Braden’s house was exactly as I expected it to be.
It was understated, warm, and quietly beautiful.
It wasn’t flashy in the way I imagined some pro athletes’ homes might be — no sterile expanses of white marble or furniture that looked too expensive to sit on. His place felt lived in. Every inch of it felt intentional.
It was a modest Green Lake home with clean, mid-century lines, warm wood tones, earthy textures, and oversized windows that pulled in soft afternoon light and a glimpse of the water beyond.
A leather sofa sat across from a stone fireplace, softened by a worn rug, a few leafy plants, and shelves lined with books, candles, and framed photos. His family was everywhere. So were little pieces of his past — college teammates, game-day snapshots, and a display shelf with his championship ring resting in a glass box.
Even the home gym visible down the hall felt practical instead of showy — neat, high-end, and built for discipline rather than image.
The whole house felt like Braden: solid, calm, and more interested in meaning than appearance.
I padded into the kitchen just as Braden had gathered all his ingredients. He bent to retrieve a cutting board and plucked a knife from a block, smirking at me as I sidled up on one of the barstools at his kitchen island to watch the show.
And what a show it was.
Braden stood at the kitchen island barefoot and shirtless, those navy sweats hanging low on his hips, his hair still slightly disheveled from the hours we’d spent tangled up in his sheets. There was something quietly devastating about the sight of him like this — not dressed for the field or the cameras, but simply at home, moving with calm efficiency through his own kitchen.
The flex of muscle in his arms as he chopped chicken, the relaxed set of his shoulders, the ease in his body — it all felt impossibly intimate.
I didn’t realize a man cooking in his own kitchen was a kink for me.
Apparently, it very much was.
“You’re drooling and I haven’t even started cooking,” he teased.
“Not going to lie, this is kind of doing it for me.”
“Me cutting chicken?”
“You being Braden At Home, all cozy and relaxed.”
That made him pause a moment, and then his eyes were on his hands again, his smile distant. “I’ll be honest… I can’t remember the last time I ever felt like this.” His smile faded then, brows furrowing. “It’s unsettling.”
I barked out a laugh. “It’s uncomfortable for you to relax? Why does this not surprise me.”
“It’s deeper than that,” he defended, moving on from preparing the chicken to the rice. He let the amount he’d measured out slide into the boiling water before covering it and turning to me, his hip leaned against the stove, arms folded. “It feels… risky. Like at any moment, the floor is going to fall out from under me because I wasn’t locked in and paying attention.”
My heart squeezed. “That sounds like a shitty way to feel.”
He scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I think I’m used to it. I have my role to play with my family, you know? My role to play in life. And for me, the aim is to be focused, to lock in and do what I need to do to provide.”
“You need to live your own life, too.”
“I know,” he admitted, but his voice was so soft. His warm golden eyes slid up to meet mine. “I’m trying. Thanks to you.”
My chest was so tight I thought my lungs would pop.
I understood that feeling he spoke of — being comfortable and yet terrified all at once.
Because I loved every second I spent with Braden. I loved his hands on me and the way he kissed me, yes, but I also loved days like today where we lost the afternoon just hanging out.
And where exactly was this going to go?
We had to keep it under wraps at least until I was off the team. If I was being honest with myself, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to audition again next season. Part of me did, sure, because I longed for that spotlight, for the freedom, to dance and call it a job. But there was another part of me whispering the truth of myexpiration date, and that part was already exploring what came next.
What if you taught?
