The morning Logan and I woke up in a New York City hotel, a weighted warmth pressed against my side. After a few eye blinks, my left hand came into focus, palm flat on the center of Logan's bare chest. A smile lifted up the corners of my mouth at the sight of my engagement ring, the soft green center stone surrounded by tiny diamonds that glittered in the morning sunlight.

Before Logan showed me this ring, I had no idea what agate was but the threads of dark veins, randomly placed like drops of dark food coloring that ran through the lighter stone, were beautiful. The light green was partially translucent so that when I turned my hand, the sun from our bedroom window glowed.

My fiancé did well.

And I had no idea.

A groggy, "Admiring it again?" croaked into my ear, which drew my eyes up to Logan's half-closed ones.

"More like can't believe it's there," I teased him because we both knew I hadn't pressured him to propose. He'd definitely surprised me, I thought we'd have gotten through the next short-term stages of our lives then talked about next steps but was beyond thrilled Logan has his own ideas.

"You'd better not take it off," Logan warned me but the soft strokes of his hand over my head relaxed me.

"What about when I shower?" I teased and repeated Logan's movements with my hand on his chest.

After a few strokes up and down, he caught on to what I did, and ran his hand down the back of my neck. I snorted quietly but gladly skimmed the tips of my fingers over the soft, warm skin down the center of his chest, contoured the ridges of his sternum and abdomen, then followed his lead straight down to the morning erection that stretched his underwear.

A low groan rumbled Logan's chest as I stroked up his hard shaft with the base of my palm, all the way down so my knuckles rubbed over his balls. We'd been here countless times but my hand moved in more caressing strokes because a faraway look cast over Logan's eyes as he leaned his head back.

"It's okay to be nervous," I reminded Logan since he'd gotten quieter the closer this weekend approached.

Logan's eyes slid closed for a few breaths that lifted and lowered my hand at a controlled pace but the racing heartbeat that pounded into my fingertips revealed a side of Logan I very rarely, if ever, saw. I quietly studied his reaction and the rise and fall of his chest, even though I wished I knew what ran through his head.

Why Logan's mind was distracted was as obvious as why we - which included Wes and Charlie - were in New York City. My mind drifted slightly while Logan sat silently.

I more than happily hermitted myself in the hotel room during Logan's combine and draft day press events. Charlie, who stayed in a room three floors down with Wes, joined me for the draft's press day. Our small room with one wall of windows that pointed at the city street view was posh, the bed fluffy and cozy, and a bright bathroom stocked sweet-smelling soaps and shampoos that I felt only slightly guilty when I set the extras in my suitcase.

After Logan left the hotel, the only communication I had with him before his press day was one short text I'd sent him beforehand. Not coincidentally, I sent him the same message I sent him before he won the Heisman award for top college football player in the country.

me: Love you and I'm so proud of you.

"That's really freaking heavy, by the way." I grinned at Charlie when Logan's forty-five pound statue was brought up in his career stats.

"Looks like it is." She glanced sideways at me, slipped further down our bed's headboard, and snuggled under the fluffy white comforter. "Where did you put it?"

A small snort left my lips. "Right now, Grace uses it as her kitchen table's centerpiece but longer term, but long term I assume Logan will donate it back to U-Dub."

"We should donate Wes' stuff," Charlie murmured to herself and pointed at Wes, who laughed loudly at something. "The last thing that guy needs is a personal shrine room to himself."

"Probably best." I grabbed my phone and checked if Logan had responded to the message I'd sent the second the door clicked behind him this morning.

Logan's read receipt before the press conference started was the only affirmation I needed that he'd seen my words. Even though he was very quiet through breakfast and definitely sat with a faraway look in his eyes, the full gravity of the draft hadn't sunk in until he returned from the press day with sagged shoulders and tired eyes.

Charlie and I watched Logan and Wes' interviews before we took a tour through the gorgeous and humble interior at Radio City Music Hall. Logan answered every question like always. His slight jokes, humble acceptance of thanks, deflected assumptions, and returned compliments with credit to his past coaches and teammates for putting him in a position that he attended the draft.

