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mrs-delaney · 1 month ago

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Behind the Lens | Joe's POV | Part One

📸 catch up on behind the lens before reading joe’s pov 🧃

📖 read my masterlist — if you’re into feelings, football, and a little bit of feral

✨ join my tag list if you want to be yelled at every time joe burrow has a feeling ✨

🏈 joe burrow x reader word count: 24.7k

Reader Request: Reader has been working for the bengals since Joe got drafted. She can be a social media admin, public relations liaison or even a physical therapist. She’s been in love with him but it is unrequited while he was with Olivia and when they break up she thought that she had a chance but he starts seeing the influencer but please make it a happy ending. Angst as fuck but happy ending. I want to see this girl yearning for fucking years before she gets him and I want him to realize that she is the love of his life.

Author’s Note: we did it Joe! thank y’all for your patience with me getting this out. i really wanted to make sure i captured it right. apparently joe’s pov is also gonna be wordy… so. let the games begin. i also really tried to make sure i got everyone tagged, but i’m certain i’m missing a couple people—please let me know if i am!

Taglist:@honeydippedfiction @harryweeniee @mruizsworld @cixrosie

July 2020 - Cincinnati Bengals Training Facility

The media room was just like all the others Joe had experienced since high school. The setup was identical, the atmosphere was familiar, and the orchestrated hustle of people aiming for the "perfect" shot was the same. But this time, Joe wasn't just another player going through the motions of media duties. He was the top draft pick. A Heisman Trophy winner. The franchise quarterback around whom they had spun an entire story before he even played a game. The savior of Cincinnati football—or so everyone kept saying.

Joe surveyed the room as he entered, taking inventory the way he always did. Cameras, lighting equipment, PR staff with clipboards and anxious expressions. Standard operation. He'd done this dance enough times to know the rhythm: smile when directed, answer the softball questions, project confidence without arrogance, give them just enough personality to make good content without revealing anything personal.

His eyes swept across the media team, cataloging faces he'd need to remember, when his attention caught on a woman adjusting camera settings with methodical precision. She wasn't rushing like some of the others, wasn't looking at him with that mixture of nervousness and starstruck anticipation he'd grown accustomed to. She was just... working. Focused. Professional.

"Good morning everyone," he said, nodding to the room generally, but found his gaze drifting back to the woman with the camera.

The photoshoot began predictably. Positions, angles, "Try this," "Hold that," the usual choreography. Joe moved through the motions with practiced ease, but he found himself paying attention to the woman behind the main camera. She gave clear, concise directions without the over-enthusiasm that usually made these sessions feel performative.

Then the assistant fumbled the football.

Joe watched it spiral awkwardly through the air, trajectory clearly wrong, heading straight for what looked like thousands of dollars worth of lighting equipment. Before he could move, before anyone else could react, the woman stepped forward and caught it one-handed. Clean. Natural. Like she'd been doing it her whole life.

The catch itself was impressive. The way she immediately transferred it to her throwing hand and sent a perfect spiral back to him was what got his attention.

"Nice hands," he said, and meant it. The throw had been textbook—tight spiral, perfect velocity, right to his chest.

"Growing up with three brothers," she explained, already stepping back behind her camera. "You either learn to catch or get hit in the face a lot."

Something shifted in Joe's assessment of her. This wasn't just another media person going through the motions. She understood the mechanics of the game, the feel of the ball, the instincts required. When she mentioned her brothers, he caught something in her tone—affection mixed with exasperation, the kind that came from real family dynamics, not media-friendly talking points.

As the shoot continued, Joe found himself responding to her cues differently than he typically did. When she asked for adjustments, he made them without the subtle resistance he usually employed with photographers. When she called for different expressions, he found himself actually considering what she was asking for instead of just cycling through his standard options.

"Can we get a few looking directly into the camera?" she requested, adjusting her position.

Joe met her eyes through the lens. Most photographers wanted him to look at the camera. She wanted him to look at her. The difference was subtle, but it made this feel like a conversation rather than documentation.

"Perfect," she said, voice steady and professional. "Now just a slight smile, nothing forced."

That surprised him. She could see the difference between his media smile and something genuine. Most people couldn't, or didn't care to. They wanted the smile that looked good in print, regardless of whether it meant anything.

Joe let his expression shift, allowing something more natural to surface. Not the careful, controlled smile he'd perfected for cameras, but the hint of amusement that appeared when someone surprised him. When someone actually saw him.

The camera clicked.

"Great," she said, and there was something in her voice—satisfaction, maybe, or recognition. Like she'd captured exactly what she'd been looking for.

As the formal portion wrapped up, Joe found himself lingering instead of immediately heading to his next obligation. The woman was reviewing images on her camera's display, that same focused attention she'd shown throughout the session.

"Did you get what you needed?" he asked, approaching her workstation.

She looked up, meeting his eyes directly. "Definitely. That last series will work well for the campaign."

"Thanks for being..." he paused, searching for the right word, "efficient. Some of these shoots can drag on forever."

"Time's valuable," she replied simply. "Yours and everyone else's."

Joe nodded, appreciating the practical approach. No false flattery, no attempt to extend the interaction beyond what was necessary. Just professional competence with a touch of personality.

As he headed toward the exit, Joe caught himself glancing back once. She was already organizing equipment, moving with the same methodical efficiency she'd shown throughout the session. Something about her stayed with him as he walked to his next meeting—the easy catch, the perfect throw, the way she'd asked for a genuine smile and waited until she got it.

Most people in this building wanted something from him. Performance, access, quotes, photo opportunities. She'd simply done her job exceptionally well while making him feel like a person rather than a product.

It was a small thing, probably meaningless in the broader scope of his transition to Cincinnati. But as Joe settled into his next obligation, he found himself wondering what she had thought of those final shots, and whether she'd noticed the difference between his camera face and the real one.

The wondering felt dangerous, and he pushed it aside. But it lingered anyway, a small thread of curiosity about the woman who could catch a spiral and see through his defenses with equal ease.

* * *

August 2020 - Virtual Team Meeting

Joe adjusted his laptop screen, settling into the home office chair as faces populated the Zoom window. Another virtual meeting, another adaptation to the strange reality of conducting team business through screens. The director of media relations was outlining COVID protocols, but Joe's attention kept drifting to the broader challenge they were facing: how to maintain connection with fans when everything that made football culture meaningful had been stripped away.

"We need to address the fan engagement problem," the director continued. "No fans in the stadium means we're losing that community connection that's central to the Bengals experience."

Joe had been thinking about this exact issue. The energy of a crowd, the visual of packed stands, the sense that the team and city were unified in something bigger than individual games—all of it was gone. How do you build a franchise identity when half the traditional elements were off the table?

A familiar voice cut through his thoughts.

"I have some ideas, if you're open to them."

Joe's attention sharpened. Y/N Y/L/N, the media coordinator who'd handled his photoshoot a few weeks earlier. He remembered her—professional, efficient, the woman who could throw a perfect spiral and didn't try to extend conversations beyond what was necessary. He hadn't expected to hear from her in a strategy meeting, but found himself curious about what she'd contribute.

"Go ahead, Y/N," Kayla encouraged.

Y/N straightened up as she began speaking, and Joe could see her settle into herself. This wasn't prepared talking points—this was someone who knew what she was doing.

"Okay, what if we did cardboard cutouts in the stands? Fans could buy spots to get their photos up there. It gives them a way to be in the stadium, looks good on TV, and we could put the money toward COVID relief here in Cincinnati."

Joe sat forward slightly. The idea was clever—practical but also emotionally smart. It acknowledged the loss while creating something tangible fans could participate in. More importantly, it connected team revenue to community support, which aligned with the kind of impact he wanted to have in Cincinnati.

"Second, the Freedom Center march—that $250k pledge to community programs? We should be documenting all of that. Interviews, behind-the-scenes, make it educational. Show people the team cares about more than just winning games."

Now Joe was fully engaged. He'd been thinking about how to use his platform responsibly, how to support social justice initiatives without it feeling performative or superficial. Y/N was proposing exactly the kind of authentic approach he'd been hoping for—substance over spectacle, education over empty gestures.

"And third, we need to replace in-person interactions with virtual ones. Q&A sessions with players, live-streamed limited-access practices, interactive social media challenges. The fans need to feel part of the Bengals community even when they can't physically be here."

When she finished, Joe found himself mentally reviewing each suggestion. They weren't just creative solutions; they were thoughtful ones. Y/N had identified real problems and offered practical fixes that served multiple purposes—fan engagement, community support, meaningful content creation.

"These are solid, Y/N," the director said, echoing Joe's own assessment. "Particularly the social justice series. Let's form working groups to develop each of these. Y/N, I want you on the social justice content team, coordinating with player involvement."

Joe made a quick decision. "I'd like to work directly with Y/N on the social justice initiative."

The words came out more decisively than he'd intended, but he didn't regret them. If they were going to do this right, he wanted someone who understood both the substance and the strategy. Y/N had just demonstrated she grasped what he was trying to accomplish.

After the meeting ended, Joe stared at his laptop screen for a moment, processing what had just happened. He'd requested to work with Y/N specifically, and he wasn't entirely sure why. Yes, her ideas were good. Yes, she seemed to understand the balance between meaningful action and effective communication.

But there was something else. She hadn't been trying to sell anyone on her ideas—she'd just presented them like they were the obvious thing to do. She wasn't performing passion for social justice; she seemed to actually care about creating something meaningful.

Joe thought about the march to the Freedom Center, about the conversations he'd been having with veteran players about using their platform responsibly. He'd been hoping to find people within the organization who understood that authentic impact required more than just photo opportunities and press releases.

Maybe he'd found one.

As he closed his laptop, Joe found himself looking forward to talking with her again. Y/N had surprised him twice now—first with how good she was at her job, and now with ideas that actually mattered.

It was professional interest, he told himself. The franchise quarterback needed good people around him, people who understood how to translate intention into action. Y/N seemed like exactly that kind of person.

* * *

October 2020 - Paul Brown Stadium

Joe had an hour to kill before his scheduled film study session. Most days he would have spent it in the quarterback room reviewing notes or grabbing a quick meal, but something had drawn him toward the main stadium bowl instead. Restlessness, maybe, or curiosity about how the space would feel without crowds for the first time in his football career.

Walking through the empty corridors, he heard movement coming from the main bowl. Curious, Joe pushed through the tunnel doors and stopped short.

The stands were filled with people. Thousands of them, sitting motionless in perfect rows, their faces turned toward the field in silent attention. For a disorienting moment, his brain couldn't process what he was seeing.

Then he understood. Cardboard cutouts. Y/N's idea, brought to life.

"This is surreal," a voice said from somewhere among the stands.

Joe turned to find Y/N moving between rows, camera in hand, documenting her creation. She was dressed casually—jeans, Bengals polo, hair pulled back in a ponytail—but there was something almost reverent in the way she moved through the artificial crowd.

"Quite the crowd you've assembled," Joe called out, making his way down toward the field.

She looked up, surprise flickering across her face before settling into that professional composure he was beginning to recognize. "Tough audience though. No matter how well I play, they never cheer."

The response surprised a laugh out of him. "But they never boo either. Built-in supportive fanbase."

Joe found himself walking closer, drawn by the strangeness of the scene and by Y/N's presence in it. This had been her idea, and seeing it executed made him appreciate the emotional intelligence behind the concept. It was eerie, yes, but it was also oddly comforting. Better than empty stands. Much better.

"This was your idea, right?" he asked, gesturing to the cardboard crowd. "From that call back in August."

"One of them," Y/N confirmed, continuing to move between rows with her camera. "Part of our COVID adaptations."

Joe began walking slowly through the artificial audience, studying the faces. Each cutout represented a real person, a real connection to the team. Some wore current jerseys, others vintage gear that spoke to decades of loyalty. The attention to detail was remarkable—these weren't just generic crowd shots, but individual submissions from fans who cared enough to send their photos.

"Creative solution," he said, pausing at a cutout of an elderly man in what looked like 1980s Bengals gear. "Kind of eerie, but better than completely empty stands."

"The team means a lot to this city," Y/N replied, joining him near the older fan's image. "Even when the seasons are rough."

"Especially then," Joe found himself saying, surprised by the conviction in his own voice. "Loyalty means more when it's tested."

The words hung between them. Joe wasn't sure why, but standing here with Y/N in this fake crowd felt like something. Maybe because her idea had actually worked. Maybe because they were alone in a place meant for thousands of people.

They stood in comfortable silence, surrounded by the two-dimensional faces of people who loved this team enough to want their presence felt even when they couldn't physically attend. Joe found himself studying Y/N as much as the cutouts, noting the satisfaction in her expression as she surveyed her work.

"We're setting up for a socially distanced filming session," Y/N explained, gesturing to equipment he hadn't noticed before. "Fan messages to play during the broadcast."

"Need help?" The offer came out before Joe had time to consider it.

Y/N stared at him with obvious surprise. "You're volunteering to help set up a PR shoot?"

Joe shrugged, not entirely sure himself why he'd made the offer. "I've got an hour before film study. Figured I'd see how the other side of this works. I'm usually the one being pointed at, not the one setting things up."

But that wasn't really it. Being here with Y/N, seeing how much she cared about getting this right—he wanted in on whatever she was building. He wanted to understand how she did what she did.

Before Y/N could respond to his offer, her phone rang. She glanced at the screen with the apologetic expression of someone about to take a work call.

"Go ahead," Joe said, already moving toward the lighting equipment she'd brought. "I'll start getting these positioned."

