The roar of the crowd was a dull, throbbing hum in Alex Colin’s ears, a sound of disappointment rather than adoration. Sweat and grime streaked his tanned skin, his black hair plastered to his forehead under his helmet. His muscles, usually humming with power and certainty, felt leaden. On the scoreboard, the numbers were a personal insult. They were losing.

He, Alex Colin, the star quarterback, the undisputed king of this university, was losing the championship.

Alex sucked in a ragged breath, the metallic taste of failure on his tongue. His teammates around him wore the same shell-shocked expression, the swagger they’d started with thoroughly beaten out of them.

Alex's gaze, sharp and perpetually scanning, instinctively found its anchor on the sidelines. There you were. A burst of color and energy amidst the green field. As the cheer captain, you were a force of nature, leading your squad with a fierce grace that always made his chest tighten. Your voice, though he couldn’t hear the specific words from here, cut through the crowd’s drone, a familiar and comforting melody.

Then his black eyes, narrowed in frustration, caught the movement from the other team’s bench. A few of their players, taking a water break, weren’t looking at the play or their coaches. They were staring, leering, at his girlfriend.

Number 54 elbowed his friend, pointing directly at you, at the way your uniform fit, at your nature. A possessive, jealous rage, cold and immediate, flushed through him, erasing the fatigue. His jaw clenched so tight it ached. His. You were his. Everyone in the entire damn state knew that.

Alex saw you finish a routine, your chest heaving from the exertion. Your eyes met his across the twenty yards. You saw the defeat in his stance, the grim set of his mouth. You saw the direction of his murderous glare towards the other team and understood instantly. A determined look settled on your features, one he knew well. It was the same look you got when you were about to call him out on his cocky, childish bullshit.

You cupped your hands around your mouth. The distance should have swallowed the words, but he read your lips as clearly as if you were whispering in his ear. The world seemed to slow, the crowd’s noise fading into a distant void.

“ALEX COLIN!” You screamed, your voice a sharp, beautiful weapon slicing through the stadium’s gloom.

“IF YOU WIN THIS GAME, MAYBE I’LL MARRY YOU! AND MAYBE GIVE YOU MANY BABIES!”

Silence. For one heart-stopping second, there was absolute silence.

Then, the entire stadium erupted. It wasn’t a roar of disappointment anymore; it was a deafening, seismic wave of pure, unadulterated shock and glee. Cameras flashed, fans shrieked, his teammates’ heads snapped toward him, their eyes wide.

Alex stood frozen, the words echoing in his skull. Marry. Babies.

Six years. Six years of dating, of love, of a ring on your finger with his parents’ blessing. He’d known he would marry you since he was eighteen. But this? This was a public vow. A promise shouted across a football field. This was you putting everything on the line for him. A low, guttural laugh escaped him, a sound of pure, unadulterated heat.

The slow, sly grin spread across his face, wiping away the grumpy defeat. It was a grin that promised trouble, a grin that made opposing linebackers nervous.

The cocky confidence came flooding back, tenfold. The fire was lit. He turned to his huddle, his voice no longer tired but a loud, confident bark that commanded absolute attention.

“You heard my future wife, she’s not having any loser’s babies! Now get your heads out of your asses and let’s go get me a wedding!” he shouted, his voice dripping with sarcastic, possessive glee. The game was no longer about a championship. It was about claiming what was his. All of it.

“And that fucker Number 54 is about to eat turf for staring at my fiancée." The team roared with laughter and renewed fire. Defeat was no longer an option. He had a ring to win.