanket crumpled on the couch, the faint outline of the piano against the far wall.

And there he is.

Joe sits at the bench, back to you, shoulders relaxed, head slightly bowed. He’s barefoot, gray sweats slung low, no shirt hiding his broad shoulders. His hair is messy in that soft way it only is at home, curls catching the light at the edges like he’s been touched by morning.

His hands move over the keys with that quiet confidence that still surprises you sometimes.

Not flashy. Not showy. Just steady.

Sure.

Like they belong there.

You stop in the doorway and let yourself watch.

The melody is slow and warm, not demanding attention so much as offering it. It fills the room gently, like steam rising from a mug. There’s a softness to it that makes your chest ache.

Joe doesn’t notice you at first.

He leans forward slightly as he plays, eyes on the keys, foot tapping faintly against the floor. It’s such a him thing, this contained focus, the way he locks into something and the rest of the world blurs out.

You think, not for the first time, that Joe has always had a relationship with repetition. With doing something until it’s right. Until it’s his. And maybe that’s why the piano had stuck. Because it let him chase the same kind of precision without needing to be hit, without needing to run, without needing to prove anything to anyone.

He finishes a phrase and lets the last note hang for a beat.

You step forward quietly, closing the distance behind him, careful not to rush the moment. When the sound finally fades, you wrap your arms around his shoulders from behind, your chin brushing his hair. You press a kiss to his cheek, slow and warm.

For half a second, he goes completely still. His shoulders drop just a fraction, like something in him finally unclenches. His breath stutters softly, and you can feel how much the simple contact grounds him.

“You spying on me?” he asks, voice low, still threaded with the music.

“Always,” you say easily, crossing the room. “You’re hard not to watch.”

His mouth curves slowly, that quiet, real smile that isn’t for cameras or anyone else. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, dropping onto the couch and tucking your legs under you. The sweatshirt sleeves swallow your hands. “You sound… good.”

Joe’s expression does that thing it does when he doesn’t know where to put praise. Like it makes him a little uncomfortable, but not in a bad way. He shrugs, but it’s not dismissive. It’s careful.

“I don’t know,” he says, turning back to the piano, resting his fingers lightly on the keys. “I’m messing around.”

“You always say that,” you point out. “And then you do something that makes me feel like I’m watching a movie.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “That dramatic, huh?”

You tilt your head. “You’re dramatic. I’m just describing it.”

That earns you a quiet, breathy laugh, his shoulders shake slightly, like you’ve caught him off guard.

“You just wake up and choose violence,” he murmurs.

“You just wake up and choose piano,” you shoot back, eyes warm. “We all have our flaws.”

He glances over his shoulder at you, the corner of his mouth lifting. “You want me to keep playing or you want to keep talking?”

You pretend to consider it, like this is a hard decision. “Keep playing,” you say. “But I reserve the right to boo you.”

Joe turns back fully, fingers settling in place. “God. Great. Exactly what I needed.” He starts again.

Softer this time, like he’s playing just for you now. Like the room is smaller, more intimate, tuned to the two of you. The melody shifts, slow, bright, a little hopeful. You lean back into the couch, feeling your body melt into it, eyes half-lidded as you listen.

Your brain tries to do that thing where it wanders, thinking about chores, about groceries, about the week ahead, but the music keeps pulling you back, gentle and insistent.

Joe’s hands move with such ease now, and you can’t help but remember the first few weeks after surgery. The frustration. The stiffness. The way he’d stare at his own fingers like he couldn’t believe they were betraying him. You remember the night he’d sat at the bench, quiet for a long time, then said, so small you almost missed it.

“I hate feeling useless.”

You’d stepped behind him then and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, pressing your cheek to his hair. “You’re not useless,” you’d said, firm. “You’re just healing. That’s not the same thing.”

He hadn’t answered. He’d just reached up and held your forearm like he needed the reminder in his skin.

