Chapter 20
Mars
A month had passed, and somewhere along the way, Jalen had quietly, effortlessly woven himself into the fabric of my everyday life.
Neither of us had sat down and planned for it to happen.
There was no conversation about moving things forward, no formal renegotiation of our arrangement.
It simply became our reality.
Some evenings, the corporate noise of my day would fade, and I’d find myself instinctively driving toward his house in River Oaks the second he finished afternoon practice.
Other nights, I would be halfway through folding laundry or answering late-day emails when a familiar, heavy knock would echo through my front door.
I’d open it to find him standing under the hallway lights, a brown paper bag of takeout in one hand and that lazy, crooked smile I was quickly becoming addicted to.
We never seemed to make formal plans anymore.
The structured schedule I used to live by had been replaced by a fluid, unspoken routine.
One of us would send a text.
“You hungry?”
Or,
“What are you doing?”
And somehow, that was always more than enough.
Before long, we were spending far more evenings together than we were apart.
It happened in small, almost imperceptible increments.
First, it was a spare duffel bag sitting by my bedroom door.
Then, he started bringing an extra change of clothes to keep in my closet.
The real turning point came the afternoon I walked into my kitchen, pulled open a cabinet to grab a mug, and froze.
One entire shelf had been completely taken over by a meticulous grid of high-protein bars and neon-colored electrolyte packets.
He had claimed the space without either of us ever speaking a single word about it.
I pretended to be deeply annoyed the first time I confronted him about it, crossing my arms as he walked into the kitchen.
He just leaned his massive frame against the counter, completely unbothered, and claimed he was simply “optimizing the space for maximum efficiency.”
I told him he was absolutely impossible.
He just laughed, the low rumble vibrating against my chest as he pulled me into his side.
On the nights I had to work remotely, our dining table transformed into a shared office.
He would sit directly across from me, his tablet propped open on the wood while he studied game film, his brow furrowed in intense concentration.
Every so often, I would look up from my laptop and catch him rubbing the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply after watching the exact same defensive play three or four times in a row.
Without saying a word, I’d slide a fresh, steaming cup of black coffee across the table toward him.
He would look up, the tension instantly draining from his face, and give me a soft smile and a quiet thank you before diving right back into the film.
The second I finally closed my laptop and let out a sigh of relief, his tablet would snap shut almost instantly, as though he had been waiting for me to finish all along.
“What do you want to eat?” had quickly become our favorite, most debated question.
Some nights we attempted to cook together, although calling it cooking was incredibly generous.
I usually handled the actual knife work and stove coordination, while Jalen insisted on being my designated sous-chef despite being remarkably, intentionally unhelpful.
He spent far more time leaning over my shoulder stealing diced peppers or seasoned chicken off the cutting board than he did doing anything useful.
Other nights, we completely surrendered to our cravings, ordering enough Thai or Mexican takeout to feed an entire family, confidently convincing ourselves that we would save the leftovers for lunch tomorrow.
We almost never did.
The biggest surprise of the month, however, had absolutely nothing to do with food or schedules.
It turned out that one of the toughest, most stoic quarterbacks in the NFL possessed incredibly strong, unyielding opinions about trash reality television.
He claimed with a straight face that he didn't care about the shows, but somehow, he always managed to memorize every single contestant's name by the second episode.
He would sit on the couch, pretending to be completely detached while scrolling through his phone, but the exact second two people started arguing on screen, his head would snap up.
He'd look at the television like he had been following the subtext of the conversation from the very beginning.
“I told you he wasn't there for the right reasons,” he would say, pointing a finger at the screen with absolute authority.
I would laugh until my stomach ached because he had spent the previous twenty minutes insisting the show was rotting our brains.
“You absolutely love this show.”
“I absolutely do not.”
“Jalen, you know everybody’s name and their hometown.”
“I have a photographic memory for scouting,” he’d argue smoothly, completely deadpan.
“It’s a professional habit.”
“No,” I said, throwing a throw pillow at him.
“You like this show more than I do.”
He would shake his head, a bright grin breaking through his fake protests, before reaching over and pulling me back against his chest, grabbing another handful of popcorn.
