41. Ella
Forty One
Ella
Summer Break
After our trip to Georgia, one thing was clear: leaving Hunter was never an option. So when life twisted in a new direction after just two years at brU, I twisted with it.
If you’d told me a year ago, I’d be sitting in a fancy condo in Louisiana and unpacking boxes, I would’ve laughed. Or maybe cried. Probably both .
I might’ve told you that my life had become an unexpected plot twist, one I hadn’t seen coming. But when Hunter got drafted, there wasn’t even a pause, not even a fraction of hesitation inside me.
I was moving with him.
There was no version of my life where I stayed behind while he built his future in another state. It wasn’t a decision at all, but rather an inevitable force. This was about more than just being supportive or what some might call loyalty. It was simpler, more absolute.
With Hunter, there was no halfway point. You either jumped in headfirst or didn’t jump at all, and I’d already taken the plunge.
The way he looked at me the night of the draft, when he clamped his hand around my thigh as if he were afraid I would disappear, despite the cameras flashing around us, told me everything I needed to know.
You’re coming with me .
And, fuck, I wanted to.
It wasn’t just a matter of wanting to, though. It felt inevitable, like gravity pulling me toward a life I hadn’t yet imagined but couldn’t resist.
So I transferred schools, shoved my half-finished marketing degree into a new program, and ended up in the swampy heart of Louisiana, where the air felt thick enough to drink and cicadas buzzed louder than car alarms at night.
I unpacked boxes in a haze of frizzy hair and mosquito bites, wondering if I’d ever get used to the smell of damp earth clinging to everything.
It should’ve been miserable.
But how could I talk about misery when I woke up every morning tangled in Hunter’s arms? His obsession wrapped around me tighter than the sweltering heat, constant and unyielding. The exact kind of attention I’d spent half my life pretending not to crave.
I used to scoff at people who said love could feel like oxygen. Now, I couldn’t fucking breathe without it.
School was chaotic, but apparently transfers always were — or so I’d been told. Half of my credits didn’t carry over, and my new advisor sighed as if I were an inconvenience. I accepted the fact that it would take me longer than planned to graduate.
Maybe I should’ve been alarmed, but I didn’t care the way I thought I would. Compared to the thrill of this new life I’d chosen, everything else felt like background noise.
While I pushed through marketing lectures feeling more like torture sessions than anything useful, I had something else pulling me harder than syllabi and group projects: tennis .
It was my constant.
Hunter found me a facility near campus that looked like a warehouse from the outside but was actually home to six gleaming blue courts illuminated by bright lights.
The air smelled of rubber and disinfectant as I walked on the polished floor. My sneakers squeaked with each step, and the sound of the ball hitting the strings echoed like a heartbeat.
It was sacred, my private ritual carved into the chaos of my new life.
Every day, I trained, practiced, and gave it my all.
Running drills until my legs burned, serving until my shoulder screamed, and hitting rallies against a ball machine set fast enough to bruise my palms. I pushed myself until sweat ran down my spine and my shirt stuck to my skin.
Until the voice in my head whispering, “What if you choke?” was drowned out by the rhythm of the game.
Each session was a negotiation between fear and control, a way to prove I was still myself, still capable of dominance, even in a life feeling like it had been rewritten.
Hunter was always there whenever his schedule allowed.
He sat on the bleachers, his hat pulled low, hands clasped, eyes fixed on me as if each swing were a reminder I belonged to him. Sometimes he timed my sprints; sometimes he handed me water.
Mostly, though, he was silent, vibrating with the same intensity he carried onto the field. Presence was his gift, and it wrapped around me like armor.
The first time I laughed and asked if he was bored, he just blinked at me. “You think I could ever be bored watching you?”
I flushed so hard I nearly tripped over my feet. Because he meant it, and I could feel it in the weight of his stare, like gravity had shifted, and the world made sense only when he was looking.
I loved it.
Hunter’s life was even more regimented than mine. Rookie season in the NFL wasn’t glamorous; it was grueling.
He was in a constant loop of practice, reviewing film, lifting weights, and traveling. He came home late, exhausted, and collapsed into bed with me, only to wake before sunrise and do it all again. I watched him survive each day as if it were a battle.
No matter how much the league demanded of him, his obsession with me never dimmed.
His possessiveness was subtle, yet unmistakable in the way he moved through my world.
And every time his name lit up my phone, I felt it like a jolt of electricity. Proof of a man wanting me so fiercely, he couldn’t stand to let me out of reach. It felt like I was finally permitted to exist unapologetically.
After everything I’d been through — the whispers, the slut-shaming, the way people in my hometown had reduced me to a rumor — it felt like a balm.
Hunter didn’t just see me, he claimed me, and I let him without hesitation or fear.
The weeks blurred, both of us drowning in schedules. But the night before his first home game, I lay awake next to him, listening to his steady breathing, and stared up at the ceiling fan turning slow circles.
Tomorrow he’d step onto a field brighter and louder than anything he had experienced in college. Tens of thousands of people would scream his name tomorrow.
I’d be there in the stands, screaming the loudest. My pride throbbed in sync with my pulse, a physical ache of ownership and devotion.
The thought sent a shiver racing down my spine.