Grant Whitaker | Flew To Paris For Your NFL Player Boyfriend

The thing about being in a relationship with an NFL quarterback was that, occasionally, you had to remind yourself that the six-foot-four man on your television screen, standing in front of thousands of screaming fans with a football tucked beneath his arm, was the same man who stole the blankets in his sleep and complained when you got out of bed before him. Grant Whitaker was, by all accounts, a pretty damn big deal.

At twenty-seven, he was the starting quarterback for the Jackson Reapers, the face of a franchise that had spent years building its reputation into something that made opposing teams nervous and sports commentators insufferable. His face appeared on billboards, magazine covers, promotional campaigns, and the occasional commercial that you were reasonably certain he only agreed to because somebody from the organization had begged him to. He had a carefully cultivated reputation for being composed under pressure, ruthlessly competitive, and almost annoyingly good at his job.

He was also your boyfriend.

Your long-term boyfriend, at that. Long enough that you knew the difference between his real smile and the polite one he gave reporters. Long enough that you could recognize when he was stressed by the way he rubbed the back of his neck, or when he was trying not to laugh by the way his mouth twitched at the corners. Long enough that you had witnessed the man who could stare down a defensive line without blinking turn into a complete fucking idiot over something as simple as you stealing a bite of his food. Fame hadn’t changed that part of him. Neither had the money, the attention, or the increasingly ridiculous demands of his career.

If anything, football had only made him more appreciative of the ordinary little things. Quiet mornings. Familiar hands. The comfort of coming home to someone who knew him as Grant, rather than Grant Whitaker, starting quarterback of the Jackson Reapers. Unfortunately, his career had a habit of making those ordinary little things difficult to come by.

The NFL’s international schedule had brought the Reapers across the Atlantic to Paris, France, for a highly anticipated matchup against the New Orleans Saints. In this universe, the league had handed Jackson the spot originally intended for Pittsburgh, setting up an international showdown between two Southern franchises that had spent years developing a particularly nasty rivalry. The Saints had their gold and black. The Reapers had their black, silver, and crimson. Both fanbases were loud, stubborn, and entirely too convinced that their team was the greatest thing ever to happen to professional football.

And Grant, being Grant, had every intention of making sure the French crowd went home remembering the Reapers.

The week leading up to the game had been a blur of flights, hotel rooms, team meetings, press conferences, practice sessions, and obligations that seemed to multiply every time he checked his schedule. He’d been busy enough that your conversations had occasionally consisted of him calling you from the back of a team vehicle, his hair still damp from a shower, while somebody in the background yelled about a meeting he was already late for.

He hated being away from you.

He wouldn’t necessarily admit that to the reporters asking him about his mental preparation, of course. Grant had a reputation to maintain, and ‘I’m counting down the minutes until I can see my partner again’ wasn’t exactly the sort of answer his coaches wanted to hear during a press conference. But he missed you. God, did he miss you.

Paris was beautiful, the stadium was enormous, and the opportunity to play in an international game was something he’d dreamed about since he was a kid. He was grateful to be there. Excited, even. Still, every time something particularly incredible happened, he found himself thinking about how much he wanted to share it with you. He’d wanted you there. He simply hadn’t expected you to be. Between the travel arrangements, the expense, and the sheer chaos of an NFL game week, Grant had assumed that you would be watching from home. He hadn’t made a fuss about it. He understood the logistics, understood that the world didn’t stop turning just because he had a football game in another country, and had told you as much when the subject came up.

Besides, he had a game to win.

And if he happened to check his phone a little more often than usual, or linger over your messages for a few seconds longer than necessary, that was nobody else’s business.

By Sunday afternoon, the atmosphere around Stade de France was electric. The stadium had filled with a sea of black, silver, crimson, and Saints gold, the noise of thousands of fans rolling through the corridors and echoing against the concrete walls. Security personnel moved through the restricted areas, team staff hurried from one obligation to the next, and cameras seemed to materialize every time Grant turned his head. He was dressed in his Reapers uniform, the number 12 prominent against the black fabric, silver accents catching the stadium lights. His blonde hair had been swept back out of his face, although several stubborn strands had already escaped the effort. His helmet rested nearby while he listened to a final briefing from one of the coaches, blue eyes fixed on the man speaking as he nodded along. Focused. Serious. Professional. The very picture of a quarterback preparing for a game that mattered. Right up until a member of the team’s staff approached him and mentioned that someone had arrived asking for him.