Now, watching him play, you feel that old emotion swell and twist into something different.

Joe finishes the song and turns on the bench to face you, forearms resting on his thighs. His gaze moves over you slowly, messy hair, his sweatshirt, sleepy eyes, and you can see the affection in it, quiet and steady.

“You tired?” he asks.

“Not really,” you admit. “Just comfortable.”

He nods like he understands exactly what you mean.

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s full. Full of sunlight and music lingering in the air and the soft creak of the house. Full of the fact that he’s here, and you’re here, and nothing is asking you to be anything other than what you are.

“You want coffee?” Joe asks after a beat, like he’s reading your mind.

“Only if you make it,” you say, because you love him and you’re also committed to the lazy day bit.

Joe narrows his eyes slightly, like he’s clocked your tactic. “You’re demanding.”

“I’m resting,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”

He stands, stretching his arms overhead. You watch him without shame.

He walks into the kitchen, steps unhurried, and you hear cabinets open, the soft clink of mugs. The house remains warm and quiet around you.

A minute later, he calls, “You want the fancy one or the normal one?”

“You mean the one you pretend you hate but drink anyway?” you call back.

“Yeah,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

“The fancy one,” you say. “Obviously.”

He brings you the mug a few minutes later, setting it on the coffee table in front of you with exaggerated care, like he’s presenting something important. Then he drops onto the couch beside you, close enough that your knees brush.

“Thank you,” you murmur, wrapping both hands around the mug.

Joe leans back, one arm draping along the back of the couch behind you like it belongs there. His knee knocks lightly against yours. His warmth spreads into your side, familiar and grounding.

“You were up early,” you say softly.

He shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You glance at him. “Good dreams or bad dreams?”

Joe’s eyes flick to yours. There’s a pause. Not long, but enough that you notice.

“Just… my hand felt weird,” he admits, voice quiet. Honest.

Your chest tightens a little, because you know what he means. You know those moments still sneak up on him sometimes, when his body reminds him that it’s been through something, when an old fear tries to resurface.

You set your mug down and slide your hand onto his thigh, thumb tracing a slow circle through the fabric. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” he says, and then, softer, “Just… felt like I needed to move.”

You nod. “So you played.”

“Yeah.”

Your fingers curl slightly, a gentle squeeze. “I like when you play.”

Joe looks at you, expression softening, the guardedness melting away around the edges. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say again. “It makes the house feel… happy.”

For a second, he just looks at you, like he’s holding that in his chest and deciding where to put it. Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your temple.

“You’re sweet,” he murmurs against your hair.

You scoff lightly. “I’m accurate.”

Joe laughs under his breath, then shifts, sliding down a little so his head rests against the back cushion. His fingers find yours on his thigh without looking, lacing together like it’s muscle memory.

“You want me to teach you?” he asks suddenly.

You blink. “Teach me what?”

He lifts his free hand, nodding toward the piano. “Piano.”

You stare at him like he’s lost his mind. “Joe, I don’t have the patience for that.”

His eyes narrow playfully. “You have patience. You just use it selectively.”

“That’s called boundaries,” you say, deadpan.

Joe’s mouth twitches. “Come on. One thing. I’ll show you one thing.”

You tilt your head, suspicious. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he says, too quickly.

You squint. “That means there’s definitely a catch.”

He laughs quietly, leaning closer. “The catch is I get to watch you try.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, but you’re already smiling.

Joe’s grin widens, victorious. “C’mon.”

You let him tug you up by your hand, dragging the blanket with you like you’re committed to being comfortable even while you surrender. He guides you to the bench, his palm warm at your lower back as you sit.

The piano keys are cool under your fingertips.

Joe stands behind you for a second, then leans over your shoulder, close enough that you can feel his breath brush your cheek. His arms come around you loosely, not trapping, just hovering, like he’s giving you support without taking control.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “This is middle C.”

