Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
MYA
I can’t remember the last time I sat still for longer than five minutes. Not with the tour looming like a neon-lit countdown clock in my head, ticking toward the first stop in New York. The band’s schedule is a beast—endless meetings, last-minute content deadlines, a venue that changed midweek because someone double-booked the Brooklyn Bowl. Meanwhile, I’ve been juggling Instagram reels, TikTok choreography, merch edits, and brand collabs like a cracked-out Cirque du Soleil performer on three hours of sleep and a half-melted protein bar.
So, when Kingston slides a game pass across the kitchen counter this morning, eyes soft and hopeful, I hesitate. Not because I don’t want to go—because I do—but because my to-do list is longer than my legs, and I’m growing humans in my uterus, plural.
“You haven’t been to a game since preseason,” he says, leaning against the fridge in nothing but joggers and that damn smug smirk that says he already knows I’m going to say yes. “Family box. Good view. Cushioned seats. Pregnant-woman-approved snacks.”
I arch a brow. “Does the box have flaming hot Cheetos and peanut M&M’s?”
“It does if you bring them,” he deadpans.
“Sold.”
Which is how I end up dressed in oversized overalls and a cropped Toronto Kings hoodie that barely stretches over my bump, standing in the elevator at the stadium, trying to remember how to breathe without Googling “can pregnancy cause literal suffocation from a waistband.”
The moment I step into the box, I’m met with a wall of estrogen. It’s like walking into a lifestyle segment on ESPN meets The Real Housewives of Toronto Football. There’s glitter, designer jeans, stiletto boots, and one woman in head-to-toe Louis Vuitton activewear holding a mimosa like it’s a purse.
“Hi, you must be Mya!” a petite brunette beams, setting down her Starbucks and crossing the box to hug me before I can flinch.
I blink. “Uh—yeah. That’s me.”
“I’m Jasmine—Riley Park’s fiancée. Congratulations, by the way!” She gestures toward my belly with the kind of smile you’d give someone who just adopted a golden retriever.
“Thanks,” I say, stunned into sincerity. “Appreciate it.”
She pulls me into the lounge where a buffet is being slowly decimated by women in varying levels of NFL fashion chic. “Come meet the girls!”
Before I can process what’s happening, I’m being introduced to the WAGs.
Layla Thompson is warm and soft-spoken, dressed like a Pinterest board and smelling like vanilla cupcakes. Isabelle Moreno is a literal model and looks like she stepped off the cover of a sports magazine—smizing, flawless, frighteningly nice. Heather Wilkins is wearing navy scrubs and sneakers and tells me she came straight from the night shift. Candice Daniels? Lawyer. Looks like she could argue a case and file her nails at the same time. Olivia Frost has a camera slung across her body and gives me a conspiratorial wink. “Let me know if you want maternity shots—I specialize in capturing chaos.” Emily Tran—fashion designer. Claire Boone—veterinarian and dog mom. Deja Banks—Instagram influencer and possibly the human embodiment of highlighter and confidence.
And then there’s me. Pregnant, tired, and unsure whether I’m wearing shoes that match. I plaster on a smile and start praying no one asks what I do for a living because I don’t know how to explain that “I run a rock band’s online identity and sometimes cry over font choices.”
Jasmine hands me a mimosa mocktail and drops into the seat beside me. “So. What’s it like being with Kingston Ford?”
My laugh is instant. “Like living with a mountain who eats protein for breakfast and thinks I’m made of glass.”
“Sounds familiar,” Layla calls from the row behind us. “Try being married to Malik. He tried to get me a helmet when I was pregnant.”
“Tank made me sit on a yoga ball through my third trimester,” Heather says with a snort. “Said it would help me ‘stay limber.’”
“I haven’t sat on a hard surface since week twelve,” I confess. “We have five couch cushions dedicated to my ass.”
They laugh, and suddenly I don’t feel so out of place.
The game starts with a roar, and I find myself caught up in the rhythm of it—shoulder pads clashing, cleats slicing into turf, the announcer’s voice booming through the stadium. Kingston takes the field like a storm dressed in navy and steel, his presence magnetic even from this high up.
