Page 54 of Caden & Theo

Names get called. Families scream and sob. Players in pristine suits hug their moms and dab at their eyes as cameras zoom in. I smile at the right moments, clap when I’m supposed to, but my knee won’t stop bouncing and my palms are starting to sweat.

“You’re vibrating,” Theo murmurs. “Knock it off.”

“Trying,” I mutter, not even pretending to deny it.

He leans over just slightly, so no one else can hear. “Whatever happens, I’m proud of you. And I’m yours.”

God, I want to kiss him. Instead, I just breathe through it and nod.

The first round ends and my name hasn’t been called. Nobody says anything right away. Mom grabs a snack from the table like she’s totally chill. Dad focuses on the newspaper. Theo shifts his foot again, brushing my leg.

“You holding up?” Dad finally asks, glancing at me over the top of his glasses.

“Yeah.”

“You’re here. That’s already more than most ever get.”

I nod, appreciating it even if it doesn’t quite make the disappointment loosen its grip on my chest.

Marcus checks his phone every two minutes like the screen might change the game. He doesn’t say much. But his eyebrows twitch upward every so often, and I know he’s waiting on something.

Theo’s chatting with my mom now about his summer course. She’s asking if he’s still planning to TA this fall. He says maybe.She laughs, soft and warm, and I watch the way she looks at him—like she loves him almost as much as she loves me.

The second-round picks start to roll. 37. 41. 47.

Still nothing.

My pulse is thudding now. I stop watching the screen. Instead, I stare at my hands.

“Atlanta’s eyeing you for 52,” Marcus finally says from the window. “If that doesn’t land, we go into free agency prep.”

Free agency prep. That means scrambling. That means proving myself without a draft spot beside my name. And Atlanta would be too perfect. Just six hours or so away from Theo while he finishes his last two years of college.

Pick 52 blinks onto the screen. The name they call isn’t mine. It’s like a punch to the ribs. Not sharp, just dull and heavy.

Theo doesn’t say anything. He just squeezes my knee.

Marcus doesn’t waste time. “Okay. We work now. Don’t lose focus.”

I nod, because I know he’s right. There’s still a chance. Still a way in. But the draft was supposed to be the moment.

Ten minutes pass. Then Marcus’s phone buzzes on the arm of the couch. He all but dives for it, grabs it, reads, and turns toward me like a coach calling the final play. “Don’t move,” he says. Then he walks away, phone pressed to his ear.

Every breath I take feels like it might shake my whole chest loose.

Theo’s pinkie finds mine again. “You’re doing great,” he whispers. “No matter what.”

The call is short. Marcus returns with a look I’ve never seen before—sharp and bright, like lightning and sunrise all at once. His phone’s still in his hand, and his other pushes through his hair like he’s letting himself feel it for half a second.

“Detroit,” he says. “Undrafted free agent. Two-way contract. You’re invited to training camp.”

The silence in the room cracks like ice.

I blink, trying to catch up with the words. Detroit. Two-way. Training camp.

Detroit.

My stomach flips—then steadies. Because holy shit, Detroit is closer to Louisville. Like way closer. Barely five hours if traffic behaves. And that small detail lands harder than everything else.