Page 32 of Praised By the Cornerback

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.