Grant barely looked up at first. “Who is it?”

The staff member gave him a knowing little smile. “Think you might want to see for yourself.”

Grant frowned. He had precisely thirty-seven things to do before kickoff, several of which involved his offensive coordinator reminding him not to take unnecessary risks against a Saints defense that had made a career out of punishing overconfident quarterbacks. He did not have time for mystery visitors, and he certainly didn’t have time for one of his teammates pulling another stupid prank. Still, something about the staff member’s expression made him pause. “Is this some kind of bullshit?”

“Nope.”

Grant narrowed his eyes. Then he followed. He expected a coach. Maybe an executive. Possibly somebody from the league who wanted another photograph for the international broadcast. He was already mentally preparing the appropriate polite smile when he rounded the corner and caught sight of you. For one glorious, utterly ridiculous second, Grant Whitaker forgot every single thing he had been thinking about. The game. The coaches. The cameras. The stadium packed with fans. The fact that he was standing in Paris, about to play professional football on an international stage. All of it disappeared. Because there you were.

His expression changed so quickly it would have been embarrassing if anybody had been filming him. The practiced composure fell away, his blue eyes widened, and his lips parted in unmistakable disbelief. “No fucking way.”

He stopped dead in his tracks. He stared at you as if his brain were struggling to reconcile the sight in front of him with the fact that he’d spent the better part of the week assuming he wouldn’t see you until he returned home. Then his face broke into the biggest, most unguarded smile imaginable. “Oh, my God.”

The words came out as a breathless laugh. He shook his head once, as though that might somehow make the situation make sense, before immediately abandoning whatever dignity he’d managed to preserve throughout the week. “Baby!”

Grant crossed the distance between you in a few long strides, barely remembering to be mindful of the staff members moving around him. The moment he reached you, his arms opened wide, and he pulled you into an embrace that had absolutely no business being as enthusiastic as it was for a man who had been trying to convince everyone around him that he was a serious professional athlete. He held you close. Really close. One arm wrapped securely around you while his other hand settled against the back of your head, his face dipping toward yours. He let out a soft, disbelieving laugh against you, the sound full of relief and affection, and squeezed you again as if he needed the extra second to convince himself that you were actually there.

“You came all the way to Paris?” He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands settling at your waist. His smile was still enormous. His cheeks had lifted, his eyes were bright, and there was absolutely no trace of the cool, collected quarterback who had been discussing defensive formations five minutes earlier.

“You sneaky little-” He broke into another laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, you’re so fucking lucky I love you.”

There was no actual threat in it. Not even a little. He looked like he was about two seconds away from picking you up and carrying you around the stadium just to make sure everybody understood that his favorite person had arrived. Grant leaned down to press a lingering kiss to your forehead, then another to your cheek, entirely unconcerned with the amused looks he was getting from the people nearby.

“I thought you were going to be home,” he admitted, his voice softening. “I thought I had to get through this whole damn week without seeing you.” His thumb brushed gently along your cheek. “And now you’re here.”

He sounded almost awestruck by the fact. For a moment, he simply looked at you, taking in the familiar face he’d been missing for days. The stadium continued to roar around you. Somewhere down the corridor, somebody called for a player to report to the field. His coaches were undoubtedly looking for him, and the Saints were probably busy preparing to make his afternoon as miserable as possible. Grant couldn’t have cared less. He rested his forehead against yours, smiling so warmly that it seemed impossible that the same man would soon walk onto a football field and attempt to throw a leather ball through a small opening guarded by several enormous men who wanted to tackle him into the ground.

“Okay,” he murmured, letting out a happy little sigh. “Okay, I have, like, a million questions. How did you get here? When did you get here? How long have you been keeping this from me?” He paused, his eyes narrowing playfully. “Actually, no. Don’t answer that yet. I have a better question.” His arms tightened around you once more, and he pressed a kiss to your temple. “Can I keep you for the rest of the day? Because I’m pretty sure the NFL can survive without me for, like, ten minutes.” Then Grant grinned. That wide, beautiful grin you loved so much. “Maybe fifteen. I’m feeling generous.”

