In the latest drama attached to NFA superstar Grenville “GoGo” Heller, a woman who cheered professionally for the Kansas City Warriors has claimed that she is carrying Heller’s children. McKinsey Prats, age 23, has shared texts seeming to confirm that she was engaged in a sexual relationship with Heller, who is married to singer Gabrielle Rose. The messages, shared by Prats on X/Twitter, address Heller as “babe” and ask for his assistance with the pregnancy.
“Hi babe. Can’t believe that there are 2 [babies] in there!!! I’m guessing I’ll have to retire from the squad before I get to [sic] fat to fit in my uniform. You are going to tell Gabby right? I can’t be a single mom. We’ll need alot [sic] of stuff for the babies, double stroller, cribs, etc etc. Don’t know how I will fit 3 of us in my apartment, will probs need a bigger place.”
Heller’s response: “f*ck u b*tch I gave you $$$ to take care of it”
The bombshell sent a ripple through the NFA fandom, with many people questioning the validity of the texts that Prats posted, especially given Heller’s fairly recent and vocal pivot towards Christianity and his heavy level of involvement in his wife’s career at the moment. In social media comments, Pratsstates that she met Heller when the Las Vegas Rogues played the Warriors early in the current NFA season, and that the pair spent a torrid romantic weekend in Missouri together while Heller’s wife was home in Miami. A few weeks later, Prats discovered that she was pregnant.
“He likes her down there because he has his freedom,” she commented. “She doesn’t do all the things that he likes tho [sic] so he gets freaky when he’s out of town. He likes blondes he says.”
Prats posted ultrasound pictures indicating that she was 12 weeks pregnant, with an estimated due date of May 25, 2026. She also stated on X/Twitter that she had undergone early testing, and that both infants were girls.
Representation for GoGo and Gabrielle Heller declined to comment
***
“I’ve gotta say,” Ryan says, beholding you on his doorstep, “I didn’t know if you would actually show.”
Ryan’s house is a split-level Craftsman in East Eugene; four bedrooms and 2.5 baths. Perfect for a growing family. Eugene is a lot colder than you were banking on five days before Christmas. There are potted red poinsettias on Ryan’s front porch and a wreath on the front door. The whole house radiates warm, yellow light. Ryan looks exactly the same as last time you saw him. His brown hair is cut short, and he’s wearing a Fair Isle sweater and faded jeans. The look is very Pacific Northwest. It looks good on him, and you tell him so.
“That’s rich, coming from the best-looking asshole in the Northern Hemisphere.” He rolls his eyes. “Well, are you goingto freeze your balls off on my porch or are you coming inside?” As you make your way across the threshold, he calls over his shoulder, “Sienna! Ster is here!”
Ryan’s wife Sienna is a short brunette with sparkling dark eyes and a broad, freckled nose that would have been yassified with plastics and bleached ‘til it had no speck of character or individuality left, had she lived in Hollywood. You like it. The two of you only met once before, at the wedding, but, when she comes into the room carrying their daughter, she gives you a big, one-armed hug. Hazel, you notice, has grown tremendously since her newborn photoshoot, and looks much cuter now. She blinks at you with big brown eyes, copious drool escaping her mouth as she chews seriously on a rubber giraffe.
“Sorry, she’s teething,” Sienna says. “Can you say hello to Sterling, Hazel?”
“It’s nice to meet you, Hazel,” you say gravely. “I like your giraffe.”
That gets her to crack a smile and coo loudly, her chubby little arm shaking the poor, slobbery toy like a maraca.
“I wish we could hang out,” Sienna says, “but this little miss needs her bath, her stories, and her bedtime routine. We just transitioned her into sleeping in her own crib, so the ritual is kind of important to us all getting some shut-eye.”
“I’m so sorry,” you say hurriedly. “I didn’t mean to show up right when you guys were settling in for the night.”
“Not at all!” she insists. “It’s not something that requires both of us. Besides, I figured that you boys wanted to catch up. I just didn’t want to be rude.” She smiles at you. “If you’re still hereafter bedtime, I want to hear about your dad and the pickleball saga. Noemi told Ry all about it, and now I’m fully invested.”
“Count on it,” you promise, and she heads upstairs.
“Let me take a good look at you,” Ryan says, when it’s just you two again. He holds you at arm’s length, scrutinizing you carefully. “You’re too thin,” he pronounces.
“That’s kind of rude,” you laugh.
“Nah,” he counters. “Your mom thinks so, too. You still working out like crazy?”
“Not as much as when I was touring. You look good, too. Do you have time to hit the gym?”
Ryan looks over his shoulder as he leads you through the dining room and into their kitchen. Beyond those two rooms, you can see his Christmas tree in the living room, all lit with strands of multicolored lights. There’s a mountain of pink-wrapped gifts underneath the boughs, all Minnie Mouse and Disney Princesses. The kitchen smells delicious, like coffee and something sweet having been recently baked. “I was doing CrossFit four or five times a week before Sienna’s third trimester. Then she was on bed rest, and Hazel came, and things got kind of crazy.” He laughs. “I’m rocking the dad bod currently, but I’ve been slowly getting back into it.” He pats his belly, which barely just rounds out his sweater. “You still take your coffee with a little cream and no sugar? Or are you avoiding caffeine right now?”
“I only avoid caffeine before I’m performing,” you answer. “And, yup, you know how I like it.”
“Sit,” he insists. The kitchen is spacious, but homey, with mossy Shaker cabinets and moody green-mottled tile for the backsplash. The floor is warm, weathered brick. Against the window, there’s a small breakfast nook with four chairs. You slide into one against the wall so you can watch Ryan move around in his space.
“Sienna made cinnamon babka,” he says, “and she’s going to be very hurt if you don’t have some.”
“I can’t possibly hurt Sienna,” you concede. Carbs and sugar are the least of your problems right now.
He cuts you a slice of the sweet bread that’s bigger than both your fists put together. You are about to protest, when he throws a fork at you.
“Shut up and eat it,” he says, preempting your complaint. “You need something sweet. I can tell. Whatever you’re about to drop on me, it’s major.”
