Page 31 of Praised By the Cornerback

“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.