And Wes was... well, Wes.

Still, Logan was human and I was touched and honored that I saw his rare side of vulnerability.

"What if I'm the bust?" he blurted out quickly and flipped his eyes open. "That one guy who has to sit there all day, dressed in a monkey suit and smiling pretty for the cameras while I'm internally shitting myself that I'm not really good enough and no team wants me?"

My heart pinched at the uncertainty that threaded through Logan's voice, so I pressed my hand into his chest, sat up, and looked down at him. The media, draft rankings, his coaches, teammates, family, and Husky fans were all behind Logan, literally in the form of a draft day party held at Huskies Stadium for their five draft-eligible Huskies. Between the two of us, I knew that the unbelievably large amount of external pressure paled against the pressure he put on himself.

Even though I was no doubt the most biased person in the world when it came to Logan's talents and had no idea how NFL teams made their draft decisions, no part of me believed he wouldn't be drafted. He'd worked too hard, celebrated too much success with his team-first humble nature, and was just too damn talented to not be an asset on any team.

I rolled my lower lip under and held back the reassuring words that tempted me to tell him that he'd be drafted for sure but I knew he didn't want to hear them right now. The last few weeks in particular, the media coverage had been which team Logan went to, so not getting picked up by any of them would make him feel like his last eight years of football were a wasted failure.

"Then it's one day," I started, but corrected myself when he raised his eyebrows. "Okay three days, then it's over. And the draft is not the only route into the NFL."

"Right." He snorted and rolled his eyes. "I have better chances of being struck by lightning than walk on and make the practice team."

"Then you'll stand outside in every lightning storm that comes your direction." I took a deep breath because I always teased Logan more than complimented him, but he deserved to know the truth. "And if not, then you come back to UW with me, we live in that crappy apartment another year, and both get our Masters' degrees. Selfishly, sounds like a win-win situation to me."

Two large hands wrapped around my shoulders then, in one movement, he tugged me closer and leaned in until our lips met in the gap. "I love you, Ellie."

"Love you too," I murmured into his lips then pressed mine tightly against them. His heart thumped wildly under my palm on his chest, same as mine. "And it's good that you're nervous."

"Good?" His head reared back, with eyebrows that couldn't have raised any higher. "I hate feeling like the entire thing is out of my control."

"That means it's important to you, how much you really want this." My palm patted his chest a few times. Since he just blinked at me like he wasn't sure he believed me, I just leaned forwards and pressed a slow kiss onto his lips. One of his hands slipped up, cupped behind my neck, and he kissed me harder but maddeningly slow and patient.

"Thank you," he mumbled between a round of slow, lazy kisses that left my head dizzy. "For coming here."

"I'm happy to be here," I assured him. "And even happier that the press day part is done."

True to Logan's word, he never gave Rachel Sorenson a single word other than, "No comment," even on post-game recaps. I hadn't seen many of Jake's interviews but Rachel pressed Logan a few times until she eventually huffed at his repeated rejection comments and gave up.

Thankfully, ESPN had a small herd of reporters who covered the draft and he avoided Rachel's questions. Some of the Seattle-based sports reporters made the trip since five of the Huskies were predicted to be drafted. After Logan, Wes was predicted to be a late second to early third round pick, and the sight of those two next to each other at their press table pricked tears in my and Charlie's eyes.

Logan's eyes darkened like an unpleasant thought ran through his head but he only answered, "Me too."

"Whatever happens, I'm with you today." I palmed my hand into the center of his chest. "And every day after that, tagged and bagged, remember?"

"Tagged and bagged." A humorless smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he looked down at my hand, palmed his over it, and ran his thumb over my engagement ring.

"Hey..." I cupped my other hand around his cheek and directed his gaze up to mine. "My opinion of you won't change, even if you end up being the sexiest high school science teacher I've ever known."

Logan only responded with how he pressed his lips harder against mine and massaged them gently with the tip of his tongue. The bed warmed around us the longer we kissed and rubbed our hands over each other. Since time wasn't on our hands, we settled for a quickie release, more for Logan's sake than mine but I was happy if I in any way helped edge off his nerves.

