Adrian
Connor’s been chopping vegetables for the past ten minutes with the kind of focus usually reserved for film study.
I watch him from where I’m standing at the stove, stirring the sauce that’s supposed to be simmering but keeps threatening to boil over because I can’t stop glancing at him.
His shoulders are tight, his movements precise, and he’s murdered that bell pepper into pieces so small they’re basically confetti.
I’ve seen him calmer lined up across from me on third down.
“You’re going to dice your fingers if you keep that up,” I say.
He glances at the cutting board, seems to notice the carnage for the first time, and sets down the knife. “Right. Yeah. This is probably enough.”
I turn off the burner and cross to him, taking the knife from his hand and setting it in the sink. Then I turn him to face me, my hands settling on his hips. “He’s going to be fine with it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you. And I know the person you’ve chosen to tell first wouldn’t be your person if they were the type to make this difficult.”
Connor exhales, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. He leans in and kisses me, quick and sweet, then pulls back with a small smile. “How are you so calm right now?”
“One of us should be.”
He laughs, and the sound of it loosens the knot under my ribs.
We’ve been doing this for weeks now. Direct flights between Miami and New York every weekend we can manage, stealing time between practices and meetings and the endless grind of the season ahead.
His apartment has started feeling strangely familiar, down to which cabinet holds the coffee mugs, which drawer sticks, how the shower takes thirty seconds longer than mine to get warm.
I know the way he looks in the morning with his hair sticking up and sleep still heavy in his eyes.
I know the sound he makes when I kiss the spot just below his ear.
I know him. And the knowing doesn’t scare me the way I thought it would.
The doorbell rings.
Connor’s entire body goes rigid. I squeeze his hip once, then step back to give him space. He takes a breath, squares his shoulders like he’s about to take the field, and heads for the door.
I stay in the kitchen, listening. The door opens.
“Harlow.” Connor’s voice carries relief. “Thanks for coming.”
“Of course. You said it was important.”
“Yeah, it is. Come in, I’ll—”
“Hey, Knox!” A different voice, bright and energetic. “What’s for dinner? Smells amazing.”
There’s a pause, then, “Dalton?” Connor’s tone shifts to bewilderment. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I was with Harlow when he said he was heading over.” Dalton sounds completely unbothered. “So I invited myself. You know how I am.”
Another beat, longer this time. Then Connor’s voice again, strained. “Barrett? What are you doing here?”
“He’s my boyfriend, duh,” Dalton chirps. “Somebody’s got to keep me out of trouble.”
The silence that follows takes up space.
I set down the spoon I’ve been holding and move to the edge of the kitchen, where I can see the entryway.
Connor’s standing in the doorway with three of his teammates crowded in the hall.
Harlow’s expression is neutral but watchful, Dalton’s grinning, and Barrett’s just…
there, solid and steady, one hand resting on Dalton’s lower back.
Then Harlow’s gaze shifts past Connor and lands on me.
The apartment goes completely silent.
Dalton notices next, his grin faltering. Barrett’s eyes narrow, his posture going protective. All three of them are staring at me now, the easy energy from the hallway gone. I’m the enemy here, and they’re wondering what I’m doing in their teammate’s living room.
“Guys,” Connor says quickly. “Just… relax, okay?”
None of them relax. If anything, the tension ratchets higher.
Connor glances back at me, then at his teammates. I watch him calculate, see the moment he realizes what they’re thinking. He steps half a pace to the side, angling himself in front of me. The movement is subtle but unmistakable.
My chest goes warm.
“I’m going to explain everything,” Connor continues. “But first, can everyone just sit down? Have a drink? Hear me out?” He gestures toward the living room. “Dinner’s almost ready. Wasn’t expecting a full house, but there’s plenty.”
The silence stretches. Harlow’s the first to move, nodding once. The tension doesn’t disappear, but it eases enough for everyone to shift into motion. Dalton and Barrett exchange a look before following Harlow inside.
Connor closes the door and turns to me. His face is pale, his jaw tight. I want to pull him close, tell him it’s going to be fine, but his teammates are watching. So I just hold his gaze for a moment, trying to communicate everything I can’t say out loud.
He nods, the movement barely perceptible, and heads toward the kitchen. I follow.
“Who wants a beer?” Connor calls out, his voice artificially bright.