While Y/N was on her call, Joe looked around at all the equipment. He'd done a million photo shoots, but he'd never really noticed how much stuff went into making them work. Lights everywhere, cameras at weird angles—no wonder it took forever to get a good shot.

When Y/N finished her call, she found him adjusting a light stand with surprising competence.

"You've done this before," she observed.

"Enough times to know where the light should hit," Joe replied, testing the angle. "Though usually from the other side."

Working with Y/N was easier than Joe expected. Y/N would point at something and he'd already be moving to grab it. She'd start to ask for an adjustment and he was already doing it. It just... worked.

"My brothers would never believe this," Y/N muttered, almost to herself, as Joe helped position the main camera.

"What's that?"

"The franchise quarterback doing setup work for a social media shoot," she said, looking slightly embarrassed that she'd spoken aloud. "They think I spend my days chasing you around with a camera, not actually doing anything useful."

Joe smiled, enjoying the glimpse into her family dynamics. "Happy to help rewrite the narrative."

He kept thinking about her brothers. The way Y/N talked about them—like they were tight but also annoyed the hell out of each other. It made him think about what her life was like when she wasn't here dealing with work stuff.

"Which ones?" Joe asked, genuinely interested.

"Which ones what?"

"Your brothers. Where are they in all this?" He gestured toward the cardboard crowd.

Y/N's expression shifted to something between amusement and resignation. "Row 23, I think? Three guys who look suspiciously related to me, wearing vintage Boomer Esiason jerseys."

Joe immediately headed for Row 23. Y/N trailed behind him, looking mortified.

When he spotted them, Joe had to grin. Three guys who were obviously brothers, all wearing the same old-school jerseys and looking ridiculously happy about it. They looked like Y/N—same eyes, same smile.

"The Y/L/N brothers," Joe observed, taking in their faces. "I can see the resemblance."

"God help me," Y/N sighed, but there was affection in her voice.

Joe looked from the cardboard brothers back to Y/N. You could definitely see the family resemblance—same bone structure, same smile—but her brothers looked like the kind of guys who'd be screaming at refs and buying rounds for strangers after wins. Y/N kept hers more contained. She had that same enthusiasm, Joe could tell, but she'd figured out how to channel it differently. Keep it professional.

"You're lucky," he said quietly, and immediately heard the wistfulness in his own voice.

Y/N looked at him with surprise. "Lucky?"

"To have family that supports what you do like that." Joe gestured toward the cardboard brothers, then toward the broader project around them. "To have people who are genuinely excited about your success."

The words came out more honest than Joe meant them to. His own family was supportive, sure, but everything got complicated by his career. These guys had sent in their photos because they loved the team and wanted to support their sister's idea. Not because she worked with Joe Burrow. That was... different.

The stadium doors opened and suddenly the media team was flooding in, killing whatever moment they'd been having. Joe automatically switched back to work mode, nodding at people as they set up equipment. Y/N did the same thing—went straight into boss mode, directing traffic like nothing had happened.

As everyone started setting up, Joe hung around longer than he needed to. Officially he was helping, but really he was just watching Y/N work. She made it look effortless—everyone knew what to do, nobody was stressed.

Joe was ready to head out—he was definitely in the way now. But something held him back.

"Thanks for the help," Y/N said as he gathered his things. "Unexpected but appreciated."

"Good luck with the shoot," Joe replied, already shifting back into the more reserved demeanor he typically maintained around staff.

Joe couldn't get the image out of his head as he walked away—Y/N weaving through those cardboard fans, talking about her brothers like they drove her crazy but she'd do anything for them. The whole thing had felt... different. More real than the usual work stuff.

Standing there helping with lights and talking about family—it was like getting a peek at what normal felt like. Where people weren't constantly managing his image or trying to get something from him.

Walking back through the tunnel, Joe kept thinking about the way Y/N had looked at her brothers' cutouts. Embarrassed but fond. And how she just figured shit out—saw a problem and solved it without making it complicated.

And that moment when he'd said "You're lucky." He'd sounded more wistful than he meant to.

That was the thing about Y/N, Joe realized as he headed to his next meeting. She made him notice what was missing. Made him want the kind of easy, real connections that seemed to come naturally to everyone else.

Which was probably not smart. There were reasons to keep work and personal separate, and Joe had always been good at that.

But sitting down in the film room to watch tape, Joe couldn't stop thinking about standing in that fake crowd with someone who just saw him as a guy who could hold a light steady.

* * *

November 22, 2020 - Paul Brown Stadium

The play looked perfect. Clean pocket, receivers where they should be, Washington showing exactly what Joe expected from film. He stepped up, feeling that groove when everything clicks.

Then Ryan Kerrigan destroyed his leg.

Joe knew right away it was bad. Not from pain—that hadn't hit yet—but from the way his knee went sideways. The sound it made. Like something snapping that wasn't supposed to snap.

Everything slowed down and sped up at the same time. He was on the turf, players crowding around him with those faces. The ones that meant you were fucked. Really fucked.

Medical staff everywhere, teammates looking sick, and of course the cameras were rolling. Because why wouldn't they be? His knee exploding was going to be on every highlight reel for the next month.

But through all the chaos, Joe spotted Y/N on the sideline. She wasn't filming—just watching with her camera down, looking genuinely worried. Not like someone getting content, but like someone who actually gave a shit about him as a person.

Their eyes met for a second as they got ready to cart him off. Joe managed a tiny nod. Y/N gave him that look she did—not dramatic, just there. Just present.

As they wheeled him toward the tunnel, Joe's brain was already spinning ahead. Surgery, rehab, months of grinding to get back. And it would all be documented, turned into some comeback story.

***

Hours of doctors later, Joe finally had a minute to himself. The diagnosis sucked as much as he'd thought: torn ACL, damaged MCL, other shit that meant complex surgery and a long road back.

His phone had been going off nonstop. Everyone checking in, offering support, asking how he was doing. But the call he wanted to make was to the one person who hadn't reached out.

Y/N was smart enough not to contact him directly after something like this. She understood the lines between professional and personal, knew when to stay back. But Joe found himself wanting her to call anyway. Wanting to hear someone who wouldn't bullshit him with false hope or PR-friendly encouragement.

Instead, he called his agent. His parents. His girlfriend. Teammates. Handled all the business of being hurt—surgery dates, recovery plans, logistics. But the whole time he kept thinking about who was going to document this comeback. Who would understand the difference between filming his recovery and creating content.

He already knew who he wanted to do it.

***

When Kayla called about his rehab media strategy, Joe didn't let her get through her whole pitch.

"Y/N's doing it," he said.

"Y/N specifically?" Kayla asked, though she didn't sound surprised.

"She gets it," Joe said simply. "She won't turn it into some inspiration porn."

After hanging up, Joe lay there in his room, leg propped up and hurting like hell even with the pain meds. Thinking about what came next. Months of grinding through rehab, celebrating being able to bend his knee five more degrees, rebuilding everything from scratch.

Joe pulled out his phone and scrolled to Y/N's number. He stared at it for a second—texting her directly instead of going through official channels felt like crossing some line. But fuck it.

Heard you're documenting the comeback tour.

He hit send before he could talk himself out of it. She texted back fast.

If you're sure that's what you want. We can assign someone else if you'd prefer.

Classic Y/N. Never pushed, always gave him space to change his mind.

I want someone who won't make this into a pity story. Someone who gets it.

Then I'm in. We'll document the comeback on your terms.

Reading that, Joe felt some of the weight lift off his chest.

Surgery's next week, December second. We'll get going after that.

Got it. Focus on healing. I'll handle the content strategy.

Joe stared at his phone for a second before typing again.

Thanks, Y/N. For everything today.

He meant the work stuff, obviously. But also the way she'd looked at him on the sideline. How she'd put her camera down when it mattered more to just be a person than get the shot.

Always. That's what I'm here for.

Joe was finally getting sleepy, but he wasn't thinking about the surgery or months of rehab. He was thinking about having Y/N there for all of it. Someone who saw him as Joe, not just injured quarterback content waiting to be packaged.

His knee was fucked. Getting back was going to suck. But at least he wouldn't be doing it alone.

* * *

Early/Mid December 2020 - Rehabilitation Center

Two weeks post-surgery, and Joe was learning to hate the sound of his own breathing. Every exercise was a negotiation with pain, every movement a reminder of how much he'd lost in a single play. The physical therapist kept saying encouraging shit that all sounded the same, and Joe had started counting ceiling tiles just to keep from losing it.

"Just a few more clips today," Y/N said, adjusting her camera as the PT got ready for the next round of torture. "We'll keep it short."

Joe nodded, grateful she was there for reasons that had nothing to do with filming. Over the past two weeks, Y/N had become part of his routine—showing up, documenting his progress without making a big deal about it. These sessions felt different than their usual work stuff.

Maybe it was because the rehab center stripped away all the bullshit. No media training, no carefully managed anything. Just Joe trying to get his leg to work again while Y/N quietly filmed what a comeback actually looked like when nobody was pretending it was inspiring.

"Ready when you are," she told the therapist, who nodded and turned to Joe.

"Let's work on those quad activations again. Ten contractions, five-second hold each."

Joe gritted his teeth and started the exercise, feeling Y/N's camera following along. She'd figured out when to film and when to back off, never making him feel like a specimen under observation.

Thirty minutes that felt like three hours later, the therapist finally called it quits. As he left to get Joe's chart, Y/N started packing up her stuff with those efficient movements Joe had gotten used to.

"How's it look?" Joe asked quietly, nodding toward her camera.

He wasn't really asking about the footage. After two weeks of this, they'd developed their own language.

Y/N looked up, getting what he actually meant. "It looks like exactly what it is. The beginning of a comeback."

"Pretty boring content so far," Joe said, trying for his usual dry humor even though his knee was throbbing.

"The best comebacks start slow," Y/N replied, zipping her bag. "Makes it better when you actually get somewhere."

Joe shifted on the table, wincing as he tried to find a position that didn't suck. "This part doesn't make the highlight reel, huh?"

"Only the parts where you look superhuman," she said with a small smile. "Not the ones where you call the PT a sadist."

That got a real laugh out of him, though it turned into a grimace when the movement hit his knee wrong. But something about Y/N's honesty—the way she didn't treat him like he might break—felt like the first normal conversation he'd had since getting hurt.

"You don't bullshit me," Joe said. "I appreciate that."

In a world of medical consultations and carefully optimistic progress reports, Y/N's straightforward take felt like he could actually breathe. She didn't sugarcoat anything or feed him fake encouragement. She just saw what was happening and told him the truth.

Something shifted between them with that comment. Like they were both acknowledging these sessions had become more than just work. Y/N showing up had become something Joe looked forward to, not just for the filming but for the few minutes of actual human connection.

"The team wants an update for social tomorrow," she said, steering back to safer territory. "Any preferences for what we say?"

Joe rubbed his thigh above the brace, thinking about how to talk about progress when every victory was too small for social media.

"Keep it simple," he decided. "No dramatic promises. Just... I'm working. Things are happening. Grateful for support."

"Got it," Y/N nodded, making a note. "I'll send you a draft."

"I trust you," Joe said, and realized how true that was. "You haven't overplayed any of this."

The trust felt bigger than their usual work relationship. Y/N had access to his worst moments and never made him feel exploited or managed.

"That's why you requested me, right?" Y/N asked, keeping the tone light though Joe sensed a real question underneath.

"Yes," Joe said, meeting her eyes directly. "You see the person, not just the story."

The honesty in his voice surprised him. But it was true—Y/N had never made him feel like content to be packaged. Even when he was frustrated and hurting, she treated him like a person working through something hard, not a damaged athlete providing footage for his own documentary.

Before Y/N could respond, her phone buzzed with what looked like work.

"I should get this back to the facility," she said, holding up her phone. "Kayla needs the footage by three."

Joe nodded, already missing the conversation even though it hadn't quite ended. "Same time Thursday?"

"I'll be here," she confirmed, collecting the last of her gear.

As she reached the door, something made Joe call after her. "Hey, Y/N?"

She turned. "Yeah?"

"You doing anything for Christmas?"

The question came out more personal than he'd meant it to. But sitting in this place day after day, Joe had started thinking about the people who showed up, who saw him struggling and didn't try to fix it with bullshit platitudes.

Y/N shrugged like it was no big deal. "Staying in Cincinnati. My brother's wife is pregnant, so we're playing it safe with COVID."

"That's tough," Joe said, and meant it. He could hear in her voice that this was harder than she was letting on, the first Christmas away from family made more isolating by circumstances beyond anyone's control.

"It's fine," she said, forcing a smile. "First Christmas away from family, but honestly, not the worst thing happening this year."

She glanced at his busted leg, and Joe appreciated her trying to put things in perspective. But something about her just accepting it bothered him. Y/N spent all her time making sure other people felt supported. She deserved that too.

"Right," Joe said, though his brain was already working on something. "See you Thursday."

After Y/N left, Joe stayed on the table longer than he needed to, supposedly stretching but really thinking about their conversation. He couldn't stop thinking about Y/N spending Christmas alone.

But this wasn't just work anymore, was it? These rehab sessions had created something different—more personal, built on trust and actually giving a shit about each other rather than just media obligations.

Joe thought about how Y/N protected his privacy, never made his struggle into content, made these awful sessions feel less isolating. She'd become someone he genuinely wanted to see, not just for work but for who she was.

And she was going to spend Christmas alone.

Joe pulled out his phone and started looking up custom gift places in Cincinnati. He couldn't drive yet, couldn't run around the way he normally would. But he could make calls, get something meaningful made and delivered.

