Page 46 of Tyler (Bummerset Shore University #2)

TWENTY-ONE

T he next few weeks pass in a blur of way too many orgasms, too little sleep, and still not enough alone time.

I’d kinda assumed Ty would have more downtime after the regular season ended.

That shows how very well-versed I am in anything football-related.

Turns out, if your team makes the semifinals and maybe even the championship (which, yeah, they fucking did, have I mentioned how proud I am?), there’s no such thing as a break.

If anything, they’re training harder than ever.

They got the call two weeks ago, the weekend right after Thanksgiving.

Since then, the house has basically turned into team HQ.

Guys dropping in to go over tape, others showing up for these impromptu strategy sessions in the kitchen, and some just nervously hovering around Ty, their captain, like he’s got all the answers.

Which, to be fair, I think he kinda does.

I get it—I really do. And honestly? I love it.

I love seeing Ty in his element, doing what he was born to do, surrounded by his team, his dream.

He’s such a steady fucking force, the kind of calm that everyone else gravitates toward.

He’s the center of it all, and they orbit around him like he’s their anchor.

Not gonna lie, Lam’s been stepping up too. We joke about him a lot, sure, but I finally get why he’s co-captain. No matter how ridiculous and loud he gets, football is his life. And when it counts, he shows up.

When my babe is too busy and I’m not in LA, I jog, or hang out with Ty’s parents, who now have ten ducklings waddling around in the old chicken run in their backyard.

The boys were smart enough to let Patrick and Patrice go back to Ty's parents since it's safer. Honestly, it’s cute as hell. Ty’s dad even built them a tiny ramp into their water bin like it’s a fucking duck spa.

So yeah, I try to visit the little cuties when I can.

But today, I’m on campus. They’ve got a big scrimmage, and I want to be here for it.

I love watching them play, love watching Ty in his zone, calling plays like he owns the damn field.

Even if, about ten minutes in, I usually end up swarmed by Encore fans and I spend hours posing for selfies, signing phone cases, someone always asking if I can sing something. But it’s worth it. Every time.

I swear, every student on this damn campus must already have something signed by now, but they just keep coming from every fucking direction like some secret Encore fan army.

I snort, thinking about that TikTok I saw last week, speculating I’d gone back to school.

Someone had filmed me sitting in one of those big-ass lecture hall presentations and posted it like they were onto something, which turned into a full blown online mass investigation.

I let them speculate. If they’re that oblivious to the fact that Tyler is always next to me, or hovering close whenever we’re walking across campus, then that’s on them. Let them think I’m working on a degree or something, keeps them busy.

Our relationship is gonna get out sooner or later, and honestly? I don’t care. Not anymore. I do care about Tyler, though. The only thing that matters to me is his wellbeing. So he’s the one who gets to make that call when he’s ready. I’ll follow his lead.

I’m halfway through massacring some tomatoes and peppers for a very late breakfast (they really shouldn’t let me near anything with a knife) and like every damn day since it happened, I catch myself thinking about that completely chaotic, completely perfect proposal.

Out of the blue. Out of his heart. And damn straight into mine.

I could see the oh shit moment right as the words flapped out of his mouth. He didn’t plan that. And honestly? That made it even better. It was pure. Ours.

I didn’t lie. I love him more than I love French fries. In my world, that’s saying something. And I also didn’t lie about the fact that I would’ve said yes if it weren’t for this fucking visa hanging over our heads.

Because yeah… my heart broke a little when I had to say no. I didn’t want to say no. He’s my love, my life, my light. Always has been, always will be.

But I need it to be about us . Just us. And judging by the mix of relief and understanding on his face when I said that, he gets it. He agrees.

Still… the butterflies in my gut grow a little more each day. And god, I really do hope I get to say yes someday.

When Ty finally thunders down the stairs—because football players somehow can’t descend the damn stairs like a normal person—I smile without meaning to.

I’d recognize that particular rhythm anywhere.

Then the door flies open, and his whole face lights up the second he sees me in the kitchen, messing with breakfast like I know what I’m doing.

Fuck, I love that look. I also love it when he’s wearing gray sweatpants… it’s just unfair how they hang low on his hips and stretch perfectly over that nice, thick—

“Ow! Kut !” I yelp, dropping the knife and immediately clutching my hand.

“Cut?” Ty spins around, already reaching for me. He grabs my wrist gently but firmly, inspecting the damage. “Yup. That’s a cut, alright. Fortunately it’s not too deep. I’m sorry my dick distracted you.”