He points. His finger is steady. You press the key cautiously, and the note rings out, clean and bright.

“That’s it,” he says softly. “Now this one.”

He guides you through a few notes, your fingers stumbling, your brain trying to keep up. It’s clumsy and kind of ridiculous, but Joe’s voice stays patient, low and warm, like he’s genuinely enjoying this.

“Your hands are tense,” he notes, and there’s something almost unfair about the fact that he gets to say that now.

“Because I’m being judged,” you mutter.

Joe laughs, and you feel it in your back because he’s close. “I’m not judging. I’m observing.”

“That’s worse,” you say.

He hums thoughtfully. “You’re doing fine.”

You glance back at him over your shoulder. “Liar.”

Joe’s eyes are soft, amused. “Not a liar. You’re just dramatic.”

You scoff, but you’re smiling. “How rude.”

He bumps his forehead lightly against the side of your head. “You literally called me dramatic earlier.”

“ Yeah,” you say, shrugging slightly. “I meant it affectionately.”

He rolls his eyes and you face forward again, pressing another key. The note rings out, and then another, and another, simple, slow, a tiny pattern.

Joe’s hand hovers near yours like he’s ready to help but letting you try first. His fingers flex slightly, and you catch the subtle way he watches your hands, like he’s still fascinated by the fact that they can do this at all.

You play the little pattern again, and this time it sounds smoother.

Joe exhales quietly, almost pleased. “See? You’re learning.”

You stop and look at him, expression skeptical. “Don’t start. I know what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?” he asks, innocent.

“You’re trying to make this our thing,” you accuse.

Joe’s mouth curves slowly. “Maybe I am.”

Something warm blooms in your chest.

It’s such a small thing, but it isn’t. Not really. It’s Joe, taking something that once came from pain and turning it into softness. Turning it into home.

You turn back to the keys, your fingers resting lightly on them. “Okay,” you say quietly. “One more.”

Joe’s voice drops, gentle. “Yeah?”

“Play with me,” you say, and you hate how vulnerable it sounds even though it’s such a simple request.

Joe’s arms tighten around you slightly, not a hug exactly, but close. “Okay,” he murmurs.

His hands reach around yours, fingers landing on different keys. He starts slowly, guiding you into something simple. Two notes for you, a chord for him. Your part is easy, almost childish. His part fills in the space, warm and steady, making your little notes feel like they matter. It’s… sweet.

It’s intimate in a way that has nothing to do with anything except being together. Breathing together. Making something together.

When you mess up, Joe doesn’t sigh or correct you sharply. He just chuckles softly and starts again, patient as sunrise.

“Sorry,” you mumble after the third mistake.

Joe presses a kiss to the side of your head. “Don’t apologize. This is supposed to be lazy.”

You laugh quietly, and it shakes something loose in you. The tension you didn’t even realize you were holding fades.

You keep playing.

The song, if you can call it that, fills the living room in uneven waves. Sunlight shifts across the floor, inching slowly like time is passing politely around you. The house stays quiet except for the keys and your occasional laughter and Joe’s low voice in your ear.

Eventually, you stop, fingers lifting from the keys.

Joe stays close behind you for a beat longer, like he doesn’t want to break the moment too fast. Then he steps around and sits on the bench beside you, knees bumping yours.

“You okay?” he asks, like he always does, like it’s instinct.

You nod, turning your head to look at him. His eyes are soft. Calm. The kind of calm you don’t get in the world outside these walls.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m really good.”

Joe’s gaze dips to your mouth for half a second, then back to your eyes. His hand lifts and tucks a piece of your messy hair behind your ear, slow and careful.

“Me too,” he murmurs.

He leans in and kisses you, gentle, unhurried, the kind of kiss that feels like a lazy day made physical. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours for a second.

The piano sits in front of you, quiet now, keys warm from your hands

Outside, the world keeps moving. Schedules, noise, expectations. All of it waiting, but none of it matters in this moment.

