Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Mya
I ’ve seen a lot of beautiful things in my life—sunrises over Horseshoe Bay, Kingston in a tight endzone stance, the twin lines on a stick that ruined and remade my world—but none of them compare to this.
To this.
The nursery.
Warm olive-green walls wrap around us like a forest in bloom, the paint still carrying the faint scent of something new and possible. Decals of foxes and deer and wide-eyed owls peek out from the corners, their cartoon faces innocent and curious, as if they too are waiting to meet the two tiny tornadoes currently wreaking havoc in my womb. The cherrywood cribs are lined up side by side beneath the wide bay window, sturdy and regal, a deep mahogany against the soft, earthy tones. The matching changing dresser sits between them like a referee about to call fouls on midnight meltdowns.
And Kingston?
He’s crouched on the floor, screwing the last bolt into place like it’s game day and he’s assembling a championship-winning play. His sleeves are pushed up, exposing veiny forearms dusted with sawdust and effort. Sweat clings to his temples, curls damp and messy, and there’s this stupidly proud smile tugging at his mouth—like he just built Rome with an Allen wrench and a prayer.
“Damn,” I murmur from the doorway, sipping from my third cup of decaf tea today because life is cruel and caffeine is canceled. “You ever consider ditching the Giants for HGTV?”
He glances up, brow arched, that smile spreading like wildfire. “What, and give up the glory of being tackled by men twice my size every Sunday?”
I smirk. “You’re clearly in the wrong profession, mister. These cribs are symmetrical. As in, perfectly symmetrical. You know I measure everything, right? I did a full rotation with the level earlier.”
Kingston chuckles, rising to his full six-foot-four glory with a groan and a crack of his spine. “You’ve been nesting, sweetheart. Obsessively. That level’s your new best friend.”
I stick out my tongue, which is about all the sass I’ve got left. “I’m not nesting. I’m… preparing.”
“For what? A squirrel convention?”
“For our babies.” My hand drifts to the bump that’s become my permanent center of gravity. It’s huge. Like, whoa huge. Every time I catch my reflection, I double take. I look like I swallowed a yoga ball, and I’m still getting bigger.
Kingston pads over, barefoot and boyish in a pair of low-slung sweats and a white tee that clings in all the right places. His fingers settle low on my spine, his other hand sliding over the crest of my belly like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Like I’m the most natural thing in the world.
“It looks incredible, Mya.” His voice is low and quiet, and it makes my ribs ache a little. “They’re gonna love it.”
I glance around the room again. The neutral colors. The soft lighting. The little wooden mobiles hanging above each crib, with spinning raccoons and badgers and squirrels that twirl like magic when the breeze hits just right. It’s exactly what I wanted. Gender-neutral. Calming. Homey. Like a deep breath that doesn’t get stuck in your chest.
“They better love it,” I tease, my voice tight with something I don’t name. “Took me four nights of Pinterest scrolling, three breakdowns in the baby aisle, and exactly one meltdown because the decals weren’t sticking right.”
Kingston grins, leaning in to kiss my temple. “And let’s not forget the crisis when the first crib arrived with a dent in it.”
“I sobbed, Kingston.”
“You did,” he agrees solemnly. “For twenty minutes. Into a pregnancy pillow.”
“I’m emotionally fragile,” I whisper-dramatically.
“You’re nesting,” he counters.
“I will smother you with that same pregnancy pillow.”
He laughs, the sound vibrating through both of us. The ease of it. The us of it. It’s been a long week. A long month. Hell, it’s been a long life. But in this moment, surrounded by forest creatures and dark wood furniture and the smell of fresh paint and lemon furniture polish, I feel… still.
Anchored.
Safe.
I run my hand along the rail of the crib nearest to me. “You think I’m ready?” I ask before I can stop myself. The question hangs between us, soft and sharp. It’s not really about the nursery. Or the babies. Or even the stack of diapers we’ve started hoarding like apocalypse preppers. It’s about me.
Kingston doesn’t answer right away. He just pulls me closer, wrapping me up in his warmth, his scent, his Kingston-ness.
“I think you’ve been ready longer than you realize,” he says finally, his breath warm against my hairline. “I think you’ve been building a home in that big, brilliant heart of yours since the second you found out you were pregnant. You’ve just been waiting for the right time. And the right team.”
Tears sting the backs of my eyes, but I blink them away. No ugly crying. Not today. We’ve got woodland creatures to impress.
I lean my head on his chest, right where his heart beats steady and sure. And in that little room, in the city that never stops moving, surrounded by bears and foxes and a man who never once hesitated to show up for me—I finally exhale.
Kingston’s bye week slips through my fingers like sand I never managed to hold in the first place. Between the nursery setup, the furniture assembly Olympics, and my sudden, inexplicable obsession with labeling things that don’t need labels—like the baby wipes container—I’m halfway to being the cautionary tale Pinterest warned me about.
And now, it’s the night before the Giants’ game against the Cowboys, and I’m doing the most reckless thing a heavily pregnant woman can do… Hosting twenty-four pro athletes and their gorgeous, intimidating partners in our penthouse.