I open the fridge and start pulling out bottles while Connor grabs an opener from the drawer. His hands are shaking slightly. I want to take over, handle this for him, but this is his team. His people. He needs to do this himself.
We carry the beers into the living room. Harlow’s taken the armchair, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. Barrett and Dalton are on the couch, Barrett’s arm stretched along the back behind Dalton. They’ve claimed their territory, formed their unit. I’m the outsider here.
Connor hands out the beers, and I take my place standing near the window. Not quite part of the group but not separate either. Somewhere in between, watching.
Connor sits on the arm of the couch, his beer dangling from his fingers. He’s quiet for a long moment, staring at the bottle like it might have answers.
“So,” he finally says. “I asked you all here because there’s something I need to tell you. Something important.” He glances at me, then back at his teammates. “Adrian and I… we’ve been together. Since training camp.”
The words land in the room like stones in still water.
Dalton’s the first to react. He sits forward, his expression shifting from surprised to concerned. “Wait. You’re dating him?” He points at me. “A Vipers’ cornerback?”
“Yes,” Connor says.
“Knox,” Dalton’s voice rises. “Do you understand what a terrible strategic development this is? Half my touchdowns happen because you’re out there doing the dirty work nobody notices.
You’re blocking safeties, drawing defenders off me, running decoy routes.
If you start leaking our playbook to Miami, I’m screwed. ”
“Kane,” Barrett’s voice is quiet but firm.
Dalton ignores him, still focused on Connor. “I’m serious. How do we know he’s not using you to get intel on our offense?”
Connor’s face goes blank. He’s pulled back behind a wall.
Heat flares up the back of my neck. I’m about to step forward, about to tell Dalton exactly where he can shove his concerns, when Harlow speaks.
“That’s enough.” His voice cuts through the room. “Connor won’t do that.”
Dalton turns to him. “How can you be sure?”
“Because I know him.” Harlow’s gaze shifts to Connor. “He’s one of the most selfless players I’ve ever worked with. He puts the team ahead of himself every single time.” He pauses. “If there’s one player on this team I trust to separate football from his personal life, it’s him.”
Connor goes very still. He’s staring at Harlow like he’s never heard these words before. Like maybe he’s never let himself believe them.
Barrett nods. “Harlow’s right. I’ve never questioned Knox’s commitment to this team. Not for a second.”
Dalton slowly exhales. He runs a hand through his hair, the fight going out of him, replaced by chagrin.
“You’re right.” He looks at Connor. “I’m sorry, man.
My brain went straight to football. I skipped right over the fact that you just told us something personal.
Something that probably wasn’t easy to say. ”
Connor’s throat works. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.” Dalton shakes his head. “You trusted us enough to tell us, and I made it about strategy. That was shitty of me.”
The tension in Connor’s shoulders eases. “Thanks.”
Harlow’s attention shifts to me. He looks at me, assessing. “Connor means a great deal to everyone in this room.”
I meet his eyes. “I know.”
“He runs every thankless route out there and never once asks for credit. Total golden retriever energy,” Dalton adds. His tone has gone serious. “And if you hurt him, I’ll come to Miami and kick your ass. I don’t care if it violates my contract.”
Barrett makes a sound of agreement.
I could bristle at the threat, point out that they barely know me, that they have no idea what Connor and I have built over the past few weeks. But I don’t, because they’re doing exactly what they should be: protecting someone they care about.
“You don’t have to worry,” I say, and I make myself hold Dalton’s stare.
“I’m serious about Connor. I have no intention of hurting him or making him feel less than he is.
” I glance at Connor, who’s still perched on the arm of the couch, watching me, his face giving nothing away.
“I know exactly who he is. And I know how lucky I am that he chose me.”
When I look back at Connor, he’s staring at the floor. Blinking a little too often.
I can’t help myself. I cross the room, take his hand, and pull it to my lips. Kiss his knuckles right there in front of his teammates. Let them see exactly how I feel about him.
“Aww,” Dalton’s voice has gone soft. “You’re actually kind of cute together. I can’t believe I haven’t seen it before.”
Connor lets out a surprised laugh. He squeezes my hand and doesn’t let go.
The conversation shifts. Harlow asks about logistics, about coaches and front offices, and how we’re planning to handle the season.
I explain that we’re meeting with our head coaches next, that we’re not trying to hide but we’re also not making a public announcement.
