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“Whatever, Trace. Are you wearing those lucky socks now? Because we’re about to break out your baby photos,” Rachel smirked.

“Don’t you dare.” Trace shot up straight, glaring at his sister. “Mom, tell Rachel to quit being insufferable.”

“Mooom,” Rachel sang to mock her brother, “tell Trace to quit using words that died in the 1900s.”

His mother turned to me, shaking her head. “Please excuse the zoo. They’re always like this when they’re together.”

“I love it,” I said. And meant it. “I don’t have a big family, so this is… this is pretty awesome.”

“It’ll be more awesome if you can follow me to the table to get this salad down.” Amber motioned to the tongs in my hand, and I jumped to attention.

“How come he never gets kitchen duty?” Tina snarked, jabbing a glass in Trace’s face. “He just stands there looking pretty while we do all the heavy lifting.”

“Those hands are for handling pigskin,” his dad said, appearing from the hallway. He clapped a hand on Trace’s good shoulder. “He’s a guest today. Besides, I’ve got something in the basement I’ve been waiting to show him. You got a minute, son?”

Trace didn’t move immediately. He turned to me, his eyes searching mine in a quiet, private check-in. A nonverbal question of whether I was okay being left alone in the whirlwind of his sisters.

“Go,” I told him, giving him a small, encouraging shove. “I’m fine. I’ve got the tongs, which means I’m practically part of the family now.”

“See that?” his mother remarked, a knowing glint in her eye as she stirred a pot of gravy. “She’s got him trained already. Asking permission before he slinks off to the man-cave.”

The kitchen erupted in a chorus of hooting and laughter. Trace turned a deep shade of red, ducking his head as he followed his dad toward the basement door, but I caught the wink he threw me over his shoulder. As the door clicked shut and the sisters began peppering me with questions about our first date, a realization settled over me like a warm blanket. For the first time in a year, I wasn’t looking for a story. I was living one I didn’t want to end.

“It’s journalism, right?” Amber said once it was just us girls setting the dining room table.

I nodded. “Same as my mom, and her mom before her.”

“That’s so cool,” Tina said, placing the rolls next to the salad bowl. “The work you did on Frank Delaney should win an award.”

“Thanks,” I replied, a slight warmth creeping onto my cheeks. Hearing their approval meant a lot. “But I’ll forgo the awards and take comprehensive healthcare instead. Following that story nearly gave me a coronary.”

I would’ve liked to talk more about my work and what they thought about it, but Mrs. Prescott called the men up for dinner, which brought on a whole new line of conversation.

The table was a scarred oak behemoth that groaned under the weight of mashed potatoes, honey-glazed ham, and a mountain of green beans. Steam fogged the windows, sealing us into a bubble of warmth while the January wind whistled against the glass.

“So,” Mr. Prescott began, pointing a fork toward Trace after the initial frenzy of passing bowls had subsided. “I’ve heard the phone hasn’t stopped ringing since the playoffs. Word is State and Lincoln are both sniffing around for a transfer running back.”

Trace looked down at his plate, nudging a stray pea with his fork. The tension from the car trip hadn’t fully evaporated. It had just shifted into something quieter. “They’ve called. A few others, too.”

The table went silent. Even Rachel stopped mid-chew. For a family like the Prescotts, a full ride to a bigger school with a more prestigious program was the kind of thing you didn’t just turn down. It was a rare ticket to greatness.

“And?” Amber asked, leaning forward, her chin resting on her palm. “Are you going to take the bait? Lincoln has that huge new training facility. You could finally stop complaining about Havenport’s ice baths being literal buckets of slush.”

Trace glanced at me. I kept my expression neutral, though my heart hammered against my ribs. We’d talked about this, but seeing him face his family was different. He reached under the table, his hand finding my knee and squeezing it.

He cleared his throat and, without looking up, muttered, “I’m staying at Havenport.”

His mother, who had been meticulously cutting her ham, paused. She looked up, her sharp eyes searching his face. “Trace, honey, you don’t have to stay just because it’s comfortable. Your shoulder’s practically back to normal. You shouldn’t let one bad hit dictate your ceiling.”

“It’s not about being comfortable, Mom,” Trace said, finally dropping the fork and looking her in the eye. “Havenport was the only place that didn’t turn its back on me when things got ugly. The guys there... they aren’t just a roster. They’re the reason I remembered why I liked the game in the first place. And,” he added, his grip on my knee tightening almost imperceptibly, “there are things at Havenport—people at Havenport—I’m not ready to leave behind.”

I felt the heat climb up my neck, focusing intently on my water glass. But I could feel the collective gaze of three sisters turning toward me like a row of spotlights.

“Well,” Mr. Prescott said, setting down his fork, too. “I think that’s the most grown-up thing I’ve ever heard you say. Loyalty counts for something in my book.”

His mother stayed quiet for a long moment. I mentally prepped for the lecture, for the reminder that he needed to think about his professional future and how distractions could derail him. Instead, she reached across the table, her fingers grazing the back of Trace’s hand.

“In the beginning, it was difficult to accept this whole football path,” she admitted, her voice soft. “I worried. I thought you were chasing a ghost, and your grades were... well, they were a disaster.”