He was supposed to be preparing for one of the biggest games of his career. Instead, the starting quarterback of the Jackson Reapers stood in the middle of a crowded stadium in Paris, holding his partner as though the entire trip had been worth it for this one moment alone. And, honestly? He wasn’t sure he’d ever been happier to see you.

There were a few things Grant Whitaker had learned over the course of his professional football career. First, never trust a defensive coordinator who smiled too much. Second, never tell a reporter anything remotely interesting unless you wanted to hear your own words repeated out of context for the next three weeks. And third, if the New Orleans Saints had an opportunity to make his life difficult, they would take it with the enthusiasm of a pack of fucking hyenas. The last lesson was particularly relevant this week.

The Jackson Reapers had traveled to Paris, France, for an international matchup against their Southern rivals, the New Orleans Saints. In this universe, the NFL had given Jackson the spot originally intended for Pittsburgh, turning what should have been a routine international fixture into a game that both fanbases had decided was a matter of personal honor. The Saints had their gold and black. The Reapers had their black, silver, and crimson. Neither side had any intention of making the other feel welcome. And Grant, as the Reapers’ starting quarterback, was expected to lead his team to victory.

At twenty-seven, he was no stranger to pressure. Six-foot-four, broad-shouldered, and annoyingly photogenic, he had become one of the franchise’s most recognizable faces. His blonde hair and blue eyes had earned him plenty of attention long before he’d started appearing in national advertisements, and the attention had only multiplied once he began putting up the sort of numbers that made sports analysts lose their damn minds. He’d learned how to handle it. The cameras, the interviews, the fans who acted as if knowing his jersey number meant they knew him personally. The strangers who flirted with him in restaurants, the women who found excuses to touch his arm, the occasional person who seemed to think a professional athlete’s relationship status was merely a suggestion. Grant had dealt with all of it. And he had a long-term partner waiting for him back home. You were the one person in his life who didn’t care about his passing statistics, his sponsorships, or how many people screamed his name when he stepped onto a football field. You knew him as the man who forgot where he’d put his phone while it was sitting in his hand. The man who stole food from your plate and then had the audacity to look offended when you stole some back. The man who could spend an entire afternoon being stubborn about the most inconsequential thing imaginable, only to crawl into bed beside you that night and pull you against his chest like he’d been waiting all day to do it. You were home to him. Which was precisely why being separated by an entire ocean had been such a pain in his ass.

The international schedule had been relentless. Flights, team meetings, practices, interviews, promotional appearances, and enough security arrangements to make a simple walk down the hotel corridor feel like a government operation. Grant had barely had time to call you some nights, and whenever he did, he inevitably ended up complaining about how much he missed you before insisting that he was perfectly capable of surviving another few days.

He was a liar. A very handsome liar, but a liar nonetheless.

He’d wanted you in Paris. Of course he had. He’d imagined showing you the city, finding some little restaurant away from the crowds, taking you out after the game, and spending at least one evening somewhere that didn’t smell like athletic tape and expensive hotel soap. But the logistics had been complicated, and he hadn’t expected you to make the trip. So when the Reapers’ staff arranged an evening out for a few players before the game, Grant had agreed to go. It wasn’t anything particularly wild. Just a bar with good drinks, music, and enough privacy that the players could unwind without every conversation becoming tomorrow morning’s headline. A handful of teammates had come along, some staff members had joined them, and the evening had settled into the familiar rhythm of professional athletes attempting to pretend they were ordinary men on a night out.

Grant was sitting near the end of the bar when the first woman approached him. She was pretty. He wasn’t blind. She had a lovely smile, a fitted black dress, and a confidence that suggested she was accustomed to getting what she wanted. Unfortunately for her, what she wanted appeared to be his attention..

“So, you’re the quarterback?”, she asked, leaning against the bar beside him.

Grant glanced over with a polite smile. “That’s what they tell me.”

She laughed, apparently delighted by the answer. “Oh, you’re funny, too.”

’Fantastic’, he thought.

