Page 30 of Praised By the Cornerback

Adrian huffs a laugh. “Jury’s out.”

I press a kiss to his shoulder. “Thank you.”

He turns in my arms so we’re face to face. “For what?”

“For this. For being patient with me. For making it good.”

Something soft crosses his expression. He reaches up and brushes my hair off my forehead. “Connor. It was good because it was you.”

The words land warm in me. I kiss him, taking my time. When we break apart, we start talking. About nothing and everything. Football and training camp and what we’re going to do tomorrow at practice. Whether Brooks and McKenna are going to clock that we hooked up. If this changes anything between us.

I don’t know the answers to most of those questions. But lying here with Adrian, I’m in no rush to find them.

My eyes are getting heavy. The exhaustion from practice and the emotional whiplash of the evening are catching up to me. I should probably go back to my room and give Adrian space. But the thought of leaving makes my chest tight.

“Can I stay?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

Adrian pulls back to look at me. “Why are you asking? Of course you can stay.” He looks almost offended.

Relief washes over me. I settle back against him, my head on his chest, his arms wrapped around me. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back, and I feel myself drifting.

For the first time in years, I don’t feel lonely. I feel seen and wanted and safe.

10

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—”