Afterwards, we quickly showered in silence. While I towel-dried my hair and Logan shaved at the bathroom sink, my phone buzzed with a message.

Charlie: Not sure how you guys are holding up but I'm pretty sure Wes just puked in the shower. 😵

me: Oh no! Logan's so quiet it's making me nervous. 😰
me: See you soon.

My stomach knotted and twisted while Logan and I silently dressed. Not even my pretended struggle with a pair of black nylons, like I rolled around the bed on my back like an overturned turtle, amused him.

The frown that creased the space between his eyebrows never left, but unlike the shakes that trembled my fingers, his calmly flipped one over the other as he fastened his tie. He moved slower though, almost sluggishly, no doubt from lack of sleep. Normally I was the one who tossed and turned at night but Logan flipped, groaned, and at one point wrapped his arms around me and tugged my back against his chest.

After I bent down and slipped on my shoes, I looked up and found empty air space where Logan had dressed at the end of the bed. The sight of him in the bathroom nearly tugged my heart out of my chest. His large frame leaned over the sink, both hands white-knuckle gripped the counters, and his chin tucked downwards so only his hair reflected in the mirror.

Inspirational words flew out of my brain, so I just stepped closer and wrapped my arms around Logan's waist from behind. His back tensed but two warm hands rested on top of mine, where his thumbs stroked absently. By the time he raised his head, his reflection looked almost unrecognizable. His eyes were slightly red at the corners and puffy underneath, his skin pale, and his eyes wore that same distant, displaced look in them.

"I'm here," I stated probably the stupidest, most obvious answer and squeezed him tightly.

Logan twisted around in my grip, lowered his head, and kissed me so hard my lips felt smashed inward. I didn't care, just fisted his light blue dress shirt in my hands before I realized he probably didn't need a creased shirt and released him with a gasp. I might have also possibly appreciated the mirror view of how his black pants perfectly hugged around his ass as I hugged him tightly.

"We'll be okay," he stated, not asked, but I nodded in confirmation.

"We'll be okay," I repeated, then tipped my head up and offered him a soft smile. "But if we're not downstairs in five minutes, then you know your mom will beat the door down."

Logan threw me a lazy smile while we rode the elevator down to the lobby, where we were scheduled to meet Grace and Brody. His eyes filled with a weighted sense of guilt but burned with heat as they traveled over me.

"What?" I glanced down and did a quick visual check like I hadn't dropped a blob of toothpaste onto my chest.

Wouldn't be the first time.

Sadly, not out of the ordinary for me during midterms and finals.

"You look unbelievable," Logan muttered quietly, like he spoke more to himself than me while one of his hands rubbed the side of his neck. "Sorry, I just noticed baby."

Logan's eyes located and fixed on details I normally avoided, from the liner around my eyes and gloss on my lips to the dark purple dress I wore under a black cropped sweater shrug and black flats. I'd gotten up early, straightened my hair, and clipped the top back up and off my face. The silver in my long necklace and platinum in my promise ring hung prominently around my neck and I'd threaded small silver hoops through my ears.

"You're not wrong but allowed to be distracted today." My lips curled up at the corners. "I can go change into a sweatshirt and jeans if you'd like. Pretty sure my nylons are already rolled down at the waist."

"No." His smile widened and his hand reached out for mine.

Before I answered, the elevator dinged and, once the doors opened, our day completely changed. Flashes of camera pictures and reporters shouted at us for Logan's attention, which picked up again once we got out of the car at Radio City Music Hall. Logan offered his tight, charming smile that I recognized as his 'politician one' but his hand kept its death grip on mine.

Grace and Brody followed behind us, her dressed in a dark green dress and Brody a gray suit with a gray tie and white dress shirt that he constantly tugged at the shirt collar. They were largely silent, we all were on the car ride over, paraded in front of the press at the entrance, and escorted down the stairs, behind the stage, and into a waiting area that had several round tables covered in black tablecloths.