Something that would let Y/N know someone had been thinking about her during the holidays. That her kindness hadn't gone unnoticed.

As he scrolled through shops and artisans, Joe told himself this was just gratitude—thanking someone for exceptional work during a shitty time. The fact that he wanted Y/N to have something personal from him, something that would make her think of him when she looked at it, was just professional appreciation.

Even thinking it, Joe knew he was full of shit. But some lies were necessary, especially when the truth could mess up everything he was trying to rebuild.

* * *

December 20, 2020 - Joe's Home

Joe sat in his living room, leg propped up, scrolling through search results on his laptop. "Custom snow globe Cincinnati artisan" wasn't giving him much, but one shop kept popping up—some small place downtown that did commissioned pieces.

Olivia was upstairs wrapping gifts, humming Christmas songs while she got ready for tomorrow's celebration with his family. Everything exactly like it had been for the past three years. Comfortable. Predictable.

So why couldn't he stop thinking about Y/N spending Christmas alone?

It had been bugging him for days, ever since their conversation at rehab. The way she'd brushed off her first Christmas away from family, that smile that didn't quite work. Like she was trying to convince herself it was fine.

Joe found the shop's phone number and stared at it. This was crossing a line. You didn't commission personal gifts for colleagues. You didn't spend days obsessing over their holiday plans.

But he dialed anyway.

"Artisan Glass Works," came a voice on the other end.

"Hi, I'm looking for someone who can create a custom snow globe," Joe said, settling back as he explained what he wanted.

The guy—David—listened as Joe described the cardboard cutout project. Paul Brown Stadium filled with thousands of fake fans, Y/N's solution to an impossible problem, the way she'd moved through those crowds with her camera, documenting her own creation.

"So you want a miniature stadium with tiny cardboard people instead of snow?" David asked, already sounding interested.

"Exactly," Joe confirmed. "And it needs to be perfect. Every detail."

As he talked through the specs—orange and black colors, stadium layout, how the cardboard figures should look—Joe found himself explaining more than just the visual stuff. Y/N's first big project with the team, how she'd turned COVID restrictions into something meaningful for fans.

"This sounds like a very meaningful piece," David said. "The recipient must appreciate thoughtful gestures."

"She does," Joe said, then caught himself. "I mean, she's professional. Details matter to her."

"I see. And you mentioned Christmas delivery?"

Joe confirmed the timeline, arranging for Christmas Eve delivery to Y/N's apartment. As David went through the process, something made Joe hesitate.

"Actually," he said, interrupting the cost breakdown, "can you make two? Identical pieces?"

Brief pause. "Two identical snow globes?"

"Yes," Joe confirmed, not sure why he'd said it but unable to take it back. "Exactly the same."

After finalizing everything, Joe hung up and stared at his laptop, processing what he'd just done. Two custom snow globes. One for Y/N, one for himself. Matching pieces that would sit in their homes, reminders of something nobody else would understand.

The second globe was the most honest part. Joe wanted that connection. When Y/N shook her snow globe and watched the orange and black stuff swirl around the tiny cardboard fans, he'd be able to do the same thing. Like they were sharing a moment even when they weren't together.

It was romantic as hell, and that made Joe uncomfortable. This wasn't gratitude for good work—this was what you did when you had feelings for someone you couldn't pursue.

"Who were you talking to?" Olivia's voice came from the stairs as she came down with wrapped presents.

"Just handling some Christmas stuff," Joe replied, closing his laptop too fast.

"For your family?" Olivia asked, starting to arrange gifts under their tree with that methodical way she did everything.

"Work thing," Joe said, which wasn't technically a lie. Y/N was work, and the snow globe was about their project. The fact that his reasons had nothing to do with work didn't matter.

Olivia nodded, focused on making the gift arrangement look perfect. Joe watched her work, noting the careful spacing, how everything would photograph well for their Christmas morning social media. Everything in their relationship had that quality—thoughtful, appropriate, designed to look right from the outside.

But sitting there with his secret commission happening, Joe realized he'd never felt the need to surprise Olivia with something completely unique. Their gifts were nice, expensive, tasteful—but they could have been picked by someone who just knew their basic preferences.

The snow globe was different. It required understanding Y/N specifically, knowing what would mean something to her personally, wanting to create something that captured a moment only they shared.

***

Over dinner, Olivia picked at her salad while Joe worked through his PT-approved meal. The silence was comfortable in that familiar way, but Joe's mind kept drifting to tomorrow's rehab session, wondering what Y/N would film.

"How's the recovery content going?" Olivia asked, like she'd read his mind. "You've been spending a lot of time with that media coordinator. Y/N?"

Joe's fork stopped halfway to his mouth. "It's going well. She's professional. Knows how to get the right story without making it dramatic."

"She seems nice," Olivia said, casual but with something underneath Joe couldn't place. "You mention her a lot."

"Do I?" Joe asked, genuinely surprised. He hadn't realized Y/N's name kept coming up.

"During your updates. 'Y/N thinks this will work better,' or 'Y/N suggested we focus on the mental stuff.' Like that." Olivia smiled, but it looked forced. "She seems very... involved."

Heat crept up Joe's neck. "She's good at her job. Gets what I need."

"I'm sure she does," Olivia said, going back to her salad. "It's nice that you have someone who understands. The football stuff, I mean."

The comment sat there between them, heavy with shit Joe didn't know how to handle. Olivia had always been his biggest supporter, been there since college, understood the pressure better than anyone. But Y/N got the day-to-day stuff, the technical side, in a way that was just... different.

"Yeah," Joe said quietly. "It helps having someone who speaks the language."

Olivia nodded, but something in her face had changed. Not jealousy exactly, but like she was seeing distance that hadn't been there before.

Hours later, as they settled in for the evening, Joe's phone buzzed with a text from David: Preliminary sketches ready for approval. Can send photos if you'd like to review before proceeding.

Yes, send them, Joe replied quickly.

The sketches came minutes later—detailed drawings of the mini stadium, tiny cardboard figures positioned just right, how the confetti would move when shaken. David had nailed not just how it looked but the spirit of the whole project.

Perfect. Go ahead with it.

Excellent. Delivery confirmed for December 24th. She'll love it.

Joe stared at David's assumption about Y/N's reaction, wondering what he'd said during their call that made the guy so sure. Had Joe's voice given him away? Had his detailed explanations revealed feelings he was trying to keep professional?

"Everything okay?" Olivia asked, settling next to him on the couch. "You seem off lately."

"Just thinking about the comeback," Joe said, which was partly true. His rehab took up most of his headspace, the slow grind of rebuilding everything. But lately those thoughts were tangled up with looking forward to his next session with Y/N, the easy conversation that made the work suck less.

"You're doing great," Olivia said, curling against his side like she always did. "The doctors are happy with your progress."

Joe nodded, accepting her comfort while his mind went to the snow globe being made downtown. In four days, Y/N would get something he'd had made just for her, something that would sit in her apartment reminding her of their connection.

And Joe would have the matching one, letting him share that moment whenever he wanted, think about Y/N thinking about him whenever she looked at her gift.

It was the most emotionally intimate thing Joe had ever done, dressed up as professional appreciation. And as Olivia dozed against his shoulder, trusting and comfortable in what they had, Joe couldn't make himself regret it.

Some feelings, once you admitted them, couldn't be shoved back down. And Joe was starting to realize what he felt for Y/N went way beyond professional respect or friendly concern.

The snow globe proved it—a beautiful, fucked-up declaration he was sending without the balls to attach his name to what he actually felt.

* * *

January 2021 - Rehabilitation Center

The PT's notes looked good. Ahead of schedule. Range of motion improving. Strength building. All the numbers pointed to a successful recovery, but Joe couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had changed in ways no chart could measure.

"That's good for today," the PT said, scribbling final notes. "You're pushing hard, but remember what we talked about. Don't overdo it."

Joe nodded, though every instinct wanted to tell the guy to fuck off with the cautious approach. Six weeks post-surgery, and he was sick of measuring progress in degrees and pounds. He wanted to know when he'd feel like himself again, when his body would move without him having to think about every step.

"I'll send these notes to the medical team," the therapist continued. "Same time on Thursday?"

"I'll be here," Joe confirmed, his voice controlled despite the frustration building beneath the surface.

As the PT left, Joe stayed on the table, staring at ceiling tiles he'd memorized over the past month. Y/N moved around the room quietly, packing her stuff with that efficient way she had that had become one of the few normal things in his completely fucked routine.

"That looked rough today," she said, keeping it neutral as she put away memory cards.

Joe appreciated that she never tried to spin his bad days into something inspiring. She just saw what was happening and said it without trying to make him feel better about it.

"PT says that's good," Joe replied, hearing the edge in his own voice. "Means we're pushing boundaries."

Y/N nodded, recognizing the bullshit answer he gave to staff and coaches. After weeks of this, she'd gotten good at telling the difference between his various responses—the media ones, the team ones, and the real ones that sometimes slipped out.

"We got good content," she said, shifting to safer ground. "The determination shots will work well. And that resistance band moment shows clear progress from last week."

Joe made some noise of agreement, his mind elsewhere. The content, the narrative, the public story of his comeback—none of it captured what this actually felt like. The doubt that crept in when things got quiet. The fear that he might never move the same way again.

Y/N kept organizing her equipment, giving him space to process. Joe watched her work, noting how she paid attention to details others missed. She got that recovery wasn't a straight line, that some days felt like shit even when the medical data said you were improving.

"What if I can't come back from this the same?"

The question slipped out before Joe could stop it, spoken so quietly he wasn't sure Y/N had heard. He'd been carrying that fear for weeks, letting it build in the space between everyone's encouragement and how his body actually felt.

Y/N stopped packing and turned toward him, her expression shifting from work mode to something more personal. For a second, Joe regretted showing that crack in his armor.

Then Y/N reached for her camera and deliberately turned it off, showing him the dark screen.

"Off the record," she said simply.

Something in Joe's chest loosened. This wasn't going to become content, wasn't going to be turned into some inspiring soundbite about overcoming adversity. Just a conversation between two people, one of whom happened to understand what rebuilding an athletic career actually meant.

"Everyone keeps saying I'll come back stronger," Joe continued, gaining confidence as he realized Y/N was actually listening, not documenting. "The team, the media, fans. 'Joe Burrow's comeback will be legendary.' But what if it's not? What if this changes things permanently?"

Y/N leaned against the table, giving him her full attention in a way that felt different from their usual work stuff. "What does your PT actually say? Not the public version."

"That I'm ahead of schedule but have a long way to go," Joe answered honestly. "That most players come back from ACL tears, but it can take a full season to feel normal again." He paused, voicing the fear that kept him up at night. "If normal even exists after this."

Y/N nodded, thoughtful rather than sympathetic. Joe appreciated that she wasn't rushing to reassure him or offer some bullshit about positive thinking.

"I tore my ACL my senior year," she said, completely blindsiding him.

Joe turned to look at her fully, genuine shock breaking through his self-pity. In all their sessions, through all the conversations about recovery and rehab, Y/N had never mentioned going through this exact thing herself.

"You tore your ACL?"

"Playing soccer at UK," Y/N confirmed. "The rehab was brutal. I used to ice my knee and cry in the training room bathroom so my teammates wouldn't see."

The image of Y/N—composed, professional Y/N—crying in a bathroom over her own injury hit different. She understood this specific hell not as someone watching from the outside, but as someone who'd lived it.

"What changed?" Joe asked, fully engaged now. "How did you get from bathroom tears to playing again?"

"I stopped fighting the process," Y/N said simply. "Started respecting the injury instead of hating it. And I learned that 'same as before' is the wrong goal. You don't get the same body back. You get a new one that moves differently."

Joe absorbed this, recognizing truth in her words. Every session, every exercise, every small step forward was building something new rather than fixing something broken.

"But here's what no one tells you," Y/N continued, "the mental game changes too. You become more strategic when you can't rely on pure physicality. You see the field differently. You anticipate because you have to. Some of my best plays came after the injury, not before."

As she talked, Joe found himself studying her face, noting details he'd never paid attention to before. The way her eyes focused when she was being completely honest. The slight animation in her voice when she talked about something that was important. This wasn't professional Y/N documenting his sessions—this was someone sharing hard-won wisdom from her own experience.

"I didn't know," Joe said, something shifting in how he saw her. "About your injury."

The admission hung between them, more personal than anything he'd said to her before. It was true—Y/N never offered fake encouragement or tried to spin his struggle into something easier to swallow. She met him where he was, acknowledged the difficulty, and gave perspective without making his experience seem smaller.

Y/N held his gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between them. Then she moved back toward her equipment, gently breaking the spell.

"The comeback narrative isn't bullshit," she said, returning to safer ground while keeping the honesty that had defined their exchange. "It's just incomplete without the struggle." She picked up her camera bag and added, "And Joe? No one who's watched you work these past weeks doubts you'll be back. The question is just who you'll be when you get there."

Joe nodded slowly, processing both her words and the unexpected depth of understanding she'd revealed. Y/N wasn't just documenting his recovery—she was someone who had walked this exact path and come out different but stronger.

"Thanks," he said, meaning it in ways that went far beyond the conversation. "For the honesty. And for turning off the camera."

"Some moments aren't for documentation," Y/N replied, already moving toward the door. "Though if you ever want to talk about the mental side of recovery for the content series, I think it would help people. Athletes don't discuss that enough."

"Maybe," Joe said, his mind still processing everything she'd shared. "I'll think about it."

