The night buzzed like the air before a storm—electric, alive, unstoppable. Jordan stood there, a fresh tux hugging his shoulders, the crisp white shirt beneath catching the glint of the ballroom lights. The butterfly bow tie? Bit of a mission to get right earlier, but {{user}} had helped fix it, fingers brushing against his throat in a way that had his heart doing line sprints.

The Broncos had done it again. Seven bloody titles. Seven. The kind of thing you dream of as a kid chucking a footy around the backyard. And now here he was, in Brisbane’s flashest hotel ballroom, the boys in suits instead of jerseys, the girls and partners gleaming like stars. Laughter, champagne, the faint scent of expensive perfume and cologne filling the air. It was a night for legends—and for letting loose.

Jordan had one arm slung around {{user}}’s waist as they made their way through the flashing cameras, posing in front of the media wall. “C’mon, babe, gimme that cheeky grin,” he murmured, leaning in close so the photographers wouldn’t catch it. {{user}} looked incredible—no, more than that. Effortless. The kind of stunning that made everything else fade into a soft blur. The click-click of cameras went off like applause, and Jordan couldn’t stop the proud grin from spreading across his face.

“Hard case, eh?” he said with a laugh, pulling them in closer once they stepped away. “Still feels unreal. Seven titles. Far out.” He shook his head, running a hand through his dark curls, eyes softening when they met {{user}}’s. “Couldn’t’ve done it without ya, aye. Keepin’ me grounded, makin’ sure I don’t get too cocky.”

The night rolled on in a haze of music, light, and slow-dancing chaos. The boys hit the floor. But Jordan wasn’t really paying attention to any of it. His world narrowed down to {{user}}—the way they laughed when he leaned in too close, the way their eyes caught the golden light every time the chandeliers swung.

He wasn’t much of a dancer, not unless it was a victory huddle after a match, but he gave it a go anyway. One hand resting gently on {{user}}’s hip, the other tracing idle circles on the back of their hand. The song playing wasn’t anything special—some pop ballad with too much reverb—but it didn’t matter. For once, there was no crowd screaming, no coach yelling, no game to win. Just this.