"Table three, Mister Hightower." Our escort, a young woman in black pants and a white shirt like a restaurant server, pointed at a table near the back wall. "Location doesn't mean anything, it's assigned by alphabetical order."

"Thanks," Logan muttered, then pulled out a chair for me.

Four chairs had been arranged in the corner like a semi-circle, open to the rest of the room, and my heart flipped when I looked up and saw one corner television camera pointed right at our seats. Grace sat on Logan's other side, then Brody next to her.

After a bit of casual conversation, none of us realized how much waiting was involved and we waited for what felt like hours. I squeezed Logan's hand while Grace rambled off topic and Brody's thumbs flew in a phone conversation the entire time. I couldn't see his screen but a smile tugged on his lips occasionally.

Even once all the tables were full of obviously other football players and their significant others, we waited for what felt like an eternity. Staff members with headsets bounced around us like ping pong balls and buzzed conversations that made no sense to me but a slowburn intensity slow built up the closer the time ticked to one pm.

Logan thumbed through his phone because his social media pages had blown up with well wishes, mock draft predictions, and a few nonsense posts like marriage proposals. By the same vacant look in his eyes and how fast his thumb flicked, I knew he actually paid no attention.

By the time one pm finally arrived, Logan's knee bounced under the table so violently that I felt the vibrations. I placed my hand palm up and he threaded his fingers tightly in between mine. Not thirty seconds later, my hand, arm, and even my breasts jiggled from his knee bounces. After a few quakes, I glanced sideways and caught a tiny smirk.

That he notices.

So I wasn't entirely clueless about what Logan experienced, I'd looked up the draft day sequence and rules before we left Seattle. Once the NFL Commissioner announced the start of the draft, the first team had ten minutes to make their selection, trade their pick, or the next team had its chance.

Two television screens hung on the far wall that lead to an opening for the stage. One's screen was black but the other listed the NFL team's draft order. Generally, the team with the worst records had higher picks, although the positions changed slightly a few times as some teams traded between each other.

Selfishly, I glanced over the list and made a mental list of teams that were a good fit, tolerable, and ones I hoped weren't a feasible option. I hadn't familiarized myself with which teams had a quarterback hole and refused to allow my eyes to settle on Seattle except for how I noticed their draft position was twenty-three.

Detroit, Miami, Jacksonville, gosh those are all so far away.

Buffalo, New York Jets, Cleveland, Cincinnati, San Francisco would be doable.

New Orleans he could play with Darrius... Okay, now I'm just being stupid.

After a few rounds of my nonsensical mock draft, a set of overhead spotlights flashed on and flooded light straight down onto all the tables. Once cameramen positioned themselves behind all the television cameras in the room, every face behind a table plastered on a polite smile that masked the collective nervousness that hung thick in the room's airspace.

"Hey man..." A large, dark-skinned player at the nearest table leaned in our direction and offered Logan an outstretched hand. "Good luck, Hightower."

"Thanks Trayvon, you too," Logan replied tightly, but shook his hand. Once they leaned back in their seats, Logan murmured in my ear, "Trayvon James, defensive lineman from Ole Miss. Met him at the Heisman Awards."

"Ahh... " I whispered with no clue what else to say, so I sat silently.

The black television screen flipped on with a view of the stage we'd passed, the NFL logos and red, white, and blue banners hung along the wall that we sat on the other side of. A single podium sat in the middle, where a tall, older man walked up with a piece of paper in his hands and was greeted by a faint round of off-camera boos.

"Good evening everyone." The NFL Commissioner leaned forwards and spoke into the microphone, "Welcome to the Fifty-Third National Football League draft. The first pick is for the Detroit Lions, who are now on the clock."

From my limited Googling of previous drafts, I knew that the drafted players were called on their phones prior to their selection. A quick look down showed that Logan's hand clenched his tightly for the first five minutes. The entire room drew silent until the phone at the next table rang and Trayvon picked it up.

"Hello?" his deep voice murmured and pretty much every head leaned in towards his direction. He said a few words, cupped his free hand over his eyes, and shook his head a few times. After a few more "Yes, Sir, thank you Sir," responses, he leaned over and hugged the older woman who sat next to him.