“That’s not—I mean, yes, it’s a cut,” I mutter, letting him manhandle me to the sink. I wince when he flicks the water on and starts rinsing it. “But I said kut , with a K .”

He gives me a look. “And what the hell is kut with a K ?”

“It’s Dutch. It’s nothing.”

“No, now I’m curious.” He bumps my shoulder, then turns off the tap and gently dries my hand with a paper towel. Mr. Caretaker in full force.

“Do you want the literal meaning or the intended one?” I can’t help but grin as he fusses over me. I kinda like it.

“Now you’ve got me confused.”

I smirk, letting Ty, who somehow conjured up a first aid kit like a damn magician, wrap my left index finger. It's gonna be really fun to play the guitar for the next few days.

“It’s a Dutch swear word. Basically means fuck or shit or goddammit, I sliced my finger because you’re too hot in those pants .”

Ty laughs, low and warm, while closing the kit. “I’m flattered. And also not even a little sorry.”

“It means vagina, though.”

He blinks. “Wait, you guys swear by yelling vagina ?”

“Well, I could’ve gone without that conversation,” says a voice behind me, one that sounds way too familiar to be real, and definitely shouldn’t be here in the States.

I see Ty’s eyes going wide, and my heart spikes as I spin around as fast as I can, the cut in my finger long forgotten.

“Dad?”

“Hi, son.” He gives me a soft, slightly crooked smile. An expression that used to be rare, foreign even, when I was a kid. It still throws me sometimes.

But shit, he’s here. In our damn kitchen. How?

Tuck, who obviously let him in, just waves at us from the doorway to the living room and disappears upstairs.

“Jesus, he looks just like you. Or you like him, I guess. This is so weird. You’re gonna be hot when you’re old. Oh fuck, sorry. That’s also weird,” Tyler mutters behind me, clearly processing out loud and unable to stop himself.

I ignore his rambling. They’ve never met before. Sure, Ty’s been around for plenty of calls, but never when my dad was on screen. I blink at him—at my dad —who I haven’t seen since last June in LA, when he was busy negotiating some label bullshit.

“What are you doing here?”

He’s smiling like he’s glad to see me, and maybe he is.

But I know him. I know that smile. It’s practiced, thin around the edges.

It says this isn’t just a social call . And even if he is happy to see me, which still feels strange as hell, I can see it in the tightness of his jaw, the slight pull of his shoulders: something’s wrong.

This isn’t a happy visit. I know his tells better than anyone. And he’s carrying something with him.

“I happened to be stateside for business, in LA,” he says, all casual. “Figured I’d swing by, check out the campus, see how you are. And, you know…”

I swallow hard. I already know where this is heading.

“Don’t bullshit me,” I say quietly. “You didn’t just drive two hours from LA because you were in the neighborhood visiting clients. What’s going on? Just say it. Do you have news? Did it get approved?”

My throat tightens, heartbeat kicking up. My palms go clammy. The only thing keeping me from spiraling is Ty’s hand, warm and steady against my back.

And then I see it, the thing I couldn’t quite place in my dad’s eyes earlier. He looks… worried. Apologetic, almost. That’s new. And not exactly comforting.

The stone lodged in my stomach drops straight to my fucking feet. “It got declined, didn’t it?”

He opens his mouth to say something, shaking his head, but I already know. I can tell. Before he gets the chance, I cut him off.

“No. No, no, no, no. Please tell me that’s not true. It got declined? Why? Do they even know who I am? What I do?”

Okay, yeah, that sounds arrogant and privileged as hell, and it’s so not me, but fuck, I’m all over the news. How can they decline me? We filed for artist status, whatever it’s called.

“You said everything was going to be fine!”

The hand on my back tightens, gripping my shirt so hard it almost hurts. I turn around, to my world, and see Ty’s eyes already welling up, even though he’s forcing a smile. Trying to keep me steady. Like everything’s going to be okay.

“No.” I say again. “No, just fucking no. ”

I shake my head frantically, and when my dad starts with a soft “Son…” I cut him off with a glare, pointing an accusing finger his way. It’s fucking trembling .

“I trusted you! I finally fucking trusted you! You said you were going to fix this!”

“Jace…” His voice drops low, heavy with regret. “I’m sorry. But that’s not—”

“Don’t say you’re sorry.” My voice fucking cracks on that last word. “Please don’t say that you’re sorry. When you say you’re sorry, it means I’m right. That we failed . That you failed.”