He was halfway through a drink and listening to one of his teammates tell a story about a disastrous first date when the woman began asking him questions about football. Grant answered them courteously enough. He’d never been particularly rude to people who approached him in public unless they gave him a reason to be, and he understood that the attention came with the job. Then she began asking whether he was in Paris alone. Grant’s expression barely changed. “No. I’m here with the team.”

“I meant, are you seeing anyone?”

Ah, so that was it.

He turned his head fully toward her, his blue eyes settling on her face. “Yeah,” *he answered simply.+ “I’m in a relationship.” He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t stumble over the words or attempt to make the answer sound less serious than it was. He said it with the same matter-of-fact certainty with which he might have announced that the Reapers were playing on Sunday.

The woman blinked, then recovered with a laugh. “Oh, she’s very lucky. Or he. Or they. Whatever you’re into. They’re lucky to have you.”

Well, that was a terrible fishing attempt. Grant smiled faintly. “I’m the lucky one.”

It was an automatic answer. An honest one, too. He’d been with you long enough that he didn’t need to think about how to describe the relationship. You weren’t some secret he kept tucked away because he wanted to maintain his appeal to strangers. You were a fundamental part of his life, and he had never seen the point in pretending otherwise.

Unfortunately, the woman didn’t seem especially interested in taking the hint. “Well, they don’t have to know we’re talking.”

Grant stared at her for a second. Then he laughed. Not because he found the suggestion charming. Not because he was tempted. He laughed because the sheer audacity of the statement was almost impressive. “That’s not really how this works, sweetheart.”

He turned back toward his teammate, making it clear that the conversation was over. For approximately three minutes, peace returned. Then another woman joined them. This one recognized him immediately, which was hardly surprising. His face had appeared on enough international promotional material over the past week that even people who couldn’t name a single Reapers player had probably seen him somewhere. She was more forward than the first, slipping into the empty space beside him and greeting him with an enthusiastic smile. She complimented his appearance, asked about the upcoming game, and eventually found an excuse to touch his forearm while laughing at something he said. Grant moved his arm away under the pretense of reaching for his drink. He wasn’t stupid. He knew what was happening.

He also knew that the situation would become a lot more annoying if he made a scene, so he kept his responses polite and brief. When she asked if he wanted to join her and her friends at another bar after the game, he declined. When she asked whether he was sure, he told her that he already had plans. He did, technically. Those plans involved winning a football game and calling you afterward, preferably while lying in a hotel bed and listening to you talk about anything other than the fact that he’d spent the day being tackled by men the size of refrigerators. His teammate, Marcus, watched the exchange with the sort of expression that suggested he was having the time of his life.

“Man,” Marcus said once the woman had wandered away, “you can’t even get a drink without somebody trying to take you home.”

Grant took a sip of his drink. “Sounds like a personal problem for them.”

Marcus barked out a laugh. “Your partner knows you’re out here looking pretty for the French population? Cause if your partner ever wants to get back at you, I’d be happy to-“

Grant turned to him slowly. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

“Oh, there he is.” Marcus grinned. “There’s the protective boyfriend.”

“I’m not protective.”

“Right.”

“I’m literally sitting here drinking a beer.”

“Sure you are, Romeo.”

Grant flipped him off without looking, and Marcus laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink.

The truth was, Grant didn’t particularly care about the attention. He’d been in the public eye for years, and he’d learned that other people’s interest in him wasn’t something he could control. What he could control was what he did with it. And he wasn’t interested in anyone else. He’d rather be at home with you. He’d rather be walking through Paris with your hand in his, listening to you point out something interesting in a shop window, or sitting across from you at dinner while you stole bites from his plate. He’d rather be doing any of the mundane, ordinary things that became precious when your relationship was measured in flights, game schedules, and the amount of time he could steal between obligations.

But you weren’t here. At least, he thought you weren’t.

The evening continued, the bar growing busier as more patrons filtered inside. Music played over the steady murmur of conversation, glasses clinked against the counter, and the warm lights reflected off the polished surfaces. Grant’s teammates had become increasingly loud, their conversations drifting from football to food to the questionable dating histories of half the roster. Grant had just begun explaining why he refused to let Marcus choose the restaurant for the team the following evening when someone approached from the other side of the group. He didn’t notice immediately. He was laughing at something one of the other players had said, his shoulders relaxed, one hand curled loosely around his glass. A woman had taken the seat beside him while he’d been distracted. Another stood close enough to lean toward him whenever she spoke, her hand resting on the back of his chair.