The NFL commissioner walked up to the podium again, where he announced, "With the first pick in the eighty-seventh NFL draft, the Detroit Lions select... Trayvon James, defensive guard, Ole Miss. Miami is now on the clock."

Our area erupted into polite claps and I found slight tears pricked my eyes at the absolute jubilation that broke out in hugs, cries, and screams at Trayvon's table. While a highlight reel of his college plays appeared on the second television, his large frame stood up, walked with an escort to the other side of the room, and around the corner. A few seconds later, he appeared on the stage, where the commissioner handed him a Lions' hat and jersey.

I traded a silent look with Logan and my breath hitched at the second selection, since Miami was one of the teams rumored to be interested in a first-round quarterback.

Selfishly, I can't imagine a team further away from Seattle...

Our table sighed when, eight minutes later, Miami selected one of Jake's former wide receivers from USC. Once the board updated with the first two picks and put Jacksonville on the clock, we watched the countdown clock. My heart thumped with each ticked down second.

Two minutes into Jacksonville's pick, the NFL Commission walked up to the podium... right as Logan's phone rang.

"Ohmygawd." I gasped as he lifted up his phone to his ear.

This is nerve wracking. Is this it!?

"Hello?" Logan answered quietly, his other hand clenched tightly around mine, and his eyebrows scrunched together. "Mister... Schneider?"

My lips parted as his entire expression changed, from frowned concern to wide-eyed shock to absolute jubilation. His eyes glossed over as they stared straight into mine while he said, "Absolutely, Sir. Yes, I meant it then and I mean it now. Nothing more."

In a foggy background, the words, "There's been a trade..." hummed out into white noise as I got sucked under the intensity from how Logan stared at me. His jaw slacked, thin lips parted, he ran his tongue gently over them, and his chest heaved with a few deep breaths.

"Baby..." He leaned over, closed his eyes, and pressed his lips into my forehead. With a warm breath surrounded around one word, he said the choice I'd expected.

"Seattle."

"W-wuh!?" I squeaked out just as his arms squeezed tightly around me.

"I'm sorry, I should've -" Logan started and pulled back right when a birdlike shriek left my lips and my arms squeezed tightly around his neck.

"Are you freaking kidding me? Are you kidding me!?" I whispered over and over in Logan's ear.

My heart literally stopped inside my chest when the Commissioner announced, "With the third overall pick, the Seattle Seahawks select... Logan Hightower, quarterback, University of Washington."

A flood of tears rushed over my cheeks, my pulse pounded in my ears until the applause around us dissolved away. Once Logan released me, our table stood up together. My hands clamped tightly around my elbows, relief flooded through Grace's tear-stained eyes, and even a mix of joy and pride flashed in Brody's.

"So, so, so proud of you," Grace whispered over and over and reached her arms to Logan. "You lovable idiot."

Logan hugged her tightly, then Brody, who had the sensibility that he recorded the moment on his phone. In a blur of movements, Logan kissed me on the cheek, handed me his suit coat, and disappeared. My heart lurched when I saw our exchange replayed on the television screen and hugged his coat, still warm and scented with our hotel room soap, against my chest tightly.

Grace's arms choked around me and we shared tears, sobs, and all kinds of incoherent words while Brody just grinned. Highlights from Logan's past UC-Davis and UW games flashed over the screen, then a quick shot at a small group of Seahawks fans who attended the draft in person, an erupted crowd reaction at Huskies Stadium, then Logan's tall frame appeared at the side of the stage.

I forced myself not to blink for fear of the sight of the royal blue and neon green Seattle Seahawks' jersey that an unfamiliar man in a black suit extended to Logan with a matching baseball cap was just a dream or figment of my wildest imagination. Both of them looked freaking amazing on him but nothing compared to the grin on his face, the childlike beam in his eyes, and the near invincible way he stood with his chest lifted and the heart I loved proudly hung on those Seattle sleeves.

He did it.... He freaking did it.