As Y/N got ready to leave, Joe found himself not wanting the conversation to end. For the first time since his injury, he'd talked to someone who understood both the physical and emotional shit he was dealing with. Not just the public challenges, but the private fears he couldn't voice to coaches, teammates, or even Olivia.

"Hey, Y/N?" he called as she reached the door.

She turned back. "Yeah?"

"Your team ever regret drafting you after the injury?"

Y/N smiled at the question, getting his real concern underneath. "I wasn't exactly first-round NWSL material, Joe. But no. The injury made me a better player. Different, but better."

After she left, Joe stayed on the table longer than he needed to, replaying their conversation. The vulnerability Y/N had shown in sharing her own struggle. The way she'd made his fears feel normal rather than catastrophic. The insight she'd offered from actual experience rather than textbook knowledge.

But what stuck with him most was realizing he'd never had this kind of conversation with Olivia. Not about fear. Not about fundamental change. Not about the possibility that recovery might mean becoming someone different rather than going back to who he'd been before.

Y/N understood him in ways that went beyond work. She saw his struggle clearly, met it with honesty rather than false comfort, and offered perspective that actually helped instead of just sounding supportive.

The realization felt dangerous—acknowledging that someone other than his girlfriend provided the emotional understanding he most needed during the hardest challenge of his career.

* * *

April 2021 - Joe's Home

The living room buzzed with the nervous energy that always came with draft night. Olivia had set everything up perfectly—good food, comfortable seating, TV positioned so everyone could see the picks. Joe's parents sat on the couch, his phone propped between them so extended family could join virtually, creating the kind of supportive atmosphere that should have made him feel centered.

Instead, Joe felt restless.

Maybe it was his knee, still reminding him of everything he'd lost. Maybe it was the pressure of knowing this draft would shape the team he'd come back to. Or maybe it was feeling like the center of attention while somehow being totally disconnected from everything happening around him.

His phone had been going off all evening—teammates, coaches, agents, reporters. Everyone wanted his reaction to potential picks, his thoughts on team needs, his input on players he'd hopefully be throwing to in a few months. The attention felt overwhelming and empty at the same time.

"They're really leaning toward Chase," his dad said, scrolling through draft speculation on his tablet. "Makes sense with your LSU connection."

"Could go either way," Joe replied, though privately he hoped the speculation was true. Ja'Marr Chase was more than just offensive firepower—he was a connection to the version of himself that had felt invincible, before the injury had fucked with his head.

Olivia squeezed his hand. "Either pick will be great. The team knows what they're doing."

Joe nodded, appreciating her confidence even as he recognized the superficial nature of her reassurance. Olivia understood that this mattered to him, but she couldn't grasp the nuanced implications of offensive line versus receiver, the strategic considerations that would affect every aspect of his return to football.

As the Bengals' pick got closer, Joe found himself thinking about Y/N. She would understand this moment, the way draft decisions affected everything about team building. Their conversations during rehab had shown him how well she got football strategy, how she could see past the surface narratives to what personnel decisions actually meant.

Without really deciding to, Joe picked up his phone and found Y/N's contact.

You watching?

The message felt like reaching for something normal in all this manufactured drama. Y/N meant honest conversation, perspective without obligation to react the "right" way.

Of course. Annual Y/L/N family tradition, now over Zoom.

Her response made Joe smile for real. He could picture her brothers debating prospects with the same intensity they'd probably brought to backyard games growing up. The image felt more real than the carefully orchestrated support around him.

Predictions?

My brothers are arguing Chase vs Sewell. Heated debate in progress. I'm staying neutral.

Joe appreciated her diplomatic approach, even though he could tell she was deflecting. Y/N was too smart not to have strong opinions about the team's needs, but she was careful not to influence him.

Smart. But off the record?

The question pushed at their work boundaries, asking for her actual thoughts rather than the careful neutrality she kept in their official stuff.

Off the record, I think your LSU connection might win out over conventional wisdom.

Reading her response, Joe felt that familiar appreciation for Y/N's insight. She understood the intangible stuff that influenced decisions beyond pure analytics—the chemistry between players, the psychological impact of reuniting successful partnerships.

We'll see in about 4 picks. My phone's been blowing up all night. Needed a normal conversation.

The admission came out more honest than Joe had meant it to. Among all the calls and texts from people with various agendas, reaching out to Y/N felt like refuge rather than adding to the chaos.

Happy to talk about it like a regular person. How's the knee today?

Her question shifted focus from the draft spectacle to his actual experience, treating him like someone recovering from injury rather than a franchise quarterback managing public expectations. The difference mattered more than Joe had realized.

Good session this morning. Getting stronger. Doctor says I'm where I should be at 20 weeks.

"Joe, who are you texting? You're missing the debate!" his mom called from across the room, where she'd apparently gotten pulled into his brothers' argument about team needs.

"Just work stuff," Joe replied, the casual lie coming easily despite how personal his conversation with Y/N actually was.

Olivia says hi. She's been impressed with the rehab content series.

Joe typed the message before thinking it through, then immediately regretted casually mentioning his girlfriend. It created an awkward reminder of boundaries that felt increasingly artificial, especially during a conversation that was giving him exactly the kind of connection he'd been craving all evening.

Tell her thanks and hey back.

Y/N's response was characteristically professional, acknowledging Olivia without making it weird. But Joe could sense the slight shift in tone, the way personal conversation had moved back toward safer work ground.

When Commissioner Goodell announced Ja'Marr Chase's selection, Joe's living room erupted. His parents cheered, Olivia squeezed his hand triumphantly, and extended family voices came through the phone speakers with excitement and congratulations.

Joe smiled and accepted the congratulations, playing his part while his mind stayed partially focused on his ongoing text conversation with Y/N.

Like I said, LSU connections matter.

Lucas says you're welcome. Apparently he's taking credit for Chase like he was in the war room.

The image of Y/N's brother claiming responsibility for the pick made Joe laugh genuinely for the first time all evening. Her family's enthusiastic investment in the team, filtered through her amused perspective, felt more real than the manufactured excitement around him.

Tell him I'll let Chase know he's got fans in Louisville. Heading into calls. Appreciate the breather.

Anytime. Congrats on the reunion tour.

As Joe set his phone aside and prepared to handle the inevitable round of post-pick interviews, he realized that his brief exchange with Y/N had been the most genuine interaction of the entire evening. While everyone around him had been performing their roles in the draft night production, Y/N had simply been herself—honest, insightful, normal.

"That was perfect," Olivia said, settling back beside him as the draft coverage continued. "Chase is exactly what you needed."

Joe nodded, agreeing while recognizing that what he needed went beyond football personnel. He needed people who understood him completely, who could give perspective without agenda, who made him feel like himself rather than like a franchise quarterback managing expectations.

Y/N provided that kind of connection. And the fact that he'd instinctively reached out to her during one of the most important moments of his professional calendar felt like an admission he wasn't ready to examine.

But as the evening continued and Joe handled the required conversations with media and team personnel, part of his mind stayed with that brief text exchange—the easy honesty, the shared understanding, the way Y/N had made him feel grounded when everything else felt like performance.

* * *

July 2021 - Training Camp

The energy at training camp was electric in a way Joe had almost forgotten. Real practices, full contact, the rhythm of football returning after months of careful rehab. His knee felt strong—not perfect, but functional in the ways that mattered. For the first time since the injury, Joe let himself believe in the comeback story that had gotten him through the dark months.

Y/N moved along the sidelines with that efficient way she had, coordinating her media team while capturing the moments that would become the story of his return. Joe found himself tracking her movement between plays, noting the focused intensity she brought to documenting this milestone.

Their working relationship had changed during his rehab into something more collaborative. More personal. The vulnerability they'd shared during recovery had created trust that went beyond typical player-media stuff. Joe relied on Y/N's perspective not just for content strategy, but for honest assessment of his progress and how he was coming across publicly.

"Looking good out there," Y/N called during a water break, her camera lowered in a way that meant personal conversation, not work documentation.

"Feeling good," Joe replied, meaning it for the first time in months. "Might actually survive a full season."

"Don't jinx it," Y/N warned with a smile that felt familiar and comfortable.

Joe grinned back, and for a moment the interaction felt like the easy friendship they'd developed during rehabilitation—personal connection disguised as professional collaboration.

But something had shifted since those private rehab sessions. The return to normal team operations had brought back barriers and complications that hadn't existed in the controlled environment of recovery. Other players, coaches, media, family members created a context that made Joe more aware of boundaries he'd let blur during his injury.

Including Olivia, who had been mostly absent from his rehab but was now here for the triumphant return phase.

Joe spotted her near the family area, dressed in team colors and chatting easily with other players' family members. She looked beautiful and confident, playing her role as supportive girlfriend with the grace that had always characterized their public appearances.

After practice, Joe was reviewing film with coaches when he noticed Y/N approaching the family area. From his position in the meeting room, he had a clear view of what happened next, though he couldn't hear the conversation.

Y/N had been organizing equipment when Olivia walked up to her directly. Joe watched as they talked, Olivia's body language open and welcoming, Y/N's professional but still warm.

The interaction lasted several minutes, longer than the casual pleasantries typically exchanged between players' family and staff. Joe found himself studying both women's expressions, trying to read the subtext from a distance.

Olivia seemed genuinely interested in talking to Y/N, gesturing occasionally toward the field and nodding at Y/N's responses. Y/N kept her professional composure, but Joe could detect the slight formality that meant she was being careful about boundaries.

When Joe finally escaped his meetings and approached the family area, both women turned toward him with smiles that felt slightly forced.

"Joe," Olivia said warmly, stepping close enough to claim his attention. "I was just thanking Y/N for all her work during your recovery."

"She mentioned how you handled the rehab documentation," Y/N added, her tone carefully neutral. "Keeping it about the work, not turning it into some dramatic story."

Joe felt uncomfortable tension in the space between them, like both women were performing for his benefit while navigating something more complex underneath.

"Y/N understood what I needed from those sessions," Joe said, immediately regretting how the comment might sound to Olivia. "Made the whole process easier to handle."

Something flickered across Olivia's expression—not jealousy exactly, but recognition that Joe was giving Y/N credit for understanding him in ways that Olivia maybe hadn't during his recovery.

"I'm sure it wasn't easy," Olivia replied, her voice maintaining perfect supportiveness while carrying something Joe couldn't quite identify. "Having to document someone going through such a difficult time."

"Joe made it easy," Y/N said diplomatically. "He was committed from day one. Very clear about his goals and boundaries."

The professional language felt strangely distant after months of increasingly personal conversations. Y/N was retreating into formal mode, recognizing the complexity of the situation and responding by emphasizing the professional nature of their relationship.

"Well, the content series has been excellent," Olivia continued. "Really showed his determination without being exploitative."

Joe appreciated Olivia's attempt to acknowledge Y/N's work, but something about the conversation felt wrong. The easy rapport he'd developed with Y/N was being filtered through social expectations and relationship dynamics that made their connection feel fake rather than genuine.

"I should get this footage back for editing," Y/N said, gesturing to her equipment with the kind of professional efficiency that meant the conversation was over.

"Of course," Olivia replied graciously. "It was really nice meeting you properly."

"You too," Y/N said, already stepping back toward her professional role. "Good to see you out there today, Joe. The comeback looks real."

As Y/N walked away, Joe felt a strange sense of loss. The comfortable intimacy they'd developed during his rehab had been replaced by careful professional distance—probably appropriate given the circumstances but disappointing nonetheless.

"She seems lovely," Olivia said, settling beside Joe as they watched Y/N coordinate with her media team. "Very dedicated to her work."

"She's good at what she does," Joe replied neutrally, though his eyes stayed on Y/N as she efficiently managed post-practice documentation.

"You two seem to work well together," Olivia observed, her tone light but with something underneath that Joe couldn't ignore.

Joe turned to look at his girlfriend directly. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing dramatic," Olivia said quickly. "Just that you're comfortable with her. During your recovery, I mean. She clearly understood how to handle that situation appropriately."

The word "appropriately" carried weight Joe wasn't sure how to interpret. Was Olivia acknowledging Y/N's professionalism, or subtly questioning whether their relationship had crossed lines it shouldn't have?

"The rehab was isolating," Joe said carefully. "It helped having someone document it who didn't make it feel like performance."

Olivia nodded, seeming to accept his explanation while maintaining that watchful quality he'd noticed since training camp began.

That evening, as Joe and Olivia settled into their house, the conversation returned to Y/N in ways that felt both casual and loaded.

"I'm glad you had good support during the recovery," Olivia said as they got ready for bed. "I know I wasn't around as much as I should have been."

The admission surprised Joe. Olivia rarely acknowledged gaps in their relationship, preferring to maintain the narrative that they were perfectly supportive of each other's careers and obligations.

"You were dealing with your own work," Joe replied, which was true but not the whole story. The reality was that Olivia's absence during his rehab had highlighted how much he'd come to value Y/N's consistent presence and understanding.

"Still," Olivia continued, "it's nice that Y/N was there for the professional side of things. She seems to really understand the football world in ways that..." she trailed off.

"In ways that what?" Joe prompted.

"In ways that I probably don't," Olivia finished honestly. "I support your career, but I don't always understand the specifics of what you're going through."

The admission created an opening for honesty that Joe wasn't sure he was ready to walk through. It would have been easy to reassure Olivia that her support was enough, that understanding football wasn't necessary for understanding him.

But sitting there in their bed room, thinking about the months of rehab sessions where Y/N had provided exactly the kind of insight and perspective he'd needed most, Joe couldn't bring himself to offer that reassurance.