It was Joe’s 29th birthday, and Cincinnati woke up frozen over, sky pale gray, river fog clinging to the bridges, and the kind of cold that made your breath swirl like smoke.

Joe had been annoying for a week straight about turning twenty nine.

Walking around the house sighing dramatically, telling Y/N he was “basically elderly.” Claiming his joints made new noises, he was limping for no reason. Asking if she’d still love him when he turned “thirty and dusty.”

And Y/N, pregnant, hormonal, patient only because she loved him, just kept patting his cheek and saying, “Baby, you literally heal like a Marvel character. Relax.”

Which was why, on the morning of his birthday, while he was at a light practice at the facility, she was sprinting around Cincinnati like she was training for the Olympics.

Because this man, this dramatic, clingy, impossibly soft giant?

He wasn’t getting just a cake, he wasn’t getting a plain dinner. He was getting a full surprise party, and she had six hours to pull it off.

First stop: the bakery across town that only opened at 8 AM, only took custom orders if your status was famously known, and only made cakes that could safely be described as the best of the best.

Y/N rushed inside wearing leggings, Joe’s oversized hoodie, puffer jacket, and Uggs, moving fast enough that a cashier jumped.

“Oh! Um..can we help you?”

Y/N: “I’m here for the Burrow order!”

The baker blinked. “Oh! The..oh. The… HUGE one.”

Y/N nodded, out of breath. “Yes. The huge one. The giant chocolate whatever thing I don’t even remember ordering.”

The baker grinned proudly. “It feeds about twenty.”

Y/N pinched her nose. “Good. He eats for twenty.”

While they boxed it up, she called Mariah.

“Where are you?” Mariah answered immediately. Y/N could hear traffic, loud music, and what sounded like a blinker frantically clicking.

“Trying to U turn!” Mariah yelled. “Ain’t nobody in this city know how to drive.”

“Valid,” Y/N huffed, balancing the massive cake box. “Okay, I got the cake. Did you get the balloons?”

“I got every balloon in Party City, babe.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means… if he hates it, we can fly away like the freaking house from Up.”

“Oh my god.”

Next stop, the surprise venue, a private room at one of Joe’s favorite restaurants. Not fancy. Not crazy. Just warm, dim, good food, soft lighting, and a staff that already adored the Burrows because Joe tipped like money grew on trees.

She rushed inside, cake wobbling dangerously.

The manager spotted her and ran over. “You made it!”

“Barely.”

“We set up the room exactly how you wanted.”

“Lights warm and low?”

“Yep.”

“Extra space for the players so they don’t knock things over?”

“Done.”

“Blanket on every chair because it’s cold as hell?”

He grinned. “Every chair.”

Y/N felt a wave of relief, brief, fleeting. Because immediately, her phone buzzed violently against her leg.

Joe ❤️: Where r u babe??

She froze like someone had pointed a camera at her mid-crime.

Mariah texted at the same time:

Mariah: DONT ANSWER HIM. HE’S AT THE FACILITY. HE CANT SEE U

Y/N whispered, “Oh my god,” and typed back to Joe:

Y/N: Pilates 😇

Joe replied instantly.

Joe: u hate pilates

Y/N: Not today!

Joe: u ok??

Y/N: YES BABE LOVE YOU BYE

She shoved the phone in her pocket before he could call.

Panic was a pregnancy symptom. She decided it was. She claimed it.

She moved around the room adjusting place settings, fixing candles, adjusting the slideshow projector that kept flashing a photo of Joe looking twelve years old and way too proud holding a frog at a lake.

Perfect.

She checked the clock.

Four hours left.

She still had to pick up the custom Bengals themed cookies, grab the framed gift she ordered, stop by the florist, get dressed, and hide her bump enough that Joe didn’t ask if she was okay fifteen times, lastly then get him into the damn restaurant without suspicion

She exhaled heavily and waddled to the car.