Harlow nods. He came out the loud way himself, but he doesn’t act like that’s the only way to do it.
Dalton wants to know how training camp worked, how we managed to keep it quiet. Barrett asks practical questions about travel and scheduling. The mood gradually lightens, the wariness giving way to curiosity. They’re still protective, still watching me carefully, but the hostility has faded.
At some point, Connor glances at the kitchen and seems to remember we have food. “Dinner’s getting cold,” he announces, standing. “Let’s eat.”
The response is enthusiastic. Dalton’s up first, heading toward the dining area with Barrett following. Harlow moves more slowly but with purpose. They’re football players. Food is always a priority.
We settle around Connor’s small dining table, and I help him bring out the dishes.
Pasta with the sauce I was stirring earlier, salad with the mutilated bell peppers, bread that Connor picked up from the bakery down the street.
It’s simple food, nothing fancy, but it smells good and the table feels full, and not because of the food.
Dalton immediately starts loading his plate. “This looks amazing. Knox, I didn’t know you could cook.”
“I can’t really,” Connor admits. “Adrian did most of it.”
Barrett raises an eyebrow at me. “You cook?”
“Sometimes.” I pass him the salad bowl. “My mom insisted I learn before I moved out. Said she wasn’t raising a son who’d live on takeout.”
“Remind me to thank her,” Dalton says.
The conversation loosens. The Knights pepper me with questions about Miami’s camp, half of them fishing for intel they’re pretending not to fish for. I give them what I can without handing over a scouting report.
Connor’s quiet for most of it, but not in a bad way. He’s just listening, his expression relaxed, occasionally catching my eye from across the table.
This is what I didn’t know I wanted. This easy domesticity, this sense of belonging. Not just with Connor, but with the people who matter to him. Being welcomed into his space, his life, his inner circle.
I watch him, and I can’t remember the last time I felt this content.
Dalton notices. “You’re staring at him like he hung the moon.”
“Baby,” Barrett says mildly.
“What? I’m just pointing it out.”
Connor looks at me, his cheeks flushed. “He’s always staring. It’s kind of his thing.”
“I like looking at you,” I say. “Sue me.”
Dalton grins. “Okay, you’re definitely cute together.”
The meal continues. More stories, more laughter, the conversation flowing in the easy way it does when people are comfortable with each other. By the time we’re clearing plates, the awkwardness from earlier feels like it happened days ago instead of hours.
Harlow’s the first to leave. He shakes Connor’s hand, then mine, and thanks us for dinner. His expression is warmer now, some of the sharp assessment gone. “Take care of each other,” he says simply.
“We will,” Connor promises.
Dalton and Barrett linger longer. Dalton pulls Connor into a hug that looks like it might crack ribs, then turns to me with a pointed look. “I meant what I said earlier. You hurt him, I hurt you.”
“Noted.”
“Good.” He grins suddenly. “Welcome to the disaster that is Knox’s social circle. Hope you’re ready for team events.”
Barrett shakes my hand, his grip firm. “He’s good for you,” he tells Connor quietly. “I can see it.”
Connor’s smile is genuine. “Thanks, Barrett.”
They leave together, Dalton still talking as they head toward the elevator. Then the door clicks shut and it’s just us.
Connor locks the door and leans back against it with a long breath. The tension drains from his frame, his shoulders dropping, his head tilting back against the wood. He looks lighter than he has all evening.
I walk over and take his hand, pulling him toward me. He comes easily, letting himself lean into my chest for a moment before looking up at me with the smallest smile.
“That was terrifying,” he admits.
“You did great.”
“They were ready to murder you for like ten minutes.”
“Only ten?” I brush his hair off his forehead. “I was expecting at least fifteen.”
He laughs, the sound soft and relieved. “Telling them was scarier than lining up against you.”
“You’ll still have to earn every catch this season,” I say. “I’m not going easy on you just because we’re dating.”
Connor’s smile widens. He squeezes my hand and says, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
I kiss him then, slow and thorough. When we break apart, he stays close, his forehead resting against mine.
“I love you,” he says quietly.
The words knock the breath out of me. We haven’t said them before. Haven’t put that label on what we are. But hearing them now, in his apartment with the taste of him still on my lips and the knowledge that he just came out to his closest friends because he wants me in his life, they feel right.
“I love you too,” I tell him.
He kisses me again, and I know there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.