Chapter 36
Chapter thirty-six
Cam
The stadium hushes in a way that doesn’t make sense.
Forty thousand people don’t hush. They surge. They chant. They keep moving because silence is uncomfortable and humans hate being uncomfortable.
But it happens anyway.
Like the lights dimmed inside their throats.
I almost laugh. Not because it’s funny. Because my body doesn’t know what to do with this much feeling and no pads to hide behind.
I should be terrified.
Tens of thousands of faces. Cameras with lenses big enough to see pores. Screens showing my expression in real time.
But all I see is her.
Lila is in the wings by the backstage tunnel, half in shadow, half caught in spill light. One hand is pressed over her mouth like she’s holding herself together. Her eyes shine like she’s standing too close to the sun.
My chest goes tight, and I take one breath the way I do before a snap. In through the nose. Slow out.
The mic is warm in my hand.
My voice comes out steady anyway. Raw, but steady.
“I’ve spent months letting other people tell my story,” I say.
The words bounce back at me through the speakers, bigger than my body. I don’t look up at the screens. I don’t need to see my face to know what it’s doing.
“Letting fear tell it,” I continue. “Letting contracts tell it. Letting a lawsuit tell it.”
A low murmur moves through the crowd like wind through tall grass. People shifting. Leaning in. Phones lifting higher.
I swallow once. Not to stall. To keep my throat from closing.
“No more.”
My gaze snaps back to Lila like it’s magnetic. She hasn’t moved. But I see her shoulders rise on a shaky inhale.
I let the next words be simple. Plain. The kind of truth you can’t dress up and can’t wriggle out of.
“I love my wife.”
The stadium detonates.
Sound hits me like a wave. Screams. Shouts. My name. Her name. Our names tangled together.
But the only thing that feels real is what happens to Lila’s body when I say it.
Her knees actually soften.
Like the words land in her bones and her legs forget how to hold her upright.
I don’t move toward her.
I stay where I am.
I learned that the hard way. You give her room to choose.
“I wasn’t supposed to fall for her,” I say, pacing once, the way I do in a huddle when my brain needs a lane. “I told everyone I wouldn’t.”
A few laughs ripple through the crowd. They think it’s charming. They don’t know it was a warning. A vow. A fear dressed up like discipline.
“That I wasn’t good at relationships,” I say. “That I needed to stay focused.”
My hand tightens on the mic. My palm is slick. I don’t wipe it. Let them see I’m human.
“Heck, my whole life has been about holding the line,” I continue. “Keeping distance. Staying safe.”
The word tastes bitter. Because “safe” is what I told myself I wanted when I walked away.
I glance back to the wings.
Our eyes lock again, and everything else blurs.
“But Lila, you broke through every wall I built.”
Her hand slips from her mouth to her throat.
“You met me on my worst days,” I say. “You saw the truth behind every headline.”
I feel the old wounds stir at the edge of my mind. The accusation. The money. The way strangers decided who I was based on whatever sounded most entertaining that week.
And her.
Her standing there anyway. Quietly furious on my behalf.
“And you still chose to stand with me,” I say.
My voice cracks.
It’s small. Barely there.
But the stadium catches it. The cameras catch it. The crowd makes a sound—sympathy, surprise, hunger, all braided together.
I push through.
Because this isn’t about them.
This is about her hearing it.
“I’m done pretending that protecting myself is the same as being strong,” I say.
Then I look at her again, and I don’t soften the words. I don’t hide behind humor. I don’t add qualifiers to protect my pride.
“And I choose you.”
Her eyes flick to Manny in the wings like she’s checking if this is allowed. Manny doesn’t move. Doesn’t intervene. Just watches her like he’s ready to catch her if she falls.
I lift the mic slightly, fingers tightening.
I’ve played in stadiums like this. I’ve had whole sections boo my name. I’ve had reporters try to bait me into saying the wrong thing. I’ve been hit so hard I saw stars and still got up.
None of it feels like this.
Because I can’t brute-force love.
I can only offer it.
And hope she takes it.
“In football,” I say, and it’s almost funny that I’m using the one language my nervous system speaks fluently, “they teach us that when the pocket collapses, you don’t freeze.”
A few cheers. Some laughter.
“You don’t run backward,” I continue. “You step into the pressure.”
My gaze stays on Lila, even as I talk to the stadium.
“You take the hit,” I say. “Because that’s the only way you get the ball down the field.”
I pause.
She looks like she’s trying to be solid. Like she’s fighting the instinct to fold in on herself.
She’s beautiful like that.
Not polished-beautiful. Not “pop star under lights” beautiful.
Human-beautiful.
Brave even when it’s messy.
“So…” I say, voice low, and somehow it still carries. “I’m stepping in.”
I lift the mic a little higher. My heart is trying to climb out of my chest.
I don’t look away from her.
Not even when the cameras swing toward the wings, trying to find what I’m staring at. Not even when the screens above the stage start to split-shot us—me in the spotlight, her in the shadows, caught like a secret the world finally found.
“Lila…”
My voice drops anyway, intimate on purpose, like I’m standing close enough for only her to hear even though the speakers are blasting it into the night.
“If you’ll have me…”
I swallow, and for the first time all night, fear spikes sharp.
Because she has every right to say no.
I left.
I made her carry the truth by herself.
“I want to be with you forever,” I say.
A collective gasp sweeps through the stadium, like all of Firth city is holding its breath with me.