I watch the way he moves—powerful, precise, relentless. My stomach somersaults for a reason that has nothing to do with nausea.
“Your man’s a monster on the line,” Olivia murmurs, sipping from her camera lens-shaped thermos.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “He is.”
And then, as if he can feel my eyes on him, Kingston glances up toward the box. His helmet hides most of his face, but the tilt of his chin and the barely-there smirk I’ve seen a thousand times on sleepless nights tells me he knows exactly where I am. His fingers curl into a fist, tapping his chest twice before the snap.
It hits me like a blitz straight to the heart.
I’m in a skybox full of women who all know what it’s like to love men who are warriors for a living, and I’m not just the girlfriend anymore. I’m not the social media girl. I’m not the tagalong.
I’m his.
And he’s mine.
I settle deeper into my seat, one hand resting on my belly, the other gripping a mocktail that tastes like sugar and citrus and new beginnings.
“Welcome to the sisterhood,” Candice says with a wink.
* * *
I know football.
Not the surface-level, Sunday-night-background-noise kind of knowing. No, I know it in my bones. I understand coverage shifts and blindside rushes, can spot a delayed blitz before the commentators even catch up, and I track offensive line strategy like it’s a puzzle begging to be solved.
So even though I’ve had a week from hell, even though I’m functioning on adrenaline, anxiety, and the remnants of a smoothie I forgot to finish, there’s no way I’m missing tonight’s game. Giants vs. Panthers. East Coast showdown.
And Kingston gave me a family box pass.
My seat is cushioned, blessedly back-supportive, and comes with a killer view of the fifty-yard line. The women around me—wives, girlfriends, fiancées—are already deep in conversation, heatedly dissecting last week’s loss and eyeing the Panthers’ defense like they personally plan to square up against it.
“I’m just saying,” Layla Thompson declares, “if number 59 tries that spin move again, Malik’s going to burn him so bad he’ll need aloe.”
“Did you see their coverage against Atlanta?” Candice scoffs, tossing a handful of trail mix into her mouth. “Zone-heavy, slow to rotate, no depth. If Eli doesn’t get flagged for taunting tonight, it’ll be a miracle.”
I smile, sipping my lemon water, and let their energy soak into my skin.
On the field, Kingston lines up, crouched and coiled like a spring. Left tackle. All six-foot-four of him is steel and calculation, a wall you’d break yourself trying to go through. The stadium vibrates with tension. The snap comes—crack!—and everything bursts into motion.
“Strong side blitz,” I murmur, eyes narrowing as the Panthers’ linebacker creeps toward the line.
“Mm-hmm,” Jasmine Lee says from beside me without even looking up. “Called that before they broke huddle. They’re desperate. Expect another on third.”
Sure enough, the rush comes screaming off the edge, but Kingston shifts, digs his cleats in, and catches the rookie like he was waiting for him. It’s surgical—two quick steps, a shove, and the kid hits the turf while the quarterback dances untouched.
“Clean,” Olivia Frost whispers reverently, snapping a photo with her camera. “That’s art. That’s—” she exhales, “—a textbook pancake.”
I’m already grinning. “He made it look easy.”
“Everything looks easy when you’re built like a freight train and move like a ballerina,” Deja adds, raising her drink in Kingston’s direction. “King of the blind side.”
Another snap. Another play. This time, it’s a slant route across the middle, and Cruz takes the hit like he’s got bricks for ribs, dragging defenders behind him as he crosses into first-down territory. The crowd explodes.
There’s something about watching live—something visceral, unfiltered. The sweat, the power, the chaos held in check by sheer will and timing. It’s ballet meets battlefield. And up close, you see everything. The flex of tape-strapped hands. The grit in the turf when someone goes down. The micro-adjustments, the flickers of chemistry and control that no camera angle can fully capture.
“Kingston’s on fire tonight,” Heather says over her shoulder. “He read that defensive shift like a damn novel.”