Somewhere between those shared dinners, the lazy evenings tangled up on the couch, the early morning coffee runs where he’d shield me from the Houston humidity, and the nights that ended with us falling asleep halfway through whatever movie we had promised we were going to finish, I realized something that caught me completely off guard.
Being with Jalen had never once felt like work.
In my world, relationships had always required careful navigation, strict boundaries, and a constant fear of collateral damage.
But this?
It never felt forced.
It simply felt like home.
He had quietly become more than just a man I was dating or a strategy partner I was managing a PR crisis with.
He was becoming my friend.
And somehow, my absolute favorite person to be around.
Friday came faster than I expected.
After weeks of being cooped up or hiding out in private VIP booths, I had decided to host a small, low-key karaoke night at my high-rise.
Nothing loud or dramatic.
Just Cal, Nia, and Jalen.
The bass from the speaker drifted warmly through the apartment while I set out the food spread across the marble kitchen island, crisp wings, a towering mountain of sliders, chips, and a ridiculous, unnecessary amount of snacks.
Jalen leaned comfortably against the counter right beside me, his shoulder lightly brushing mine as I worked.
Every few seconds, his large hand would casually reach over and steal another fry before I even had a chance to arrange them onto the serving platters.
I laughed, nudging him away with a sharp bump of my hip.
“Would you please stop eating everything before our actual guests get here?”
“I'm the host,” he reasoned, chewing casually.
“I have to make sure the food isn't poisoned.
It's a safety protocol.”
I rolled my eyes, mapping the layout of the plates.
“I'm pretty sure Chick-fil-A doesn't need your personal quality control, Mr. Carter.”
He grinned, his eyes dancing with pure mischief as his fingers slid toward the pile for another one.
I was faster this time.
I reached out and caught his wrist cleanly, cutting off the play.
He froze, his head tilting down as he looked at my hand wrapped around his pulse point, before slowly lifting his gaze back up to mine.
He wore that familiar, heavy smile, the one that still managed to make my heart do a violent, unstable skip against my ribs no matter how normal this had all become.
He let out a low laugh and finally surrendered, raising both of his hands in complete defeat.
The doorbell rang before he had the chance to argue his case any further.
"I'll get it," I saidI walked to the front door and pulled it open to find Cal standing on the welcome mat with his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his dark jeans.
“There he is,” I said, stepping aside to give him room.
“Hey, Sis.”
He pulled me into a quick, familiar hug that smelled faintly of the crisp evening air before walking inside.
The moment Jalen saw him step past the entryway, he crossed the living room with an easy, welcoming smile.
“What's up, man?”
The two of them clasped hands seamlessly before pulling each other into a quick, solid one-armed hug.
“You ready for tomorrow?” Cal asked, the immediate shift into his teammate cadence completely natural.
“Always.”
Within mere seconds, the two of them had launched headfirst into a dense conversation about upcoming game plans, defensive matchups, and whether one of the rookie receivers had finally shown enough consistency in practice to earn a bigger role on Saturday.
I smiled to myself as I turned and walked back toward the kitchen island to finish setting out the napkins.
It still amused me, and thoroughly warmed me, how naturally the two of them had fallen into a genuine, effortless friendship.
Only a few weeks earlier, they had barely known each other outside of stiff post-game interviews and mandatory football charity events.
Now, they stood in my living room talking with the seamless rhythm of brothers who had grown up in the exact same backyard.
The doorbell rang again just a few minutes later, its sharp chime cutting through the low hum of their sports banter.
“I'll get it,” I called out over my shoulder.
When I swung the front door open for the second time, Nia stood on the porch holding a chilled bottle of white wine, an oversized, knowing smile already spreading across her face.
“Hey, sexy lady,” I said as she stepped inside the warmth of the foyer.
“There she is.”
She enveloped me in a warm, fragrant hug before pulling back just enough to press a quick kiss to my cheek.
The exact second she pulled completely away, her eyes narrowed with sharp precision.
She scanned me deliberately from head to toe, her mischievous smile widening by the millimeter as her gaze locked back onto my face.
“Well...” she purred, drawing out the syllable.
I narrowed my eyes back, my defense mechanisms automatically tracking her expression.
“What?”