"Different kinds of support matter at different times," he said finally, trying to navigate between honesty and kindness.

Olivia studied his face for a moment, then nodded with what looked like resignation rather than satisfaction.

"I love you," she said, settling beside him in bed. "I just want to make sure I'm giving you what you need."

"I love you too," Joe replied automatically, the words feeling both true and not enough.

As Olivia fell asleep beside him, Joe stared at the ceiling and thought about the afternoon. Watching Y/N retreat into professional distance when Olivia appeared. Feeling the careful tension of their three-way conversation. Recognizing that his relationship with Y/N had become something that required management rather than simple acknowledgment.

The easy connection he'd developed with Y/N during rehab couldn't coexist simply with his relationship with Olivia. The intimacy he'd found with someone who understood his professional world completely was highlighting gaps in his primary relationship that he'd been able to ignore before.

Joe had always been good at compartmentalization, keeping different aspects of his life properly organized and separated. But lying there beside Olivia while thinking about Y/N's careful professionalism and the loss of their easy rapport, he realized that some connections were too big to be contained within their designated boundaries.

The recognition felt dangerous. And increasingly unavoidable.

* * *

January 2022 - Post-AFC Championship Game

The locker room celebration felt surreal. Back-to-back AFC Championship games. A second straight trip to the Super Bowl. The comeback from his injury was complete in ways that exceeded even his most optimistic projections during those dark rehab months.

Joe moved through the chaos of interviews and celebrations with practiced composure, but part of his mind kept drifting to the sideline moments he'd caught during the game. Y/N coordinating with her media team, capturing the reactions that would become the story of this run. She'd been there for every step of his recovery, and now she was documenting how it all paid off.

As the immediate media stuff wound down, Joe found himself looking for her among the crowd of staff, players, and family filling the locker room. He spotted her near the edge of the celebration, camera lowered, watching the scene with the kind of professional satisfaction that came from knowing she'd captured something special.

"Y/N!" Chase called out, waving her over to a group of receivers. "Get this for the official account."

Joe watched as Y/N smoothly shifted back into work mode, directing the players through a shot that would probably become iconic. Her promotion to Social Media Coordinator earlier in the season had been well-deserved, expanding her responsibilities beyond individual player content to the whole team narrative.

The promotion had also created a weird possessiveness in Joe that he didn't want to think about too hard. Y/N wasn't just "his" media person anymore—she belonged to the entire organization now. But Joe still found ways to keep their professional relationship central to her responsibilities.

"Good game to capture," Joe said, approaching as she finished with the receivers.

Y/N turned, her smile genuine and warm. "Congratulations. Back-to-back championship games is no small feat."

"The content team has been killing it this season," Joe replied, nodding toward her coordinator badge. "That promotion was well-deserved."

He meant it, but there was something else underneath. Pride, yes, but also personal investment in Y/N's success that felt more intimate than typical workplace stuff.

"Thanks," Y/N said, looking slightly surprised that he'd noticed the promotion specifically. "Everyone makes it easy to create good content."

Joe gave a small shrug. "Still. You're the one shaping how it's remembered."

The comment carried more weight than he'd intended, acknowledging not just her professional skill but her role in crafting the narrative of his comeback. Y/N had been there for his lowest moments and was now documenting his highest ones.

"Well, my job's bigger now," Y/N said with a slight smile. "I'm not just chasing quarterbacks around anymore."

The reference to their early dynamic made Joe smile, remembering the photoshoot that had started everything. So much had changed since then—his understanding of her capabilities, their working relationship, the trust between them.

But something about her comment bugged him. The idea that she was moving beyond quarterback-specific content, that their professional relationship might become less central to her role, created an uncomfortable reaction he didn't want to analyze.

"Olivia's organizing a team gathering if we make the Super Bowl," Joe found himself saying, the words coming out before he'd fully decided to extend the invitation. "You should come. The whole media team is invited, but..." he paused, searching for the right words, "it would be good to have you there. After everything."

The invitation was supposedly professional—acknowledging Y/N's role in documenting the team's journey. But Joe knew it was more personal than that. He wanted Y/N at his celebration, wanted her to be part of how this all ended.

"Thanks," Y/N replied, her expression suggesting she understood the significance. "That would be nice."

Joe seemed about to say something else when Chase called his name from across the locker room. "Quarterback meeting in five."

"Duty calls," Joe said with a quick smile. "See you around, Y/N."

As he walked away, Joe tried to process what had just happened. Inviting Y/N to Olivia's gathering felt like crossing a line he'd been carefully maintaining. It was one thing to work closely with Y/N; it was another to specifically want her at his personal celebrations.

But the truth was, celebrating the Super Bowl without Y/N there felt wrong. She'd been part of his journey in ways that went beyond typical media documentation. The vulnerability they'd shared during rehab, the trust between them, the way she understood his world—all of it had created a connection Joe couldn't just categorize as work.

Later that evening, as Joe and Olivia discussed plans for the potential Super Bowl gathering, he found himself being careful about how he framed Y/N's invitation.

"I mentioned to Y/N that the media team would be invited," he said casually, not mentioning that he'd given her a specific, personal invitation that went beyond the general team inclusion.

"Of course," Olivia replied, focused on her planning notes. "She's been such a big part of the comeback story. It makes sense to include the key media people."

Olivia's easy acceptance made Joe feel both relieved and slightly guilty. She was treating Y/N's potential attendance as professional courtesy, unaware that Joe's motivations were more personal.

"She's been good to work with," Joe said, which was true but didn't describe the actual nature of their relationship.

"I'm sure she has," Olivia agreed absently, already moving on to other planning details.

But Joe's mind stayed fixed on the moment when he'd invited Y/N, on the way her expression had shifted when he'd made it personal rather than just professional. The anticipation he felt about celebrating with her was dangerous in its intensity.

For the first time, Joe admitted to himself that he was looking forward to sharing his success with Y/N in ways that went beyond professional obligation. He wanted her there not just as the media coordinator who had documented his journey, but as someone who had become important to him personally.

* * *

Early 2022 Season - Bengals Facility

Joe was reviewing film when Kayla knocked on the quarterback meeting room door.

"Got a minute?" she asked. "Wanted to talk about Y/N's new role and how it affects assignments."

Joe paused the video and turned around. He'd already heard about Y/N's promotion—she'd mentioned it in passing after practice yesterday, trying to downplay how big a deal it was even though Joe could tell she was excited.

"Yeah, of course," Joe said. "Congratulations are in order for her, right? Social Media Coordinator?"

"Exactly," Kayla said, settling into a chair. "Well-deserved for all the work she's done. But with her expanded responsibilities—overseeing all platforms, coordinating with other departments—we need to figure out how to redistribute some of her current workload."

Joe felt his stomach drop. "Redistribute?"

"Well, Y/N's been handling most of your media content personally," Kayla explained. "But with her bigger role, we might need other team members to take on some of those responsibilities. Free her up for the coordinator stuff."

The suggestion hit Joe wrong. The idea of working with someone else, of losing the collaboration he'd built with Y/N, felt unacceptable.

"Has this been discussed with Y/N?" Joe asked.

"Not in detail yet. We wanted your input first. If you're comfortable with other team members handling some of your content, it would help with the transition."

Joe felt something protective rise in his chest. Y/N had become essential to how he handled media obligations. More than that, she'd become someone he looked forward to working with, whose understanding of his approach had become irreplaceable.

"I'd prefer to keep working with Y/N," Joe said, his tone firm. "She understands my communication style, my privacy needs. Starting over with someone new would mess up what we've built."

Kayla studied his expression, clearly noting how strongly he felt about this. "That's something we can work with. Y/N's partnership with you has been really successful."

"It works," Joe confirmed. "I don't want to mess with something that's effective just because her title changed."

"Of course," Kayla agreed. "We'll structure her new role to maintain your existing collaboration."

After Kayla left, Joe sat back in his chair, processing his reaction. The intensity of his response to potentially losing Y/N as his primary media contact had been immediate and strong.

He pulled out his phone.

Heard Kayla might try to reassign some of your workload. Told her I want to keep working with you.

The response came quickly: Thanks. Was hoping our partnership wouldn't change with the new role.

Not if I have anything to say about it.

Appreciate that. See you at practice.

Joe set his phone aside, feeling better about securing their working relationship. Y/N's promotion was great for her, and he wanted her to succeed. But he also wasn't willing to give up the collaboration that had become essential to how he handled his professional life.

* * *

November 2023 - Baltimore Ravens Game

The hit came from his blind side as Joe released the pass, a clean pocket suddenly collapsing into chaos. He felt his wrist bend in the wrong direction, hyperextending as he tried to brace his fall against the Ravens' defensive lineman. The pain was immediate and sharp, different from the deep, structural agony of his knee injury but alarming in its intensity.

Joe stayed down for a moment, testing his hand and fingers while medical staff rushed onto the field. His wrist throbbed with each heartbeat, and something in the joint felt loose in ways that meant significant damage.

Not again.

As trainers helped him up, Joe's mind was already racing past the immediate injury to what came next: surgery, rehab, months of careful rebuilding. The familiar dread of watching a season slip away, of facing another long recovery that would test everything.

But underneath the frustration and fear was another thought, immediate and certain: he wanted Y/N handling whatever media coverage came next.

The pattern was repeating itself—injury leading to vulnerability, vulnerability leading to his instinct to reach for the person who best understood how to protect his privacy while managing the public story. Y/N had proven during his knee recovery that she could document struggle without exploiting it, could tell a comeback story with honesty rather than bullshit.

More than that, Y/N's presence during rehab had provided something Joe had come to depend on: emotional stability during chaos. Working with her wasn't just about media strategy—it was about having someone in his corner who saw him as a person working through challenges rather than content to be packaged.

Hours later, after X-rays and MRI scans confirmed ligament damage requiring surgery, Joe found himself in the familiar position of planning his comeback before he'd even processed the setback.

"We'll need to coordinate media strategy for the recovery," Kayla said during a meeting with team medical staff and front office executives. "Similar approach to 2020, controlled narrative, focus on the work rather than the setback."

"I want Y/N handling it," Joe said immediately, before anyone could suggest alternatives.

The speed and certainty of his request drew glances around the room. Joe's preference for Y/N wasn't surprising—their previous collaboration had been successful—but the immediate, non-negotiable way he'd said it revealed how much he relied on her specifically.

"Of course," Kayla agreed quickly. "Y/N's experience with your previous recovery makes her the obvious choice."

But Joe caught something in Kayla's expression, a flicker of recognition that his attachment to Y/N went beyond typical professional preferences. The way he'd insisted on her involvement, without considering her other responsibilities or alternative options, had been telling.

Later that evening, Joe was at home with his wrist in a temporary brace when his phone rang. Olivia's name on the screen.

"Hey," he answered, settling back into his chair with the careful movements of someone protecting an injury.

"I just heard," Olivia's voice carried genuine concern. "How bad is it?"

"Surgery next week," Joe replied, the reality still sinking in. "Six to eight weeks recovery, probably longer to feel completely normal throwing."

"I'm so sorry, baby," Olivia said. "I know how frustrating this must be, especially after everything you went through with your knee."

Joe appreciated her support, but found himself mentally comparing her response to how Y/N would handle the news. Olivia offered comfort and sympathy, which was valuable. But Y/N would offer understanding that came from experience, perspective that acknowledged both the physical and emotional challenge of major injury recovery.

"The team's setting up media coverage for the rehab," Joe said, already anticipating her reaction.

"Same approach as last time?" Olivia asked. "Y/N documenting everything?"

Olivia mentioning Y/N so casually made Joe think. After nearly three years together, Olivia had internalized that Y/N was Joe's go-to person for media challenges. The assumption that Y/N would handle his recovery documentation wasn't questioned—it was expected.

"Yeah," Joe confirmed. "She understands how to balance the story without making it dramatic."

"She's good at her job," Olivia agreed, though something in her tone suggested more underneath.

After the call ended, Joe sat in the quiet of his living room, processing both the injury and the conversations around it. His immediate instinct to request Y/N specifically, Olivia's unsurprised acceptance of that choice, the way everyone seemed to understand that Y/N was his preferred media partner—all of it pointed to a relationship that mattered beyond just work.

Joe thought about the months of wrist rehab ahead, all those sessions where he'd have to be vulnerable and patient. Going through that with anyone other than Y/N felt wrong.

His phone buzzed with a text, Y/N's name appearing on the screen.

Heard about the wrist. I'm sorry. How are you feeling?

Joe found himself smiling despite the shitty circumstances. That was Y/N—direct but caring.

Been better. But at least I know the drill this time.

Silver lining: you're an expert at comeback stories now. We'll document this one just as well.

Looking forward to working together again. Even under these circumstances.

Joe sent the message and immediately recognized the honesty in it. He was looking forward to working with Y/N again, to the regular sessions and collaborative planning and shared goals that would define his recovery.

But more than that, he was looking forward to having Y/N back as a consistent presence in his life. The injury was devastating, but it would restore the regular interaction with Y/N that his successful season had reduced to occasional meetings and structured professional encounters.

Me too. Same approach as before—your story, your terms.

Perfect. See you next week.

* * *

February 2024 - Joe's Home

Joe sat at the kitchen island, mechanically working through his PT-approved dinner while Olivia moved around their kitchen with familiar efficiency. The domestic scene should have felt comfortable—they'd shared thousands of similar evenings over the years together—but Joe found his attention drifting to his phone, which sat face-down beside his plate.