*To anyone watching from a distance, the scene might have looked familiar: a handsome professional athlete out with his teammates, surrounded by people who wanted a little piece of his attention. But up close, the truth was considerably less scandalous. Grant was talking about football. One woman was doing most of the flirting. The other had been trying to convince him to give her his phone number for the better part of five minutes. And Grant, whose patience was rapidly deteriorating, was attempting to figure out how to politely extricate himself without having to explain for the fifth time that he wasn’t interested.

“Seriously,” he said, offering the woman beside him a strained smile, “I appreciate it, but I’m not giving out my number.”

“Not even to a fan?”

Grant gave her a deadpan look. “Especially not to a fan.”

She laughed as if he were joking and leaned closer. Grant opened his mouth to clarify that he was, in fact, entirely serious. She could fuck right off. Then something in his peripheral vision caught his attention. A familiar silhouette. A face he knew better than his own reflection. For a moment, his brain refused to cooperate. He stopped speaking midsentence, his brows drawing together as he turned toward the entrance. His gaze moved across the room, searching, and then There you were.

Grant went completely still. The woman beside him was still talking. Marcus was still laughing. The music was still playing, and somebody at the other end of the bar had just shouted something about the Saints. None of it registered. Because you were standing there, in Paris, when he’d been convinced you were thousands of miles away. His expression shifted from confusion to astonishment, and then, as his eyes flickered briefly toward the women crowding his space before returning to you, something else crossed his face. Surprise. Guilt, perhaps, despite the fact that he hadn’t actually done anything wrong. And the sudden, overwhelming realization that the person he’d been missing all week was standing in a room where he hadn’t expected to find you.

“Baby?”

Your name followed, softer this time, nearly swallowed by the noise around him. Grant pushed his chair back.

The woman beside him looked startled. “Wait, are you-”

“Excuse me.” He was already standing. His eyes remained fixed on you as he stepped away from the bar, the smile slowly returning to his face, though there was a tentative quality to it now. He looked delighted to see you. He looked like he wanted to cross the entire room in three strides and pull you into his arms. But he also seemed suddenly aware of how the scene might have looked from where you stood. The women. The close proximity. The hands on his chair. The fact that he was in a foreign city, drinking with his teammates, while strangers flirted with him as though he were available.

Grant’s jaw shifted slightly. He glanced back at the women, then toward you again. “Baby, I-“ He stopped himself. For once in his life, Grant Whitaker seemed to have absolutely no idea what to say next. He stood a few feet away from the bar, his blue eyes fixed on yours, the noise of the Parisian nightlife filling the space between you. And for the first time that evening, he wasn’t thinking about football at all.

There was a time when Grant Whitaker believed that if he worked hard enough, he could have everything he wanted. It was an understandable belief for a boy who’d grown up in Jackson, Mississippi, with a football in his hands and a future that seemed to get bigger every time he stepped onto a field. Grant had always been competitive. Even as a kid, he hated losing, hated disappointing people, and hated the feeling that there was something he could have done better if he’d only tried a little harder. By twenty-seven, that determination had made him the starting quarterback of the Jackson Reapers.

He had the height, the arm, the athleticism, and the kind of face that made sports marketing departments weep with gratitude. His blonde hair and blue eyes had become familiar to football fans across the country, and his number twelve jersey had turned into one of the franchise’s most recognizable pieces of merchandise. He was successful, well-paid, and, according to just about every sports commentator who’d ever interviewed him, remarkably composed under pressure. Grant himself would have argued that the commentators were full of shit. He was composed because he’d learned to be. Because a quarterback couldn’t afford to lose his temper every time somebody hit him late or a referee made a questionable call. Because millions of people watched his every move, and the smallest mistake could become a headline before he’d even made it back to the locker room. He’d learned to keep his head down, do his job, and protect the things that mattered to him.

And for years, you had been one of those things.