At the florist, the bouquet was ready, the florist beamed. “Happy birthday to your husband!”

“Oh, boyfriend,” Y/N corrected quickly. “We’re almost there.”

“Practically there,” the florist said, winking. “You go put him in a tux yet?”

“Oh, no, he refuses. Says it restricts his creativity.”

The florist blinked. “He said what?”

Y/N just nodded. “Exactly.”

By the time she got home, her legs were tired, her back hurt, and her head felt like a balloon someone accidentally kicked across a gym floor.

She pushed the door open quietly.

Joe was sitting on the couch, socked feet up, hair fluffy from taking off his beanie, scrolling on his phone with narrowed eyes like a dad trying to understand TikTok.

He looked up instantly.

“There you are,” he breathed, soft and relieved in a way that made her heart melt.

Y/N smiled, trying not to look suspicious. “Hi, birthday boy.”

He held out an arm. “Come here.”

She set the florist bag down and waddled over. He pulled her right onto his lap, hands warm around her waist, forehead resting against her cheek.

“Why you been gone all morning?” he asked, voice low. “Missed you.”

She kissed his jaw. “I told you. Pilates.”

He snorted. “You did not do Pilates. You can’t lie to me. I know you.”

Y/N pressed her lips together. “Maybe I… just needed to get stuff done.”

“Baby,” he murmured, brushing her hair behind her ear. “You’re tired. You didn’t have to run errands today.”

“Actually,” she said slowly, “I kind of did.”

He raised a brow. “Yeah? Why?”

“Because,” she whispered, smiling as she cupped his cheeks, “someone I love is turning twenty nine… and he deserves the best.”

Joe went still, eyes melting in that way he only ever looked at her.

He leaned in, kissed her slow, thumb stroking her chin.

“C’mere,” he whispered. “Lemme lay with you for a minute.”

“But-”

“No,” he said gently. “You’ve been running around all day. I can tell. Just… stay here with me, princess.”

She rested her head on his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.

Five minutes.

Just five.

And then she’d get up.

Except…

She didn’t.

She slept for forty-five.

Because pregnancy or not, Joe was warm and comfy and smelled like cedar and aftershave and home.

She woke up to his phone buzzing.

A text from Ja’marr lighting up the screen:

Ja'marr: so we still on for 6?? what time we yell surprise?

Y/N panicked and slapped a hand over the screen so fast Joe jerked.

“What was that?” he asked groggily.

“NOTHING!” she blurted. “Happy birthday! Get dressed!”

“For what?” he asked, confused and adorable and sleepy.

Y/N smiled sweet and innocent.

“You’ll see.”

And her phone buzzed in her pocket, Mariah texting:

Mariah: HE BETTER BE READY

Y/N took a deep breath, tonight… Joe was getting the surprise of his life.

The moment Joe stepped fully into the rooftop and everyone screamed “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JOE!” the room actually shook.

Like the amps rattled, balloons quivered on their strings, and the chef in the corner jumped so hard he dropped a tray of pretzel bites.

Joe stood there frozen, eyes wide like a golden retriever who’d just seen a squirrel wearing sunglasses.

His gaze snapped immediately to Y/N, who looked way too innocent standing in front of a massive balloon arch with her little bump pressed under her soft cream sweater, cheeks flushed pink, curls spilling out of a clip she’d shoved in hours earlier while rushing across the city.

Joe blinked.

Then blinked again.

Then walked toward her like he was underwater.

Everyone cheered louder, whistling, clapping, videoing him from every angle like he was being drafted again. Tee yelled, “Look at him! Man’s about to cry!” Ja’marr chimed in with, “He confused as hell.”

Joe finally reached Y/N and whispered, breathless, “Baby… what...what is all this?”

She smiled up at him, lifting her hands to cup his cold cheeks. “Your birthday, silly.”

His chest expanded like he’d physically taken a punch of emotion. “You did this? All of this?”

