Blindsided (Fake Boyfriend 4)

Look at me, being mature. Go me.

I talk with the announcer, but I have no clue what words come out. When he’s about to move on, reflexes take over, and I pull the microphone back to my mouth.

“There is one thing I wanna do before we wrap this up.” I turn and glance behind me at the crowd of teammates at the bottom of the steps to the podium. “Shane. Where are you?” I wave him up.

People say you shouldn’t propose unless you know the answer will definitely be yes, and while Miller has said we’re in this forever, we’ve never actually spoken about marriage.

In the four years since I turned up in Chicago, marriage hasn’t been mentioned once. If he wanted it, surely, he would’ve said something by now … maybe. Come to think of it, I haven’t mentioned it either, but here I am. God, what if it’s something he doesn’t want? Valid question this day and age.

Fuuuck.

Maybe I should just give him a hug.

When he makes it to the stage, his eyes are slightly widened, but he’s got a smile on his face—a winning smile, because we fucking did it.

My doubt and worry melt away, because even if he doesn’t want to get married, I want him to know that it’s me and him forever. Whether we take this step or not, it doesn’t matter to me, because I’ll still have him.

I go to hand over the trophy to him but pull him into a hug at the same time, squishing it between us. God, he smells incredible. Like Miller mixed with football. We’re still in our heavy pads and sweaty and dirt-soaked uniforms, but this moment couldn’t smell any sweeter.

The crowd seems to get louder, but it’s all drowned out by my heartbeat in my ears.

Most people propose with a ring. I’m doing it with the Vince Lombardi Trophy. But hey, at least he can never complain about me half-assing it.

My brain and body seem to be on the same wavelength for once, and instead of doing the big, public, over-the-top marriage proposal I’d been thinking about, all I do is turn my head and whisper in Miller’s ear.

“Marry me, Shane.”

He pulls back abruptly and lets go of the trophy, which slips out of my hands at the same time. Considering neither of us are receivers on the field, I’m impressed when we both catch it again.

We laugh, but it fades when our eyes meet.

“Say it again,” Miller says. “So I’m sure it actually happened.”

“Marry me. Be my husband. My best friend. My life partner. My everything.”

It’s only now I realize the announcer has shoved the microphone in our faces again, and the entire eighty-thousand seat stadium heard. Everyone gets to their feet.

Oh fuck …

Public proposal it is after all.

Miller just smiles and leans in to the microphone.

With a simple word, my whole life becomes complete. “Yes.”