You weren’t some passing distraction or a convenient relationship he’d picked up once his career started taking off. You were his long-term partner, the person who’d seen him tired, frustrated, sick, and so thoroughly exhausted that he’d fallen asleep halfway through a conversation. You knew the man behind the jersey. The one who could spend an entire afternoon being stubborn about something ridiculous and then turn around and apologize with a sheepish grin and a kiss to your forehead. You knew his habits, his insecurities, his tells. You knew when he was pretending not to be upset and when he needed a little extra reassurance, even if he was too proud to ask for it. And Grant knew you. He knew the little things that made you happy, the things that annoyed you, the way your presence could make a miserable day feel manageable. He’d built a life with you around the demands of professional football, finding time between practices, games, flights, and media appearances to call you, visit you, and remind you that the two of you were still a team even when his career made being together inconvenient. He’d told you he loved you more times than he could count. He’d meant it. At least, he’d always believed he did.

The NFL’s international schedule had brought the Jackson Reapers to Paris, France, for a highly anticipated matchup against the New Orleans Saints. In this universe, Jackson had taken the place originally intended for Pittsburgh, transforming an international game into a Southern rivalry played thousands of miles from home. The Saints and Reapers had never needed much of an excuse to get under each other’s skin. Their fanbases were loud, their players were competitive, and the prospect of one franchise humiliating the other on an international stage had turned the entire week into a circus.

Grant was supposed to be concentrating on football. He had practices to attend, plays to review, interviews to sit through, and a game to prepare for. His coaches expected him to be focused, his teammates expected him to lead, and the organization expected him to represent the Reapers with the same professionalism that had made him one of the faces of the franchise. He’d been doing exactly that. For the first few days, anyway.

The schedule was exhausting, and being away from you was making it worse. His calls home had become little pockets of relief in an otherwise relentless week. He missed your presence, missed the familiarity of having you nearby, missed being able to come back to his hotel room and tell you about his day without worrying about whether somebody was waiting outside to photograph him. He’d wanted you in Paris. He’d imagined the two of you exploring the city, finding a restaurant tucked away on some quiet street, and spending an evening together without a football in sight. He’d thought about taking you somewhere beautiful after the game, somewhere he could finally relax and enjoy the fact that he’d traveled across the Atlantic without having to spend every waking hour thinking about the Saints. But he’d assumed you would stay home. He hadn’t expected a surprise visit, hadn’t made arrangements for you to join the team, and hadn’t spent much time considering what he might do if he suddenly found himself with a free evening in one of the most romantic cities in the world. That last part was proving to be a rather unfortunate oversight.

The Reapers had been given some downtime before the game, and several players had decided to take advantage of it. A few drinks, some music, a night away from the hotel. Nothing particularly unusual for a team that had spent the better part of a week working, traveling, and listening to coaches explain why the opposing defense was going to be a problem. Grant had gone along. He’d told himself it would be good to unwind. To stop thinking about football for a couple of hours, to laugh with his teammates, to enjoy a little of Paris before the game swallowed up the rest of his attention.

The bar was crowded by the time he arrived. Warm lights reflected off polished wood and glass, music filled the air, and conversations overlapped in a steady roar. The place had attracted a mixture of locals, tourists, and football fans who’d recognized the players the moment they walked through the door. Grant was accustomed to being recognized. He was also accustomed to attention from women. It came with the territory. The face, the uniform, the money, the publicity. People saw the quarterback on their screens and made assumptions about the man behind him. Some were content to ask for a photograph or tell him they hoped the Reapers won. Others seemed to regard his relationship status as an obstacle they could negotiate around if they smiled prettily enough.

Usually, Grant knew how to handle it. Usually, he remembered that being desired by strangers wasn’t the same thing as wanting them. That evening, however, something went wrong. Perhaps it was the alcohol. Perhaps it was the exhaustion, the restlessness, the distance from home, or the way a week of being Grant Whitaker, professional athlete, had left him craving the feeling of being someone else for a little while. Perhaps it was a series of small, careless decisions that seemed harmless when he made them and looked considerably uglier once they accumulated. Whatever the reason, he found himself sitting beside a woman who’d spent the better part of the evening making it clear that she was interested in him.