Y/N had texted an hour ago about tomorrow's rehab session, something about adjusting camera angles to better capture his improved wrist mobility. Nothing urgent, nothing that couldn't wait until morning, but Joe found himself wanting to respond immediately.

"How's the wrist feeling today?" Olivia asked, settling across from him with her own dinner.

"Good," Joe replied automatically. "PT says I'm ahead of schedule."

It was the same update he'd given her for the past two weeks. Olivia would ask about his recovery, Joe would give her the medical rundown, and they'd move on to something else.

"That's great," Olivia said, cutting into her salad. "How much longer until you're cleared for full throwing?"

"Maybe two weeks," Joe answered, his attention divided between the conversation and the urge to check his phone.

Olivia nodded, focusing on her salad. They fell quiet, but it wasn't awkward. Just the comfortable silence of people who'd been together long enough not to need constant conversation.

But Joe found himself comparing it to the easy dialogue he'd developed with Y/N during rehab sessions. Those conversations flowed naturally, covering everything from recovery logistics to broader observations about football, media, life. With Y/N, silence felt companionable rather than empty.

His phone buzzed against the counter. Joe glanced at it reflexively, noting Y/N's name on the preview.

Also wanted to run an idea by you for the final recovery video. Think we could capture something more personal than just physical progress?

Joe's pulse quickened slightly. Y/N's suggestion of "something more personal" felt loaded with possibility.

"Work?" Olivia asked, noticing his attention had shifted.

"Just planning for tomorrow's session," Joe replied, picking up his phone despite telling himself he should wait.

What did you have in mind?

He typed quickly, then set the phone back down, trying to refocus on Olivia and their meal. But part of his mind remained engaged with Y/N's message.

You've been spending a lot of time on recovery content lately," Olivia said.

"Y/N's trying to make sure we capture the full story," Joe explained, then immediately regretted mentioning Y/N's name specifically. "The team wants comprehensive documentation."

"Right," Olivia said, returning her attention to her dinner.

Joe's phone buzzed again, and despite his best intentions, he glanced at the preview.

Maybe something about what recovery means beyond just getting back to playing. The mental side, the perspective gained. You mentioned during your knee rehab that athletes don't talk about that enough.

The message referenced conversations from years ago, Y/N remembering details from their most vulnerable exchanges and suggesting they explore those themes more deeply. The recognition that she'd retained those personal insights felt significant.

"Sorry," Joe said.

But Olivia's expression had shifted, something watchful entering her gaze as she studied his face. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Joe replied, setting his phone face-down with deliberate finality. "How was your day?"

The question was intended to redirect attention, but Joe realized as he asked it that he genuinely didn't know how Olivia's day had been. They'd been in the same house for three hours, had eaten dinner together, but he hadn't asked about her work, her concerns, her life beyond their shared routine.

"Fine," Olivia said simply, her tone suggesting she'd noticed his delayed interest. "The usual client meetings and project reviews."

Joe knew the general outline of her responsibilities, but realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd asked for specific details about her projects, her challenges, her career aspirations.

When had he stopped being curious about Olivia's inner life? When had their conversations become purely functional?

His phone buzzed again, and Joe forced himself not to look, though every instinct urged him to check Y/N's latest message. The effort required to ignore it felt disproportionate to its actual importance.

"Joe," Olivia said quietly, her voice carrying a weight that made him look up from his deliberately ignored phone. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course," Joe replied, though something in her tone made him nervous.

"Are you happy?" The question was simple, direct, and completely unexpected.

Joe stared at her, processing the question and his own internal reaction to it. "What do you mean?"

"With us," Olivia clarified, her expression serious but not accusatory. "With this. With how things are between us."

The question hung in the air, demanding honesty Joe wasn't sure he was prepared to give. He thought about their comfortable routine, their shared history, the stable foundation they'd built together. But he also thought about the emotional engagement he brought to his conversations with Y/N, the anticipation he felt about their collaborations.

"Why are you asking?" Joe said, deflecting rather than answering.

"Because you seem distant lately. Not just physically, but emotionally. Like you're here but not really here."

Joe felt a flush of guilt, recognizing the accuracy of her observation. He had been distant, divided in his attention, more invested in relationships outside their home than the one they shared within it.

"The recovery's been consuming," Joe offered, which was true but not the whole story.

"It's not just the recovery," Olivia said gently. "It's been building for a while. Since before the wrist injury. Sometimes I feel like I'm competing for your attention, and I don't know what I'm competing against."

That stung. Olivia had noticed him pulling away even when he thought he was hiding it.

His phone buzzed again, and this time Joe felt Olivia's eyes on him as he fought the urge to check it.

"You want to look at that," Olivia observed, her voice neutral but knowing.

"It can wait," Joe said, though the effort to ignore it felt physically uncomfortable.

"Joe," Olivia said, her voice carrying a sadness that made his chest tighten. "When's the last time you looked at me the way you just looked at your phone?"

The question was devastating in its simplicity, forcing Joe to confront where his emotional investment had been directed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt eager anticipation about spending time with Olivia, the way he felt about his upcoming session with Y/N.

"Olivia," Joe began, then stopped, unsure what he could say that would be both honest and kind.

"It's okay," she said quietly, though her expression suggested it wasn't really okay at all. "I just think we need to talk about what's actually happening here. And whether either of us is getting what we need from this relationship anymore."

Joe nodded slowly, recognizing that Olivia was right, that they'd been avoiding a conversation that had become necessary. But sitting there in their kitchen, with Y/N's unread messages waiting on his phone and Olivia's sad, knowing gaze across from him, Joe realized that some truths were too dangerous to voice aloud.

He wasn't happy. Not with their relationship, not with the emotional distance he'd created, not with the way he'd been going through the motions while investing his real energy elsewhere.

But acknowledging that would require admitting where his emotional focus had actually been directed. And Joe wasn't ready for that conversation.

* * *

Early March 2024 - Joe's Home

Joe knew the conversation was coming before Olivia even asked him to sit down. There had been signs building for weeks—the careful way she'd been watching him, the deliberate quality to her questions about his recovery, the spaces she'd started leaving in conversations that felt like invitations for honesty he wasn't ready to give.

"We need to talk," Olivia said, settling onto the couch across from him rather than beside him.

Joe set his phone face-down on the coffee table, though part of him remained aware that Y/N had texted about tomorrow's final rehab session. Their last official meeting before he was cleared for full activity, and probably their last regular collaboration until the next crisis brought them together.

The thought of losing that consistent contact with Y/N felt worse than whatever conversation he was about to have with his girlfriend of four years.

"Okay," Joe said, settling back and trying to prepare for whatever was coming.

"I've been thinking about what I asked you the other night," Olivia began, her voice steady but sad. "About whether you're happy. Whether either of us is getting what we need."

Joe nodded, having known since that dinner they'd come back to this.

"And I think I already know the answer," Olivia continued. "For both of us."

Joe waited, recognizing Olivia's calm certainty meant she'd already worked through whatever she was about to say.

"The truth is, Joe, I don't think you've been present in this relationship for a long time," Olivia said, gentle but unwavering. "Not just physically, but emotionally. And I don't think it's intentional. I think you've just... moved on. Without realizing it."

Joe felt guilt mixed with recognition. She was right—he had been going through the motions while investing his real energy elsewhere.

"I know you care about me," Olivia continued. "And I care about you. But caring about someone and being in love with them aren't the same thing. And I don't think either of us has been in love with the other for a while now."

The observation was accurate and devastating. Joe did care about Olivia—she was kind, intelligent, supportive. But the passion, the excitement, the investment that characterized real love had faded so gradually he'd hardly noticed.

"Olivia," Joe began, then stopped.

"It's okay," she said. "I'm not angry. I'm just tired of pretending everything is fine when it clearly isn't."

Joe nodded, recognizing the exhaustion in her voice. They'd both been maintaining a relationship that had become more habit than choice.

"I think we've been staying together because it's easy," Olivia said. "Because we work well on paper, because there's no drama, because neither of us wants to be the one to say it's not working."

"But it's not working," Joe said quietly.

"No," Olivia agreed. "It's not."

They sat in silence, both processing the admission that had been building for months.

"Can I ask you something?" Olivia said.

Joe nodded, though something in her tone made him nervous.

"Is there someone else?"

The question made his stomach drop, not because it was unexpected but because it forced him to confront what he'd been avoiding. There wasn't someone else in the traditional sense—he hadn't cheated, hadn't crossed obvious lines.

But his emotional energy, his real investment, his genuine excitement—all of it had been directed toward Y/N for longer than he was comfortable acknowledging.

"Not in the way you mean," Joe said carefully.

Olivia studied his face, clearly noting what he wasn't saying.

"But there is someone," she said.

Joe felt heat rise in his neck.

"It's Y/N, isn't it?" Olivia asked, calm but knowing.

The directness left Joe with no room to deflect. Olivia had been watching, putting pieces together, recognizing patterns he'd thought he was hiding.

"Nothing has happened," Joe said immediately.

"I didn't ask if anything had happened," Olivia replied. "I asked if there was someone else. And I think we both know the answer."

Joe stared at her, recognizing that Olivia understood his emotional landscape better than he'd given her credit for.

"How long have you known?" Joe asked.

"Suspected for a while," Olivia admitted. "But really knew? Since your second injury, when your first instinct was to call for her specifically. The way you talk about her, the way you light up when you mention working together, the way you check your phone constantly when she's texting you."

The list was damning in its accuracy. Joe had thought he was being subtle, but Olivia had been watching, recognizing signs of emotional investment he hadn't even fully acknowledged to himself.

"She's been good for your career," Olivia said, no bitterness in her voice. "But somewhere along the way, it became more than professional for you."

Joe couldn't deny it. His relationship with Y/N had evolved far beyond typical player-media dynamics, had become something he looked forward to, depended on, valued in ways that went beyond work.

"And I think," Olivia continued, "that you've been so focused on maintaining appropriate boundaries professionally that you haven't acknowledged what's happening emotionally."

Painfully accurate. Joe had been so careful about not crossing obvious lines that he'd ignored the deeper truth about where his feelings had been developing.

"I'm not angry about it," Olivia said, surprising him. "You can't control who you connect with. But you can control what you do about it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that staying in this relationship while your heart is somewhere else isn't fair to either of us," Olivia said simply. "You deserve to be with someone who makes you feel the way you feel when you're working with her. And I deserve to be with someone who looks at me the way you look at her."

The truth was devastating in its clarity. Joe did feel different when he was with Y/N—more engaged, more himself, more excited. And Olivia deserved someone who could give her that kind of investment.

"I think we should break up," Olivia said.

Joe felt relief flood through him, followed immediately by guilt about feeling relieved. But Olivia was right—they'd been maintaining something that had become more obligation than choice.

"I think you're right," Joe said quietly.

"I think I am too," Olivia replied, sad but certain.

They spent the next hour working through logistics—the lease, belongings, the public announcement that would inevitably follow. The conversation was practical, civil, tinged with sadness but free from anger or blame.

As Olivia gathered some things to stay at her sister's place, Joe found himself thinking about what came next. About the conversation he would need to have with Y/N, about feelings he'd been suppressing, about the possibility that his emotional investment had been one-sided all along.

"Joe," Olivia said as she prepared to leave, pausing at the door. "For what it's worth, I hope it works out with her. You deserve to be happy. And she seems like someone who could make you happy in ways I couldn't."

The generosity made Joe's chest tighten with guilt and gratitude.

"Thank you," Joe said, meaning it.

After Olivia left, Joe sat alone in his living room, processing what had just happened. Four years had ended with mutual recognition that they'd both been going through the motions.

But more than that, Olivia had forced him to confront feelings he'd been avoiding, to acknowledge that his emotional investment had been directed elsewhere for longer than he wanted to admit.

Now he was free to pursue whatever connection existed with Y/N. But he was also terrified that years of careful professional boundaries had concealed his feelings so successfully that Y/N had no idea how he really felt.

The possibility that his feelings had been entirely one-sided felt almost worse than staying in a relationship that had run its course.

* * *

March 2024 - Joe's Home

Joe's phone had been buzzing constantly for three days straight. Teammates offering support, coaches checking in, reporters trying to get quotes, agents discussing damage control. Everyone wanted something—a statement, a reaction, an explanation for why his four-year relationship had ended so quietly.

But the call he wanted to make, the voice he actually wanted to hear, he'd been avoiding.

Y/N would have seen the news by now. Hell, she was probably fielding media requests about it, coordinating the team's response, crafting the careful messaging that would protect his privacy while acknowledging public interest. She was probably handling the crisis he'd created without him even asking, the way she always did.

The thought of Y/N managing his personal mess with her characteristic professionalism made something in Joe's chest tighten. She'd be careful, respectful, protective of boundaries she just understood instinctively.

Joe stared at his phone, Y/N's contact pulled up but the call button untapped. What was his excuse for reaching out? What professional reason could he manufacture for needing to hear her voice when what he really wanted was to tell her that he was free now, that the barrier between them had been removed?

But that conversation felt impossible. Too direct, too presumptuous, too revealing of feelings he'd spent years hiding behind work.

The NBC interview. Joe remembered Kayla mentioning a major network piece scheduled for next week, the kind of high-profile appearance that would require careful preparation. The kind of thing Y/N excelled at managing.

It was a legitimate reason to call. Professional necessity rather than personal want. Even if the real motivation was simpler: he missed talking to her.

Joe hit the call button before he could overthink it.

"Y/N Y/L/N," her voice came through, crisp and professional despite the late hour.

