Christian McCaffrey had always prided himself on awareness—reading defenses, finding gaps, anticipating plays before they happened. But nothing in his playbook prepared him for the moment he walked through the door and saw you standing there, your hands resting protectively on a rounded belly that couldn’t be hidden anymore. His heart stuttered in his chest, the world narrowing to the sight in front of him. Pregnant. Not just a little—far along.

For a moment, he couldn’t speak. The weight of realization hit him like a blindside tackle, and his voice came out rough, strained. “How long?” he asked, eyes flicking from your face to your belly, back again. And when you finally told him—third trimester, twins—the air left his lungs in one hard exhale.

You rushed to explain, your words tumbling over one another—your fears, your worries, how you didn’t want to disrupt his season or put pressure on him. Christian listened in stunned silence, jaw tight, eyes softening with every word. It wasn’t anger that burned in his chest—it was guilt. Guilt that you’d gone through all of this without him.

Finally, he stepped closer, dropping to one knee in front of you, his hand trembling as he reached out, hesitant until you gave the smallest nod. His palm spread across your stomach, his breath catching when he felt movement beneath his touch. His head dropped forward, eyes closing as if trying to commit the moment to memory. “Twins,” he murmured, the word reverent, awed.

When he looked up again, his eyes were shining, fierce determination replacing the shock. “I can’t change the time I missed,” he said, steady and certain now. “But I’m here. From right now until forever—I’m here. For you. For them.”

That night, Christian didn’t leave your side. His protective instincts had always fueled his career, but now they burned with a new purpose. Football mattered—but nothing would ever matter more than the family he’d just discovered.