Page 103 of Chasing The Goal
“You’re not telling her?” Darren asked, raising an eyebrow.
I shook my head. “Not yet.”
“Keeping secrets already, Prescott?”
I leaned back, sunglasses on, Mallory’s name still burning just under the fabric of my pants. “Not a secret. Just a surprise.”
Jaymie
The world has gonestill in a way that feels sacred. The fanfair of the cup is gone and all thats left is the joy it brought and the drive to play another day. The apartment was not just quiet—but hushed, like the air itself is holding its breath. The kind of stillness that happens after something seismic, when adrenaline drains from your body and is replaced by something steadier. Heavier. Fuller.
Morning light pushes gently through the slats of the blinds, streaking the bed in gold. It paints the room in soft brushstrokes—sheets rumpled, shadows long, the glow catching on the glass of a half-empty water bottle on the nightstand. A sweater draped over the back of the chair. Her hair tangled across the pillow.
Mallory.
She’s curled on her side, lips parted, one hand resting just above the curve of Lola’s head. There’s a smudge of sleep beneath her eye, the faint pink of a crease on her cheek where the pillowcase left its mark. She looks so peaceful it hurts. And between us—our daughter. Lola breathes in slow, even puffs, her tiny mouth open just enough to show her tongue, her little nose twitching every so often like she’s dreaming about milk or movement or nothing at all. Her hands are balled into fists near her cheeks, soft cotton sleeves wrinkled from sleep. Her lashes are impossibly long.
She’s so small. So still.
And she takes up the whole damn room.
Everything else—the Cup, the fans, the roaring win and the champagne and the flashbulbs—is somewhere else. Fuzzy at the edges. Unreal.
This right here? This is real.
My chest tightens in a way that’s not painful but sharp. Like being cracked open.
Mallory stirs slightly, lashes fluttering before her eyes open, still hazy with sleep. She shifts onto her back and looks at me, a soft smile spreading across her face before she even speaks.
“You’re staring.”
“Always.”
Her smile deepens. “Creep.”
“Obsessed,” I counter.
She laughs quietly, a breathy, sleepy sound that tugs something loose in my chest. Her fingers find Lola’s cheek and gently trace it, featherlight.
“She’s completely out,” Mallory whispers.
“I think she drooled on me somewhere around four a.m.”
“She likes you better,” she says, teasing, her fingers still moving. “You smell like sweat and victory.”
“I smell like socks and stale Gatorade.”
“Tomato, to-mah-to.”
We fall into silence, the kind that only feels intimate with the right person. The kind that means everything is understood without being spoken.
I reach over her, careful not to jostle Lola, and open the drawer of the nightstand. My fingers find the small velvet box I tucked away weeks ago—back when everything still felt like maybe. Back when I didn’t know if this kind of morning would ever really be mine.
Mallory watches me, eyes narrowing, curiosity blooming in the crease between her brows. Her lips part, but she doesn’t speak right away. Just watches.
I sit up slowly, cradling the box in my palm.
“Jaymie?” she asks softly.
