Page 173 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
“Item two: You make me go to bed at a reasonable hour before games, but I’m allowed to grope you once while brushing my teeth.”
“Generous.”
“Item three: We take Sarah to the beach every summer, even if she hates the wind and you complain about the sand in your bra.”
“Okay, now you’re just reading from my memoir.”
“Item four,” he says, slowing down. “I help you run the clinic—maybe not as a vet because I fainted watching you lance a cyst that one time, but I’ll do the books during my off days. I’ll fix the pipes—okay, I’ll call Mike. If I'm available, I’ll be the guy whobrings you tacos on hard days. If not, I’ll have someone drop them.”
I blink fast.
“Item five,” he says, eyes on mine now. “I love you. And if you let me, I’ll keep loving you. On Tuesdays. On all the messy, boring days that don’t look like a movie. On the days we argue about Sarah’s bedtime, who finished the cereal or how I keep leaving my socks on the stairs. I’ll still pick you.”
Silence.
Warm.
Unbearable.
Beautiful.
“I’m probably screwing this up,” he adds. “But I wanted to say it out loud, even if it terrifies you. Especially because it terrifies you.”
I reach for his hand, lacing our fingers together.
“I love you,” I say. “I love you so much that I will . . . I will spend all that time with you. I might even consider the proposal and everything that comes after that.”
It all spills out before I can stop it before I can build a wall, throw a joke at it, or pretend it’s not true.
His eyes widen. “Yeah?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
He exhales. Like he’s been holding his breath since before we met.
“Okay,” he says, voice rough now. “Cool. Casual. Just confirming. Should we celebrate with a spontaneous make-out session or a joint bank account?”
I laugh through the tears threatening to spill. “Let’s start with tacos.”
He kisses my knuckles. “Tacos now. Love always.”
And just like that, it’s real.
It’s ours.
No contract. No plan B.
Just this moment.
The start of everything.
Epilogue
Lucian
I’ve been body-checked by two-hundred-pound linebackers, thrown into Gatorade coolers, and tackled on national television with a mic still clipped to my jersey.
But nothing—and I mean nothing—compares to the sheer, uncontrollable madness that is Olivia wearing a headband withtiny syringes bobbing from springs and declaring, “We need more glitter glue.”