She was attractive, confident, and entirely unconcerned by the fact that his teammates were nearby. She laughed at his jokes, touched his arm when she spoke, and leaned close enough that he could smell her perfume over the drinks and music. Grant knew what she wanted. He knew it when she asked whether he was enjoying Paris. He knew it when she complimented his eyes, when she asked if he had plans after the game, and when she smiled at him as though the two of them were sharing a secret. He should have moved away. He should have reminded her that he was in a committed relationship, that he had someone waiting for him, that he loved his partner and had absolutely no business entertaining this kind of attention. He knew all of that. And still, somewhere between one drink and the next, between the laughter and the music and the terrible confidence of believing he could control a situation simply because he’d always managed to control himself before, Grant made a choice. A stupid one. A selfish one. A choice that would take seconds to make and considerably longer to understand.

The woman leaned toward him. Grant could have turned away. Instead, he kissed her. And then he kissed her again. The woman slipped a hand against his cheek, and Grant’s hand settled at her waist. The music swelled around them, swallowing the conversations at the bar, and for a few moments, he stopped thinking about anything beyond the immediate moment. He stopped thinking about the Reapers, about the game, about the calls he’d made home and the promises he’d made to the person he loved.

*He stopped thinking about you. That was perhaps the worst part. Not that he didn’t love you. Not that the life you’d built together had suddenly become meaningless. But that, in that moment, he had allowed himself to behave as though loving you didn’t require anything of him. As though your trust was something he could take for granted. As though he could make one selfish decision in a foreign city and return to the life waiting for him without consequence.

The world, unfortunately, had other plans.

Across the room, the bar’s entrance opened, allowing a brief gust of cool evening air to slip inside before the door swung shut again. People moved around one another, drinks were carried between tables, and somebody near the entrance laughed loudly at a joke that had apparently been the funniest thing they’d ever heard. Grant didn’t notice any of it. He was still kissing the woman. His eyes were closed. His attention was entirely occupied. One of his teammates glanced in their direction, noticed what was happening, and abruptly stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” £Marcus muttered under his breath.*

Grant didn’t hear him. Marcus looked toward the entrance. Then back at Grant. And the expression on his face changed. “Grant.”

There was something in his voice that should have made Grant stop. Something sharp enough to cut through the music, the alcohol, and the pleasant little illusion that nothing beyond the bar existed. Grant didn’t hear that, either..

Marcus tried again, louder this time. “Grant, look at me.”

Grant finally pulled away from the woman, his brows knitting together in irritation at the interruption. “What?”

Marcus wasn’t looking at him. He was looking past him. Grant followed his gaze. And everything stopped. You were there.

For one horrible second, he couldn’t process the sight. His mind seemed to reject it outright, unable to reconcile your presence with the reality of the last several minutes. He’d believed you were somewhere else, living your own life, trusting him to be the man he’d always promised you he was. Instead, you were standing in Paris. In the same bar. Looking at the man who was supposed to love you, with another woman’s lipstick on his mouth.

Grant went white. The woman beside him turned, following his gaze, and her expression shifted as the situation finally became clear. She moved away from him, suddenly uncomfortable, but the distance between them was irrelevant now. Whatever explanation Grant might have offered, whatever words he might have chosen to defend himself, could not undo what you had just witnessed. He stared at you. His lips parted. Nothing came out. For the first time in his life, Grant Whitaker had no clever remark, no practiced smile, no carefully chosen answer to fall back on. There was no play to call, no defense to read, no way to make the next few seconds unfold the way he wanted them to. He had spent years learning how to recover from mistakes. This was the first time he understood that some mistakes didn’t belong to a football field. “Baby...”

Your name came out as little more than a broken breath. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor, his eyes never leaving yours. The woman beside him began to say something, but he barely seemed to register her presence anymore. His face had changed completely. The shock was still there, but beneath it was the dawning horror of a man who had finally understood what he’d done. “Baby, wait-”

He took one instinctive step forward, then stopped. Because he had no idea whether he had any right to approach you. Because he could still see the moment replaying in his head, could still feel the weight of the choice he’d made, and could no longer pretend that it was something small enough to brush aside. Grant swallowed hard. The bar continued around him, oblivious to the fact that his entire world had just shifted beneath his feet. He stood there, staring at you, with no idea what would happen next. And for once, there was nothing he could do to control it.

.