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“Color-coded,” I confess with a sheepish smile. “But I haven’t narrowed anything down yet.”

“It’s so hard with boys,” Olivia agrees. “You want strong, but not aggressive. Unique, but not weird.”

“Exactly,” I say, relieved someone gets it. “I keep landing on these pairs that sound like I’m naming a law firm. Or a boy band.”

“Let us help,” Trinity chimes in from across the room. “We’ll crowdsource it.”

“Oh God,” I mutter into my mocktail, “this is how I end up with sons named Blaze and Titan.”

Jasmine leans in, eyes dancing. “Honestly? Could be worse.”

And okay, maybe it could. Because right now, for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like the girl who got knocked up and left behind. I don’t feel like the secondhand story in someone else’s highlight reel. I feel… included. Like I belong here, with my overachieving Pinterest board and my unborn twins and the man who’s currently fielding a room full of linebackers like it’s just another Tuesday.

He catches my eye from across the room and gives me that look—the one that says you good?—and I nod before I can even think about it.

Because yeah. Right now?

I really, really am.

I’m not sure when I stopped breathing, but it was somewhere between the national anthem and kickoff

The family box is buzzing—half the WAGs are glued to their phones while the other half are live-streaming selfies with the field in the background. But not me. Nope. I’m all eyes on the turf, heart in my throat, hands curled around the edge of the padded seat like the armrests might stop me from combusting.

It’s game day. Thanksgiving. Giants vs. Cowboys. And I swear the tension on the field is thick enough to cut with a chainsaw.

Kingston stands at the fifty-yard line, helmet tucked under one arm, steely-eyed and focused, the kind of locked-in that makes time slow down. He’s not smiling, not talking, not doing the pre-game hype theatrics like some of the other guys. He’s just… still. Watching. Waiting.

And then the whistle blows.

Boom.

The ball sails through the air and all hell breaks loose.

“Let’s go, J.J.,” I whisper as Jayden “J.J.” Ross catches the ball and powers forward, barreling through the line like a heat-seeking missile. Trent “Tank” Wilkins and Brody Callahan open up a seam in the Cowboys’ defense like it’s nothing but tissue paper, and J.J. bursts through for the first down.

The crowd roars. The stadium shakes. And somewhere in the chaos, my heart finds a beat to follow.

“Someone’s been doing their homework,” Jasmine Lee teases from beside me, taking a sip of her pumpkin spice coffee like we’re not watching a war unfold beneath us.

I flash her a grin, then quickly refocus. Kingston’s back in the pocket now, Mateo and Eli holding the line like their lives depend on it. Which they kind of do, because the Cowboys’ defensive line is ruthless.

“Come on, baby,” I murmur under my breath, gripping my thighs to stop from standing.

And then—bam.

Kingston launches the football with sniper precision. A perfect spiral that slices through the air like it’s got something to prove. Malik Thompson breaks away from coverage like a ghost slipping through walls and snags the ball mid-sprint.

Touchdown.

The box erupts around me, but I stay rooted in place, eyes locked on Kingston as he jogs down the field, unfazed, already calling the next play in his head. Calm. Collected. Ice in his veins.

God, he’s good.

“How are you not having twins right now with that view?” Deja Banks mutters, fanning herself. “Because I’m ovulating just watching that man throw.”

I snort, half-choking on my laugh. “Trust me, the hormones are trying.”

More laughter echoes around the box, but my gaze never wavers from the field. Because now it’s the Cowboys’ turn, and our defense is up.