Just hearing her say her own name made something in Joe relax. After three days of managing sympathy, curiosity, and barely concealed gossip, Y/N's voice felt like solid ground.

"It's Joe."

A brief pause, then her tone shifted into something warmer. "Hey. How are you doing?"

"Been better," Joe admitted, settling back in his chair. "But surviving the media circus."

"I'm sure," Y/N said, and Joe could hear the understanding in her tone. She knew exactly what kind of pressure he was under.

"We've drafted a content approach that should help," she continued, already working to solve problems he hadn't even asked her to address.

Joe felt that familiar appreciation for Y/N's instinctive understanding of his needs. While everyone else was asking invasive questions or offering unwanted advice, she was quietly building protective barriers around his privacy.

"Kayla mentioned your strategy," Joe said. "No acknowledgment. Keep it focused on football."

"I hope that aligns with what you want," Y/N said, and Joe caught something uncertain in her voice. "I just thought—"

"It's exactly what I want," Joe interrupted, probably with more emphasis than necessary. Hearing Y/N articulate his needs so perfectly felt like being understood at a level he'd forgotten was possible.

"That's why I'm calling about the NBC interview," Joe continued, seizing on the professional excuse. "I need you there."

"I can assign our best team—" Y/N began.

"I want you there," Joe said, his voice dropping to something quieter, more direct. The truth beneath the professional request.

He needed Y/N specifically. Not just her skills, but her presence, her understanding, her ability to make him feel grounded during what would inevitably be a challenging interview.

"I'll be there," Y/N said, and Joe felt relief flood through him. "We'll make sure they stay focused on football."

"Thank you," Joe said, meaning it in ways that went far beyond interview logistics. "And Y/N? Thanks for not asking why it happened. Everyone else has."

The gratitude was real. Y/N's careful avoidance of invasive questions felt like a kindness everyone else seemed incapable of offering.

After hanging up, Joe sat in the quiet of his house—his house now, not theirs—processing the conversation. Talking to Y/N had felt like the first normal interaction he'd had since news broke. No judgment, no probing questions, no carefully masked concern. Just professional competence mixed with genuine care.

But more than that, the conversation had revealed something Joe was still afraid to examine fully. Y/N's immediate protective instincts, her intuitive understanding of what he needed, her willingness to prioritize his comfort over public curiosity—all of it pointed to someone who cared about him beyond typical professional relationships.

The way she'd said "I'll be there" sounded like a promise, like someone choosing to show up for him personally rather than just fulfilling professional obligations.

Joe thought about the NBC interview, about having Y/N there to navigate the inevitable personal questions. But he also thought about what came after the interview, about whether this crisis might create opportunities for conversations that went beyond their carefully maintained professional boundaries.

He was free now. The six-year relationship that had provided comfortable stability while preventing him from pursuing deeper connections was over. The barrier between him and Y/N had been removed.

But sitting alone in his house, thinking about Y/N's careful professionalism and respectful distance, Joe realized that freedom to pursue something didn't guarantee that something existed to pursue.

Y/N had been nothing but appropriate throughout their entire professional relationship. She'd never crossed lines, never made their collaboration about anything other than work, never given him reason to believe her feelings extended beyond professional respect.

The possibility that his emotional investment had been entirely one-sided felt almost worse than staying in a relationship that had run its course.

But for the first time in years, Joe had the freedom to find out. And despite the fear of potential rejection, the thought of finally being honest about his feelings felt like a risk worth taking.

* * *

April 2024 - Local Cafe

"This isn't for work," Joe clarified as Y/N settled into the seat across from him at their usual corner table. "I mean, we can talk about work if you want, but that's not why I asked you here."

Y/N paused, her coffee cup halfway to her lips, something shifting in her expression. "Oh. Okay. That's... nice."

The slight flush that crept up her neck didn't escape Joe's notice. It was subtle—Y/N was too professional to let much show—but it was there.

"How are you doing?" Y/N asked, settling back in her chair. "Really, I mean. The honest version."

Everyone had been asking about the breakup for weeks, but their questions felt like they were fishing for drama rather than genuine concern.

"Better than I expected," Joe said honestly. "The relief surprised me. I thought I'd feel more... I don't know, sad about it ending."

"Relief can be its own kind of answer," Y/N observed, then seemed to catch herself being too insightful. "I mean, that's what I've heard."

Joe studied her face, noting the way she'd pulled back from offering personal wisdom. "You've been through breakups before."

"Haven't we all," Y/N replied with a slight smile, deflecting without being dismissive.

The conversation flowed differently than their usual professional exchanges. Without the structure of injury updates or content strategy, they found themselves talking about broader things—books, music, family dynamics, observations about Cincinnati as a city. Joe discovered that Y/N had opinions about everything from local restaurants to the psychology of social media engagement, insights that were sharp and funny and completely separate from her professional expertise.

"Your brothers still giving you grief about working with me?" Joe asked, remembering her mentions of their teasing from years past.

"Constantly," Y/N laughed. "Though now it's evolved from 'don't embarrass us' to 'we can't believe you get paid to hang out with Joe Burrow.'"

"Is that what this is?" Joe asked, gesturing between them. "Hanging out?"

Something flickered across Y/N's expression—hesitation, maybe, or recognition that they were defining something that had been carefully undefined for years.

"I guess it is," she said, not looking away. "That okay?"

"More than okay," Joe said, then caught himself.

"Sorry, that sounded weird. Yeah, it's good."

As their lunches became regular over the following weeks, Joe found himself looking forward to them in ways that had nothing to do with work. Y/N was easy to talk to, made him laugh, challenged his perspectives without making it feel like confrontation.

But more than that, Joe started noticing things that suggested Y/N's interest went beyond friendship.

The way she remembered details from previous conversations—his mention of preferring morning workouts, his offhand comment about missing certain Louisiana restaurants, his observation about the difference between Cincinnati and LSU fans.

The way she'd automatically order for both of them when he was running late, knowing exactly what he wanted.

The way she'd lean forward when he was talking, giving him her complete attention in a way that felt different from polite interest.

The way she'd laugh at his jokes—not polite chuckles, but genuine amusement that reached her eyes.

Most telling was what happened when other people interrupted their conversations. If someone approached for photos or autographs, Y/N would politely step back, creating space. But Joe caught the way she'd watch, making sure he was comfortable, ready to intervene if needed. Not jealous or possessive, but protective in a way that felt personal.

During one lunch in late April, Joe was telling Y/N about his off-season training when a young fan approached nervously.

"Mr. Burrow? Could I get a picture?"

"Of course," Joe said, standing to accommodate the request. The interaction was brief and friendly, routine.

When Joe returned to the table, Y/N was smiling in a way that looked almost proud.

"What?" Joe asked, settling back down.

"Nothing," Y/N said, still smiling. "You're just good at that. Making people feel special without making it feel like an obligation."

The observation was specific, personal, the kind of thing someone noticed when they'd been watching closely enough to understand the difference between genuine engagement and professional performance.

"You've been studying my fan interaction techniques?" Joe asked, keeping his tone light but feeling something significant in her attention to details most people wouldn't notice.

"I notice things," Y/N said simply, then seemed to realize how that sounded. "Professional habit."

But that didn't really explain it. She'd been watching him, noticing things that had nothing to do with work.

That evening, Joe found himself replaying the lunch conversation, particularly Y/N's careful deflection when she'd revealed too much awareness of his personal habits. The pattern was becoming clear: Y/N knew him well beyond their professional interactions, had been paying attention in ways that suggested feelings she was trying to keep contained.

Y/N had feelings for him. Probably had for a while.

Her professional boundaries weren't just about maintaining appropriate workplace relationships—they were about protecting herself from wanting something she thought she couldn't have.

The careful way she'd always maintained distance, the professional language she used even during personal conversations, the way she'd never presumed anything beyond their official collaboration—all of it made sense if she'd been managing feelings while he was in a relationship.

Joe thought about their years of working together, the trust between them, the way Y/N had consistently prioritized his comfort and privacy even when it might have been easier to push for more access.

She'd been protecting not just his boundaries, but her own. Creating safe distance from feelings that couldn't be appropriately expressed.

But now things were different. He was free to pursue connections he'd been suppressing, and Y/N was free to acknowledge feelings she'd been carefully hiding.

The question was whether either of them was brave enough to cross the line they'd been maintaining for years, to risk the professional relationship by trying to turn it into something more.

Sitting in his house that night, thinking about Y/N's smile when she'd watched him interact with a fan, about the way she'd pulled back from offering personal insight, about the careful attention she paid to details that mattered to him, Joe realized he was finally ready to find out.

But he also realized that Y/N's years of practiced professional distance might make it difficult for her to believe that crossing those boundaries was safe, even with his relationship status changed.

If he wanted to explore what existed between them, Joe would need to make the first move. And he'd need to make it clear that he was interested in her as more than just a friend or colleague.

The thought was terrifying and exciting in equal measure. After years of careful boundaries and professional collaboration, the possibility of something real and personal with Y/N felt like stepping into completely uncharted territory.

* * *

May 2024 - Joe's Home

Joe sat in his living room at 2 AM, staring at his phone and the draft text he'd written and deleted seventeen times. Each version felt either too casual or too intense, too presumptuous or too vague. How did you ask someone to dinner when the implications could fundamentally change everything?

Want to grab dinner this weekend? Somewhere that's not our usual lunch spot.

He'd written it, deleted it, rewritten it with different phrasing, deleted it again. The simple message felt loaded with significance that terrified him.

Because this wasn't just about dinner. This was about crossing a line he and Y/N had been carefully maintaining for years. This was about risking the most important professional relationship of his career for the possibility of something personal that might not even exist.

What if he was wrong? What if Y/N's careful attention was just exceptional professionalism rather than hidden feelings? What if her knowledge of his preferences came from years of working together rather than personal investment?

Joe set his phone down and ran his hands through his hair.

The professional complications alone were staggering. Y/N was a key member of the Bengals organization, someone whose career could be affected by her relationship with players. If things went badly, would she feel pressured to transfer to another team? Would the organization question her judgment?

And what about the media attention? Joe's relationships had always been scrutinized, analyzed, turned into public entertainment. Y/N had spent years carefully maintaining her privacy, staying behind the camera. Dating him would thrust her into a spotlight she'd never sought, subject her to the kind of invasive attention that had contributed to the end of his relationship with Olivia.

Joe thought about Y/N at team events, how she moved efficiently through crowds without drawing attention to herself, how she'd perfected the art of being essential while remaining invisible. Being with him would end that anonymity forever.

But the professional and media complications weren't what kept him awake at night. The real terror was more personal.

Y/N saw him completely. Not just the public persona or the carefully managed image, but the person underneath—his vulnerabilities, his fears, his recovery struggles, his need for authentic connection in a world full of surface-level interactions. She'd witnessed him at his lowest points and never made him feel weak for having them.

That level of being known was intoxicating. It was also terrifying.

With Olivia, Joe had been able to maintain certain emotional boundaries, to keep parts of himself protected behind professional obligations and public responsibilities. Their relationship had been comfortable partly because it didn't require complete vulnerability.

Y/N already knew too much for him to hide behind those defenses. She'd seen him cry in frustration during rehabilitation, had witnessed his fears about never being the same player, had been present for moments of doubt he'd never shared with anyone else.

Being in a romantic relationship with Y/N would mean emotional nakedness in ways Joe wasn't sure he was prepared for. No professional boundaries to retreat behind, no public obligations to use as shields. Just him, completely exposed, with someone who already knew exactly where all his weak spots were.

The thought made his chest tighten with something between anticipation and panic.

And what if it didn't work? What if they tried to transition from professional collaboration to personal relationship and it ruined everything they'd built? Joe couldn't imagine navigating his career without Y/N's understanding and support. She'd become essential to how he managed his public image, his media obligations, his connection with fans and teammates.

Losing her as a romantic partner would be devastating. Losing her as a professional collaborator would be catastrophic.

Joe picked up his phone again, the draft message still waiting.

Want to grab dinner this weekend? Somewhere that's not our usual lunch spot.

Such a simple question. Such enormous implications.

He thought about Y/N's smile during their recent lunches, the way she'd leaned forward when he was talking, the careful attention she paid to details that mattered to him. The signs that suggested she might be interested in something beyond friendship.

But he also thought about her years of practiced professional distance, her careful maintenance of appropriate boundaries, her skill at protecting both his privacy and her own. Y/N was someone who thought strategically, who understood consequences, who wouldn't risk important relationships for uncertain outcomes.

Maybe she'd been maintaining professional boundaries not just because it was appropriate, but because she'd recognized all the same complications he was spiraling through now. Maybe she'd calculated the risks and decided their professional relationship was too valuable to jeopardize.

Maybe Y/N had been protecting both of them from exactly the kind of emotional chaos Joe was experiencing right now.

Joe deleted the message draft and set his phone aside, admitting defeat for the night. The rational part of his mind understood that every relationship involved risk, that meaningful connections required vulnerability, that staying safe often meant staying isolated.

But rational was being overpowered by fear. Fear of rejection, fear of complication, fear of losing something essential by trying to turn it into something more.

And underneath all the practical concerns was a deeper terror: Y/N mattered to him in ways that went far beyond professional collaboration or even romantic attraction. She'd become someone he couldn't imagine his life without, someone whose understanding and support had become fundamental to how he navigated challenges.

The stakes felt impossibly high. Not just the risk of romantic rejection, but the possibility of losing the person who knew him best, who'd been there for his worst moments and never made him feel inadequate for having them.

