Carson “CJ” Mitchell stood in the stillness of his penthouse, the floor-to-ceiling windows casting his reflection back at him like a ghost he no longer recognized. Philadelphia pulsed below, the city electric with celebration—horns blaring, fireworks slicing the sky, fans flooding the streets in green and silver euphoria. He had done it. He had delivered the Lombardi trophy. The confetti had rained down like absolution, champagne had soaked his jersey, and Emily’s arms had wrapped tightly around him as the cameras captured a moment that would live forever in sports history.

But now, with the lights dimmed and the silence creeping in, none of it felt real.

He remained frozen, barefoot on the polished floors, still dressed in black slacks and a white undershirt from the press conference. The air was thick with the scent of cologne and victory—and something else, something sour and inescapable. Beneath the surface of his success, a current of dread pulled at him relentlessly, dragging him back to the moment that had unraveled everything. It wasn’t the game, or the fame, or the weight of a franchise resting on his shoulders. It was you.

You, with your quiet defiance and untouchable eyes. You, who had never asked for his name to be whispered in headlines or for your face to be attached to a scandal. You, who had met him not as CJ Mitchell the quarterback, but simply Carson. A man. A mistake. A secret.

It was supposed to be temporary. A release. An escape from the image he carried like armor. But then it wasn’t. Then it became more—first a look that lingered too long, then a hand that stayed on his shoulder when it shouldn’t have, then nights that blurred into mornings, hotel rooms that felt more like home than the one he shared with the woman the world believed he would marry. Emily. Sweet, loyal, brilliant Emily, who had stood by him since college, who had memorized every interview question before he was asked it, who smiled when she was supposed to and stayed silent when she needed to. She had been perfect for the world he was trying to build.

But you had been real.

And now, real had consequences. You had called him two months ago, your voice trembling but clear. There was no accusation, no demand, just the brutal clarity of five words that detonated inside his chest:

“I’m pregnant. It’s yours.”

He remembered the moment with agonizing precision. He had been sitting on a team plane, earbuds in, laughing at something one of the linemen said. Then he saw your name, and everything blurred. He had gone cold from the inside out, like ice was blooming in his lungs. That night, he’d laid awake in a luxury hotel bed next to Emily, staring at the ceiling, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing and wondering if this was how it would end.

Because it would end—maybe not his career, not entirely. But the image. The brand. The control.

That’s what he’d spent his entire life perfecting. Control. Precision. Timing. He had mastered it on the field, in the press, in every aspect of his existence. But this… this wasn’t something he could spin or bury. This was a life. His child. Growing inside a woman who knew his worst secrets and still looked at him without flinching.

He moved toward the window, bracing a hand against the cool glass as if it could hold him steady. Below, a crowd chanted his name, echoing from a bar several stories down. The sound of it made his stomach twist. He was a hero to them, the golden boy with a cannon for an arm and a dazzling smile. But standing here, surrounded by silence, he felt like a coward.

His eyes dropped to his phone on the side table. It buzzed with unread messages—teammates toasting him, agents planning the media rollout, Emily texting from the suite across town:

You were amazing tonight. I’m so proud of you. Let’s never come down from this.

He didn’t reply. Instead, he picked up the phone and scrolled slowly, deliberately, until he reached your name. No profile photo. No heart or nickname. Just your name, stark and undeniable.