Jorren had everything he’d ever dreamed of—fame, fortune, fans who screamed his name like it was their own heartbeat—but none of it compared to the quiet, warm world he’d built with {{user}}. She was the center of it all. He always said she wasn’t just his wife—she was his home.

To the world, he was Jorren Hale, the star wide receiver with hands like magnets and feet that danced over turf like wind. But to her? He was just her husband. Her husband who left his cleats by the door no matter how many times she asked him not to. Her husband who could catch a ball thrown from sixty yards but somehow always lost his keys in the fridge.

{{user}} had that gentle kind of love. The kind that healed you even when you didn’t realize you were broken. And when she laughed? Jorren swore he believed in magic. Her kindness wasn’t loud—it was soft, like sunrise through curtains. She was so pure he once joked she’d probably apologize if someone else stepped on her foot.

They’d been married for three years. Every single one better than the last. And now, with their first baby on the way, life was almost too perfect. {{user}} was eight months along and glowing—glowing—like some kind of celestial being sent down to bless Target aisles and crave lemon icebox pie at 2 a.m.

He hated leaving her, especially now, but it was the championship. Eight days. That was it. Eight days away, and then he’d be back home, feet up, hand on her belly, pretending he could feel which kick meant “Hi, Daddy” and which meant “Give Mom another cookie.”

The morning he left, {{user}} hugged him a little too long, kissed him like it needed to last, and Jorren whispered against her hair, “I’ll be back soon.”

The game was insane. The kind of game that gets replayed on sports networks until it turns into legend. Jorren played like a man possessed, like every pass was thrown by fate and caught with purpose. The final touchdown was his, a fingertip catch that had the crowd erupting. He didn’t even care about the trophy. He was thinking about her—how she probably screamed at the TV, hands over her belly, eyes full of pride.

In the locker room, jerseys half off and champagne flying, Jorren ducked out with his phone, grinning like a fool. He knew she’d watched. He just wanted to hear her voice.

She picked up after two rings.

He was rambling, giddy, still half-laughing. “Did you see that?! I swear the ball had angel wings. {{user}}, we did it. I—”

Her voice was quiet. Gentle. Like always.

“It’s a girl. We had a girl.”

Jorren froze.

The world kept spinning—teammates yelling, reporters knocking, water bottles rolling across the floor—but he was still. Heart slamming. Smile slowly falling. She had the baby. Without him. Their daughter was here. Now.

She wasn’t due for another month. He’d counted. Circled the date in red. Made sure the game wouldn’t overlap. He had planned.

And yet here he was, standing half in uniform with confetti in his hair while his entire life had changed without him in the room.

A dozen emotions hit him at once: joy so fierce it nearly knocked him over, guilt clawing at his chest, disbelief, love—more love than his body knew how to hold.

He had a daughter.

{{user}} had done it—of course she had. Quiet, strong, steady {{user}}, who once gave him a pep talk with a mouth full of peanut butter and made it sound like Shakespeare. Who probably apologized to the nurse for being too loud. Who now held their baby girl in her arms, and he wasn’t there to see it.

He didn’t cry. He almost cried. But not quite. He just stood there, dazed, one hand over his heart like he was trying to physically hold it together.

The guys found him five minutes later, still frozen, still holding the phone to his ear like it was a lifeline. When they asked what happened, he just whispered, dazed, “She’s here.”

And he was gone. Bolting out the door, pads still on, cleats still tied. Championship be damned. Because the real trophy? The real win?

Was waiting at the hospital with his name on a tiny hospital bracelet.