Because why the hell not?
The place smells like cinnamon, roasted garlic, and the last sliver of my sanity. There’s music playing low in the background, and laughter bouncing off the polished floors like it’s been waiting its whole life for this kind of chaos. I lean against the island, watching Layla Thompson and Olivia Frost debate cranberry sauce versus gravy like world peace depends on it.
The guys are in the media room talking about Dallas like it’s a four-letter word—which, I guess, it kind of is—and the women are scattered between the kitchen and the lounge, a walking Pinterest board of leather jackets, glossy hair, and genuine warmth. I expected tight smiles and side-eyes. Instead, I got compliments on the decor and offers to help with the dishes.
It’s weird. Nice. Disorienting.
Especially when Jasmine Lee drops onto the couch beside me and casually asks, “So, names?”
My brain stutters. “Names?”
“For the twins,” Deja adds, stealing an olive from the cheese board like she owns the place. “C’mon. Spill.”
“Oh,” I laugh, trying to look less panicked than I feel. “I have a Pinterest board. That counts, right?”
Layla gasps. “You’re a board girl too?”
“Color-coded,” I confess with a sheepish smile. “But I haven’t narrowed anything down yet.”
“It’s so hard with boys,” Olivia agrees. “You want strong, but not aggressive. Unique, but not weird.”
“Exactly,” I say, relieved someone gets it. “I keep landing on these pairs that sound like I’m naming a law firm. Or a boy band.”
“Let us help,” Trinity chimes in from across the room. “We’ll crowdsource it.”
“Oh God,” I mutter into my mocktail, “this is how I end up with sons named Blaze and Titan.”
Jasmine leans in, eyes dancing. “Honestly? Could be worse.”
And okay, maybe it could. Because right now, for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like the girl who got knocked up and left behind. I don’t feel like the secondhand story in someone else’s highlight reel. I feel… included. Like I belong here, with my overachieving Pinterest board and my unborn twins and the man who’s currently fielding a room full of linebackers like it’s just another Tuesday.
He catches my eye from across the room and gives me that look—the one that says you good?—and I nod before I can even think about it.
Because yeah. Right now?
I really, really am.
* * *
I’m not sure when I stopped breathing, but it was somewhere between the national anthem and kickoff
The family box is buzzing—half the WAGs are glued to their phones while the other half are live-streaming selfies with the field in the background. But not me. Nope. I’m all eyes on the turf, heart in my throat, hands curled around the edge of the padded seat like the armrests might stop me from combusting.
It’s game day. Thanksgiving. Giants vs. Cowboys. And I swear the tension on the field is thick enough to cut with a chainsaw.
Kingston stands at the fifty-yard line, helmet tucked under one arm, steely-eyed and focused, the kind of locked-in that makes time slow down. He’s not smiling, not talking, not doing the pre-game hype theatrics like some of the other guys. He’s just… still. Watching. Waiting.
And then the whistle blows.
Boom.
The ball sails through the air and all hell breaks loose.
“Let’s go, J.J.,” I whisper as Jayden “J.J.” Ross catches the ball and powers forward, barreling through the line like a heat-seeking missile. Trent “Tank” Wilkins and Brody Callahan open up a seam in the Cowboys’ defense like it’s nothing but tissue paper, and J.J. bursts through for the first down.
The crowd roars. The stadium shakes. And somewhere in the chaos, my heart finds a beat to follow.
“Someone’s been doing their homework,” Jasmine Lee teases from beside me, taking a sip of her pumpkin spice coffee like we’re not watching a war unfold beneath us.
I flash her a grin, then quickly refocus. Kingston’s back in the pocket now, Mateo and Eli holding the line like their lives depend on it. Which they kind of do, because the Cowboys’ defensive line is ruthless.
“Come on, baby,” I murmur under my breath, gripping my thighs to stop from standing.
And then—bam.
Kingston launches the football with sniper precision. A perfect spiral that slices through the air like it’s got something to prove. Malik Thompson breaks away from coverage like a ghost slipping through walls and snags the ball mid-sprint.
Touchdown.
The box erupts around me, but I stay rooted in place, eyes locked on Kingston as he jogs down the field, unfazed, already calling the next play in his head. Calm. Collected. Ice in his veins.
God, he’s good.
“How are you not having twins right now with that view?” Deja Banks mutters, fanning herself. “Because I’m ovulating just watching that man throw.”
I snort, half-choking on my laugh. “Trust me, the hormones are trying.”
More laughter echoes around the box, but my gaze never wavers from the field. Because now it’s the Cowboys’ turn, and our defense is up.
Logan “Lo” Hayes and Zaire Daniels set the tone from the snap, crashing through the offensive line like wrecking balls. Caleb Frost locks up the middle, and Knox Reilly reads the QB like he wrote the damn playbook.
Bang.
Vincent “Vince” Baptiste makes a tackle that rattles my soul from twenty feet up.
“Jesus,” Olivia Frost whispers. “They came to play today.”
“Not just play,” I murmur. “They came to dominate.”
