Page 30 of After the Snap

I step through the doorway and cross to the bed, reaching down for my boxers where I’d tossed them last night when a small flash of purple against the cream-colored rug catches my eye. My hand hangs suspended above my boxers as I stare at the flash of purple until I recognize the ring she took off last night. Ignoring my clothes, I reach over and pick it up from the carpet, letting the cool metal settle into my palm. The amethyst catches the morning light as I slowly turn the ring between my fingers, searching the band for an inscription, initials, anything that might tell me who she is.

“Well…this is a problem,” I mumble, glancing toward the hallway as if she will suddenly appear, apologizing for forgetting it.

Whatever that ring meant to her, she carried it into my apartment and walked out without it. I can’t imagine she’d leave it behind on purpose, not after the way she turned it over in her fingers before setting it on the nightstand like it deserved more care than the rest of her jewelry.

I search my memory, trying to remember whether she’d said anything that might help me find her, anything beyond the handful of hours we shared. We built the entire night around being strangers because it made everything simpler. There weren’t any expectations waiting for us outside the bar, no questions about what came next. By the time I fell asleep with her tucked against my chest, I’d stopped thinking about how impossible that would make this morning.

My thumb rubs over the smooth edge of the band again, frustration creeping in where certainty had been only a minute before. She could be anywhere by now, and I have no way of telling her the one thing she cared enough to protect is sitting in the palm of my hand. I close my fingers around the ring until its edges press into my palm, the only proof last night happened at all.

I bend down for my clothes again, placing the ring on the nightstand before I step into my boxers and pull on my jeans, then pick it up again and slip it into my front pocket. Standing in the middle of my bedroom won’t change anything. She isn’t coming back, and there’s still a move waiting for me whether I’m ready for it or not.

My phone vibrates against the nightstand, and I glance at the screen long enough to see Graham’s name before unlocking it.

Movers are confirmed for tomorrow morning. Pack whatever you want with you in Charlotte. They’ll handle the rest. I’ll send the temporary housing details once everything’s finalized.

I stare at the message for another second before locking my phone and setting it on the dresser beside my wallet. This gives me the rest of today to figure out what needs to come with me and what can wait for the movers.

All I need is a week’s worth of clothes. By this weekend, I’ll be shaking hands with coaches and answering questions about fresh starts until everyone decides they’ve squeezed enough headlines out of the trade to move on. Life doesn’t stop because one night refuses to leave my head.

I drag my suitcase from the top shelf of the closet and lay it open across the foot of the bed before crossing back to the dresser. T-shirts. Jeans. Workout clothes. Everything folds into practiced stacks, a routine I’ve perfected after years of spending more time in hotel rooms than in my own home. I fall into the rhythm of the task, and the room finally feels like just a room instead of the place where a stranger unraveled every certainty I’d been carrying around for the last two years. The feeling only lasts until I remember my laptop charger is still plugged into the kitchen outlet.

The charger is right where I left it, plugged into the outlet beside the sink, but my attention never makes it that far. Two half-empty bottles of water still sit on the counter, untouched since last night, and my feet carry me toward the barstool instead.

She didn’t ask for anything when we walked through the door. She looked overwhelmed and more than a little unsure of what would happen next, so I handed her a bottle of water before either of us said much of anything else. It hadn’t felt like a decision. It was simply the first thing that needed doing. Funny how something as ordinary as a bottle of water can feel different twenty-four hours later.

I pick it up, turning it once in my hand before twisting the cap the rest of the way closed. It belongs in the trash, but I find myself standing there, remembering the way she smiled at me over the rim of the bottle. I shake my head at myself and finally drop the bottle into the trash.

“Get it together,” I mutter under my breath, trying to sound more convincing than I feel.

I unplug my laptop charger, scoop up my tablet from the counter, and head back to the bedroom. The suitcase is waiting on the bed, exactly where I left it. I slide the charger and tablet into the front pocket before looking over everything I’ve already packed, mentally checking for anything I’ve forgotten.

The pair of shoes I’d left beside the bed are the last thing I need to pack, but when I crouch to grab them, my hand finds the washcloth first. It dried overnight, stiff where I’d dropped it after cleaning her up. I should toss it into the laundry basket without giving it another thought, but the familiar weight of it in my hand pulls me right back to the night before.

I remember kneeling beside her, brushing the warm cloth gently across her skin while she watched me like she couldn’t quite understand why I was taking care of her. I look down at the cloth in my hand. I never stopped to wonder whether taking care of her crossed a line or asked more of either of us than we’d agreed to when we walked out of that bar. I saw something she needed, and I did it without thinking twice.

My grip tightens around the washcloth before I finally force myself to drop it into the laundry basket beside the dresser. The sound of my phone ringing cuts through the silence almost immediately, and I answer before the second ring.

“What’s up?”

“Did you get my text?” Graham asks. I can hear papers shuffling on the other end of the line.

“Yeah. I’ll be ready for the movers tomorrow.”

“I figured you would. Coach Quinn asked me to let you know they’re keeping Friday pretty light. A physical and media before a quick meeting with the staff, then they’ll let you get settled before the weekend.”

I lean against the dresser, my attention drifting toward the suitcase waiting on the bed while Graham talks me through arrival times and the schedule waiting for me in Charlotte. The conversation follows a rhythm I’ve known for years, every response polished by years of learning how to become exactly what football needs me to be before anyone has the chance to ask twice.

“I’ll see you on Friday.”

“Yeah. See you then.” I end the call and drop my phone onto the dresser before turning back toward the suitcase.

My hand brushes the front pocket of my jeans as I cross to the closet for the garment bag, reassuring me the ring is still there. Media days, charity events, sponsor dinners—football always finds a reason to put me in a tie, whether I like it or not. I tuck my shoes into the remaining space, pull the zipper closed, and carry the suitcase and garment bag down the hallway before setting them beside the front door. Everything I’ll need in Charlotte is packed, and the rest can wait for the movers tomorrow morning.

The rest of the afternoon disappears into a blur of unanswered emails, half-finished chores, and one last walk-through until there’s nothing left to do except leave. My feet carry me back into the kitchen anyway, where my gaze lands on the spot across the counter where she stood.

She was there for less than an hour, one hand wrapped around a bottle of water while she watched me move around the kitchen as though there was nothing remarkable about any of it. At some point last night, I stopped wondering whether she wanted the quarterback or the man standing in front of her because she’d never given me a reason to ask.

My hand slips into my pocket, my fingers closing around the ring until the edges press into my palm. I stand there longer than I mean to, letting the weight of it rest against my skin because it’s the only thing in this apartment that hasn’t changed since she walked out the front door. In a few hours, strangers will haul out the bed where we fell asleep. Someone else will live here eventually, never knowing that for one night, this house held a woman who saw the man standing in front of her without ever knowing about the quarterback everyone else expected me to be.