“Yes.”

“For me?”

“Who else? Tee? Please.”

Joe didn’t even laugh. He pulled her in carefully, always so carefully one hand sliding to the small of her back, the other brushing her bump as if it were instinct. He kissed her forehead, eyes closed for a beat too long.

But the moment lasted all of five seconds because Mariah stepped between them like a wedding planner possessed.

“OKAY! EMOTION LATER! PICTURES NOW!”

Y/N groaned as Joe blinked at her, Tee yelled, “POSE, WHITE BOY!” as cameras flashed everywhere.

Music blasted. Food started disappearing like it owed people money. The heater near the cake short circuited and Tee screamed because he thought it was a ghost.

Someone uncorked a bottle of champagne too close to the balloon arch and an entire column of balloons detached and floated directly into Ja’marr's hair.

He swatted at them like they were bees.

Joe kept hovering at Y/N’s side, eyes darting around the room like he was overwhelmed and trying not to show it.

She watched him with a little smirk.

He elbowed her gently. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That smile. The I-planned-a-massive-thing-and-now-I’m-watching-you-like-a-science-experiment smile.”

“…it is a cute experiment.”

He leaned down. “I’m gonna kiss you right now.”

“No, you’re gonna take birthday pictures with your friends.”

He groaned loudly, dragging his feet toward the guys like a toddler being forced to take Christmas card photos.

20 minutes later, Ja’marr walked over, drink in hand, squinting, “Uhhhhh… Y/N… Joe’s at the bar.”

“What bar?”

Ja’marr pointed.

Joe was staring at a shot, just staring at it like it was a nuclear weapon he was deciding whether to detonate.

Y/N stormed across the room, robe like coat trailing behind her, pregnant waddle in full effect.

“Joseph Lee Burrow.”

He didn’t even look up. “…baby.”

“What is THAT?”

“A beverage.”

“A beverage what, Joe? A hydrating one or a disastrous one?”

“It’s… tequila.”

“PUT. IT. DOWN.”

Everyone within ten feet froze.

Joe blinked. “It’s my birthday?”

“And you’re a horrible person when you’re hungover. I’m not waking up tomorrow to you groaning like Frankenstein, begging for electrolytes and forgiveness when you're mid season.”

The entire bar section fell silent.

Joe opened his mouth, then smirked, slow, teasing, dangerous.

“Yes ma’am.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Don’t ma’am me.”

“Yes… mom.”

The entire room gasped, hollered, screamed, sprinted in circles like it was a reality TV finale.

Y/N reared back and smacked his arm so hard his whole torso moved.

“JOSEPH!”

He started laughing, laughing with his head thrown back, dimples deep, eyes shining, “OW! Baby! Abuse!”

“You called me MOM!”

“YOU SAID NO SHOTS!”

“Because you’re DRAMATIC and HELPLESS!”

“Because you LOVE me!”

“BECAUSE YOUR HANGOVERS ARE A NATIONAL TRAGEDY!”

He leaned in and kissed her very quick, soft, smug on the cheek.

Everyone yelled like they’d just witnessed a monumental sports moment. At one point awhile later, he wrapped his arms around her from behind while she talked to Mariah, resting his chin on her shoulder.

“You mad at me still?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“You love me?”

“Unfortunately.”

He grinned, lips brushing her jaw.

“Thanks for tonight.”

She softened against him immediately, melting like her bones dissolved.

“You deserve the world,” she whispered. “This is the least I could do.”

He squeezed her belly gently, murmuring, “My two perfect birthday presents.”

Mariah gagged from behind them. “OH MY GOD PLEASE, get a room before I get emotional.”

The night rolled on warm and loud and messy, the exact kind of chaos that made Joe look at Y/N every five minutes like he couldn’t believe she existed.

And for once?

She wasn’t running around, wasn’t stressed and wasn’t doing ten tasks at once.