“Cover-two shell gave it away,” I reply automatically. “Middle linebacker bit too early. Told on himself.”
Layla laughs. “Mya, if you ever decide to leave your job, the Giants need you in the booth.”
I don’t answer. Just smile, then glance back at the field.
Third and goal. Tie game. Second half winding down. The kind of moment that breaks teams or makes legends.
They line up fast—no huddle. The Panthers aren’t ready. I can see it. They’re scrambling.
“Motion left. Watch the pull,” I mutter under my breath.
Sure enough—snap.
The pocket forms, tight and flawless. Kingston pulls, swings wide, and throws himself into the lane with surgical precision. JJ Ross cuts inside, slips a tackle, and dives across the line. Touchdown.
The stadium detonates.
In the box, women are screaming. Popcorn is flying. Candice jumps up, spinning in a circle with both arms in the air. Layla is halfway in Jasmine’s lap. Deja is doing what can only be described as a happy shimmy.
And I just sit back, heartbeat thunderous, one hand pressed to my chest.
On the field, as the team jogs off, Kingston glances up.
Not at the cameras. Not at the crowd.
At me.
He taps his chest once. A gesture so quick and quiet I almost miss it.
But I don’t.
I see you.
And I swear—for one breathless second—I think he’s saying the same thing back.
Then he vanishes into the huddle of helmets and pads, and I’m left clutching the edge of my seat, pulse racing like the two-minute drill is happening in my chest.
The third quarter starts, and it’s a brutal tug-of-war. Every play feels like a gamble, every snap a heartbeat. The Panthers aren’t just holding their ground—they’re biting into ours, yard by yard, inch by inch. Kingston holds the line like a goddamn leviathan, but even titans bleed.
There’s a hit on third and long where I physically flinch. Kingston gets bowled over in a scramble, his knee buckling for a blink too long before he’s back on his feet, barking out signals like his body isn’t screaming at him. My heart thunders with the crack of shoulder pads and the grunts of war echoing across the turf.
When J.J. takes a pitch and sprints down the sideline, the whole stadium stands. Thirty yards. Forty. Fifty. My throat burns from screaming, hands clenched to my chest like prayer could push him those final twenty. But the Panthers’ safety clips his ankle at the 8-yard line. The air wheezes out of me. So close. So goddamn close.
Fourth quarter. Two minutes on the clock. We’re down 17–13. They’re in shotgun. Kingston crouches low, hands twitching like live wire. Malik motions right. Snap. The rush comes hard. Kingston spins, blocks—slams—but the pressure collapses the pocket too fast. Our quarterback scrambles, lobs a pass off his back foot.
For a half-second, everything stops.
The ball hangs in the air like fate itself.
And then—bam—it’s intercepted.
My stomach drops through the floor of the stadium. The crowd groans in collective heartbreak. It’s over.
The Panthers run down the clock with a few safe handoffs, draining every tick of hope. The scoreboard cements the sting: 20–17. Brutal.
The box falls into a heavy silence, broken only by the nervous rattle of nail polish caps and the rustle of jackets. I don’t know when I sat back down, but my legs are shaking, and my nails are marks on my palm. I can barely breathe past the sharp ache in my chest.
I don’t need to check the sideline to know Kingston’s hurting. Not physically—he played like a machine—but emotionally. I know him. I know the weight he carries, how he shoulders the blame like it’s stitched into his jersey. As captain, he’ll feel every mistake like a scar branded on his soul.
So I wait.
The wives and girlfriends gather their things, murmuring quietly, their high spirits dimmed to dull embers. But I stay frozen, staring through the thick glass until I spot him—dark curls damp, jersey streaked with sweat and grass stains, face tight with fury and fatigue.
Then he looks up.
And his gaze doesn’t search. Doesn’t drift. It zeroes in.
Like I’m the only one in the room.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. Just walks straight to the door like the whole damn stadium’s crumbling around him and I’m the only thing keeping him upright.
My chest cracks open as he steps inside. His eyes flick past the other women. Past everything.
He’s coming for me.