Second quarter. Giants up 10-3. But the Cowboys aren’t going down easy. Their quarterback is fast—slippery in the pocket, like a greased-up eel—and when he breaks the line, it’s Nolan Westbrook and Andre Morgan who shut him down with a dual hit that shakes the turf.
Boom. Echo. Crack.
The box goes quiet for a beat before the applause starts.
“Defense is eating,” Layla Thompson mutters proudly.
Kingston’s back on the field by the third down. The Cowboys tried to blitz. Mistake. Tank absorbs the hit, Riley Park shifts, and Emmett Clark—tight end and nightmare fuel—snatches the pass and plows forward for fifteen yards like he’s on a personal mission to flatten everything in sight.
Another first down.
And yeah, maybe I cheer a little too loud that time. Maybe I pump my fist in the air and yell “HELL YES” while the other women blink at me, wide-eyed.
“You really know the game,” Claire Boone says, half-surprised.
I just smile, heart pounding. “My dad owns the Patriots, so football’s kind of the family religion. I grew up learning route trees before I learned how to braid. It’s in my blood—there’s no unlearning it.”
Truth is, I never wanted to. Football is my language. My rhythm. My anchor.
And watching Kingston command the field like a general—precision in motion, eyes scanning, body tensed, arm cocked—it makes me feel like maybe, just maybe, everything’s going to be okay.
Even if I don’t have names for the twins yet.
Even if the future still scares the crap out of me.
Even if I’m one breath away from crying every time he looks up into the family box and finds me.
Because the moment he does?
He points.
Right at me.
And grins.
The fourth quarter’s a battlefield.
Twenty minutes of time-stretched eternity. Twenty minutes of heart-in-my-throat panic, feet bouncing beneath my seat, and my already-stretched bladder threatening mutiny.
We’re up by a field goal. 20–17.
And every second feels like we’re dangling over a cliff by a thread made of dental floss.
The Cowboys have possession, and their offense is moving fast. Too fast. Our defense looks winded, and my pulse pounds harder with every yard they steal.
“Come on, Lo,” I whisper, knuckles white where I’m gripping the edge of my seat. “Give me something.”
Second down, twenty-five-yard line. They’re pushing toward the red zone, and then—bam.
Logan “Lo” Hayes rips off the edge and steamrolls their right tackle, hitting the quarterback so hard the crowd lets out a collective OHHHHHHHHHHHHH.
“YES,” I yell, jumping to my feet as the ball pops loose. Vince Baptiste nearly snatches it, but it’s ruled a dead ball before he can recover. Still, it’s a sack for a huge loss.
That buys us air. A breath. A crack in the armor.
On third down, Damien Chase and Kai Okoye double up on coverage and force an incomplete pass in the end zone. It’s a clean stop.
Dallas settles for the field goal.
20–20. Tie game. Five minutes left.
The box is dead silent. Even the WAGs have stopped talking.
And then it happens.
Kickoff.
J.J. Ross fields it clean and takes off like he’s shot out of a cannon. He spins, cuts, hurdles a defender—some freak of nature kind of run that makes me scream until I’m dizzy. He makes it to the thirty-five before he’s brought down.
“He’s on fire tonight,” Layla whispers beside me, and all I can do is nod.
Because now Kingston’s back on the field.
Helmet on. Eyes sharp. Shoulders squared like he’s carrying the fate of the damn universe. The huddle breaks, and it’s go time.
First down.
Snap to Kingston. He fakes the handoff to J.J. and rifles a pass to Emmett Clark, who bulldozes forward for seven yards.
Second down.
He goes to Cruz Delgado this time—sideline throw, perfectly placed. First down. Clock still ticking.
The boys are moving like clockwork—Tank and Brody are holding the edges like stone walls, Riley and Elidriving the push from the middle. It’s like poetry made out of violence.
Then Malik breaks coverage.
It’s a slant route, and it’s so damn clean I swear I see Kingston’s grin even from up here.
He throws it.
Malik catches it.
Touchdown.
27–20. Two minutes left.
The suite explodes in noise—cheering, clapping, someone actually crying. Maybe it’s Olivia. Maybe it’s me.
I grip my belly as one of the babies kicks, like even they know something epic just happened.
But the game’s not over.
Dallas isn’t done.
They come out swinging—long throws, aggressive routes. They push past midfield, time bleeding off the clock.
“Defense, come on,” I plead, heart in my throat.
And on second down, it happens.
Zaire Daniels breaks loose, smashes through their line and gets a hand on the quarterback. He flails. The pass goes wild. And Nolan Westbrook—my sweet, beautiful, ball-hawking safety—dives for it.
Interception.
Game.
Set.
Giants.
The scoreboard reads 27–20. And the stadium erupts into madness.
On the field, Kingston rips off his helmet, eyes scanning the stands, and finds me in a sea of fans. He points. Just once.
And that’s it. I’m gone. Wrecked. Crying like a hormonal wreck with my hands pressed to my belly.
“You okay?” Jasmine asks, her eyes glossy too.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “They’re going to be so proud of him one day.”
And I know it’s true.
Because Kingston just did what he always does—lead. Fight. Win.
And this Thanksgiving? I’ve never had more to be thankful for.