Joe had always prided himself on calculated risk-taking, on making strategic decisions under pressure. But when it came to Y/N, every option felt dangerous. Pursuing her risked everything they'd built together. Not pursuing her meant potentially missing the most meaningful connection of his life.

As he finally headed to bed, Joe realized he was trapped in analysis paralysis, cycling through the same fears and possibilities without reaching any conclusions.

Maybe the smart thing was to do nothing. To appreciate what they had without risking it for something that might not even be possible.

Maybe the safe choice was the right choice, even if it felt like cowardice.

But lying in bed, thinking about Y/N's laugh and her protective instincts and the way she'd made him feel seen and understood for years, Joe knew that safety wasn't the same as happiness.

The question was whether he was brave enough to choose happiness over security, vulnerability over protection, the possibility of everything over the guarantee of nothing changing.

* * *

July 2024 - Alo Sponsorship Event, Los Angeles

The Alo event in Los Angeles was exactly the kind of obligation Joe typically endured rather than enjoyed—beautiful people in athletic wear pretending to care about mindfulness while networking and taking photos for social media. But it was part of his endorsement deal, so he smiled and posed for content and made conversation with influencers and executives who mattered to his business interests.

The West Coast fitness scene felt like a different world from Cincinnati, full of people who understood personal branding as naturally as breathing. Joe moved through the outdoor event space with practiced ease, fulfilling his obligations while mentally counting down until he could escape back to his hotel.

"Excuse me, are you Joe Burrow?"

Joe turned to find a young woman approaching with the kind of confident smile that suggested she was used to getting positive responses when she introduced herself to strangers.

"That's me," Joe replied, automatically shifting into public interaction mode.

"I'm Ellie James," she said, extending her hand. "I just wanted to say I've been following your comeback story. Really inspiring stuff."

Joe nodded politely, recognizing the slight positioning that suggested Ellie had her own social media presence. She had that polished look of someone who spent considerable time crafting her image—perfect makeup, strategically casual athletic wear that was expensive but designed to look effortless.

"Thanks," Joe said. "Are you from LA?"

"New York originally, but I'm based here now," Ellie said. "I do content creation—fashion, lifestyle stuff, some modeling."

Joe nodded. She definitely had that polished LA influencer look down.

"LA seems like the place for that," Joe said.

"It really is," Ellie replied. "The energy here is incredible. So much more chill than New York."

There was something refreshing about Ellie's directness, her lack of complicated history or predetermined expectations. She was beautiful in an obvious way—young, blonde, with the kind of curated perfection that photographed well and drew attention without effort. But more than that, she seemed genuinely interested in the conversation they were having.

"How long have you been out here?" Joe asked, noting how other guests kept glancing their way as they talked.

"About two years now," Ellie said, tucking a strand of perfectly styled hair behind her ear. "It took a while to build my following here, but the collaborations are incredible. Everyone's so focused on wellness and authenticity—well, their version of it anyway."

As the evening progressed, Joe found himself returning to conversations with Ellie between his required interactions with sponsors and executives. She was easy to talk to in a way that required no emotional investment, no careful navigation of professional boundaries, no awareness of complicated history.

With Ellie, Joe could just be charming and interested without the weight of years of suppressed attraction and professional collaboration. There was no risk of devastating consequences if the interaction went badly, no possibility of losing something essential if he misread signals.

"I should probably mingle a bit more," Ellie said during one of their conversations, glancing around the room at other networking opportunities. "But this has been really nice. I don't get to meet many people outside the influencer bubble."

The comment felt like an opening, and Joe found himself responding before fully considering the implications.

"Maybe we could grab dinner sometime when I'm back in LA," he offered. "If you're interested."

"I'd really like that," Ellie smiled, and Joe could tell she meant it. The interest was clear but not presumptuous, straightforward in a way that felt refreshing after months of analyzing every interaction for hidden meaning.

They exchanged numbers with the kind of casual efficiency that felt entirely different from the careful professional boundaries that defined his relationship with Y/N.

As Joe flew back to Cincinnati the next day, he found himself thinking about the contrast between his easy interaction with Ellie and his complicated feelings about Y/N. With Ellie, everything felt simple, clear. She was beautiful, interesting, available, and interested—everything should be straightforward.

But simple felt like settling.

Joe thought about Y/N's protective instincts, her intimate knowledge of his needs, the way she'd been present for his most vulnerable moments without making him feel weak for having them. The depth of understanding that had developed between them over years of collaboration and careful trust-building.

Ellie represented safety. No risk of professional complications, no possibility of losing something essential, no requirement for emotional vulnerability that Joe wasn't sure he was prepared for.

Y/N represented everything Joe actually wanted but was terrified to pursue.

When Ellie texted the next morning—a casual message about the Alo event and a funny observation about LA wellness culture—Joe responded quickly, committing to a relationship that felt manageable rather than meaningful.

It was cowardice disguised as pragmatism. But it was also self-preservation in the face of feelings that felt too big and too risky to pursue.

For the first time in his career, Joe Burrow was choosing the safe play over the one that might actually win the game. And he knew, even as he made the choice, that he would probably regret it.

* * *

July 2024 - Training Camp

Training camp came in hot, literally and figuratively. The facility pulsed with familiar chaos—players returning, rookies getting hazed, schedules compressed into brutal efficiency. But this year felt different, weighted with complications Joe had created for himself during a weekend in LA that now felt like a mistake disguised as a solution.

Three weeks into whatever was happening with Ellie, and Joe was discovering that choosing the "safe" option didn't eliminate emotional complexity—it just redirected it.

On the field, everything clicked. His wrist held up under pressure, throws had their old precision, timing with receivers falling into place like muscle memory. This was the part of his life that still made sense.

Y/N moved through the chaos with her characteristic efficiency, camera over her shoulder, coordinating her team while tracking the key moments that would become the story of another season. Joe found himself hyperaware of her presence in ways that felt both familiar and newly complicated.

"Wrists looking a lot better," she called as he passed during a water break.

"Good," Joe said, rolling his shoulder.

"Wrist's holding up better than expected."

"Keep it that way," Y/N said.

He grinned despite himself, and for a moment it felt like spring again—when they'd been texting about random things, meeting for lunch, when everything between them had felt easy and full of possibility. Before he'd panicked and chosen emotional safety over authentic connection.

But Joe caught himself, the smile fading as he remembered the distance he'd been carefully maintaining since returning from California. It wasn't fair to Y/N, this withdrawal without explanation, but he didn't know how else to handle the guilt of being with someone else while still wanting to be around her.

The truth was, he'd been pulling back deliberately. Their lunches had stopped. His texts had become less frequent, more focused on work. He still sought her out during media obligations—old habits were hard to break—but the familiar rhythm between them had changed.

Y/N had noticed, of course. She was too observant not to pick up on his withdrawal, too professional to call him out directly, but he caught the questions in her glances, the careful way she'd started approaching their interactions.

Joe told himself it was necessary. Camp was intense, demanding tunnel vision. But even he didn't believe his own rationalization. The distance was about Ellie, about the guilt of developing something with someone else while still thinking about Y/N constantly.

Days blurred together in the familiar grind—practice, meetings, film study, recovery. Joe threw himself into preparation with an intensity that bordered on obsessive, using football as refuge from thoughts he didn't want to examine. His phone buzzed throughout each day with messages from Ellie—photos from LA, updates about her work, casual observations that felt designed for social media as much as personal connection.

Most evenings, Joe stayed late in the facility, reviewing film until his brain finally quieted enough to sleep. It was during one of these sessions that Y/N found him, alone in the film room with game footage frozen on the screen.

"Don't you ever take a break?" she asked from the doorway.

Joe looked over, offering a tired half-smile. "Not this time of year."

She stepped inside, sliding into the chair next to him with the easy familiarity that had defined their relationship for years. "Even quarterbacks need to let their brains cool off."

"Says the woman who's been here since dawn," Joe replied, nodding toward her camera bag.

"Touché."

They sat in comfortable silence, the room lit only by the frozen frame on the screen. For a moment, Joe allowed himself to simply enjoy her presence without the weight of guilt. This was what he'd been missing—not just Y/N's company, but the ease of being around someone who understood his world completely.

"You've been kind of MIA lately," Y/N said lightly. "Everything good?"

The question was carefully neutral, but Joe heard the real concern underneath. Y/N had noticed his withdrawal and was giving him space to explain without demanding answers he couldn't give.

Joe didn't answer right away, his eyes staying on the paused film. "Yeah. Just... camp mode. Lot to lock in."

Y/N nodded, accepting his non-answer. "If you need a break from all this, I'm around. We could grab dinner, talk about literally anything but football."

The offer hit Joe like a physical blow. Y/N was extending exactly the kind of connection he'd been craving, the easy companionship that had made their spring lunches the highlight of his weeks. But accepting would mean spending time with her while secretly involved with someone else.

"I'd like that," Joe heard himself saying, the truth slipping out before he could stop it. "Maybe next week? When it slows down."

"Deal," Y/N said, standing and grabbing her bag. "Don't stay too late."

As she walked away, Joe remained in the film room, staring at the frozen screen. Y/N had noticed his distance, had reached out anyway, had offered exactly what he wanted but felt guilty accepting.

The mess was entirely of his own making. He'd chosen Ellie to avoid the complications of pursuing Y/N, but instead of simplifying his life, he'd created a situation where he was being dishonest with everyone—Ellie about the depth of his feelings, Y/N about why he'd pulled away, himself about what he actually wanted.

Joe's phone buzzed with another message from Ellie, something light from her day in LA. He read it without responding, then set the phone aside and returned his attention to the film, using football analysis as distraction from the recognition that he'd made the wrong choice and was too much of a coward to admit it.

Y/N was giving him space to figure out whatever was happening with him, even though his withdrawal was probably hurting her in ways she'd never express directly.

* * *

November 2024 - Team Flight Back from Dallas

Joe was trying to sleep on the team flight when his phone started buzzing incessantly. First one call, then another, then texts flooding in faster than he could read them. The victory over Dallas should have felt satisfying—another step toward the playoffs—but the sudden barrage of notifications sent ice through his veins.

The first missed call was from his security company. The second from his neighbor. The third from Ellie, timestamped twenty minutes ago.

Security breach at residence. Police dispatched. Contact immediately.

Joe's heart stopped. Ellie was supposed to be at his house—she'd flown in to see him and was waiting for his return from Dallas. But something had gone terribly wrong.

His phone rang again. Ellie's name on the screen.

"What happened?" Joe answered, keeping his voice low to avoid waking teammates nearby.

"I'm so sorry," Ellie's voice was shaky, clearly rattled. "I got to your house and found the window broken, things missing. Someone broke in before I got there. I called the police immediately."

Joe felt relief that Ellie was safe and anger that someone had violated his home. But that was immediately replaced by a different kind of panic as the implications hit him.

"Are you hurt? Did you see anyone?"

"I'm fine, just scared. I got here after it happened. The police are taking statements, trying to figure out what was taken. But Joe..." Ellie hesitated. "There are photographers outside now. Someone must have heard the police scanner. They're asking questions about why I was here, what my relationship to you is."

The blood drained from Joe's face. "What did you tell them?"

"I tried to say I was just a friend, but they're not buying it. They can see I have a key, that I was expected here. The police needed to know my relationship to you for their report."

Joe closed his eyes, already imagining the headlines, the speculation, the invasive analysis that would follow. Worse than that, he thought about Y/N finding out this way—not from him, but from police reports and social media investigation.

"I didn't know what else to tell them," Ellie continued. "I had to be honest with the police about why I was here, that we're... together. But now it's going to be everywhere, isn't it?"

It wouldn't matter how vague she'd been. The internet was relentless when it came to connecting dots, especially when it involved celebrities and attractive women. Within hours, someone would identify Ellie, trace their connection, piece together a timeline that would make their relationship public knowledge.

"I should have called you first," Ellie said, her voice small. "But I was scared, and the police were asking questions, and I didn't know what else to do."

"Don't go back to your place tonight," Joe said, his mind already working through logistics. "I'll get you a hotel room. Somewhere nice, away from all this. Text me when the police are done and I'll send you the details."

"Are you sure? I could just fly back to LA—"

"No," Joe said firmly. "I want to see you, make sure you're okay. We'll figure this out together when I land."

After hanging up, Joe stared at his phone, watching notifications multiply as the story spread across social media platforms. Someone had already posted photos of police cars outside his house, of Ellie talking to officers, of the broken window that had started this entire mess.

His relationship with Ellie, which he'd kept carefully private for months, was about to become public in the worst possible way. Not through a planned announcement or gradual revelation, but through crisis and speculation and invasive coverage of what should have been a simple break-in.

But worse than the media attention was the thought of Y/N learning about Ellie this way. After months of working closely together, of sharing professional intimacy and careful friendship, of the growing distance he'd created without explanation—Y/N was going to discover the reason for his withdrawal through tabloid coverage and social media detective work.

Joe thought about their conversation in the film room just months ago, when Y/N had offered dinner and he'd deflected with promises of "maybe next week." He thought about all the times she'd noticed his distraction, his emotional distance, his reluctance to maintain the easy connection they'd developed. She'd been too professional to push for explanations.

Now she'd get those answers whether he was ready or not.

His phone buzzed with a text from his agent, then his publicist, then team management. Everyone wanted to know what was happening, how to handle the situation. But Joe found himself thinking about one person who probably wouldn't reach out directly, who would handle this news with the same professional composure she brought to every crisis.

Y/N would see the headlines, piece together the timeline, understand why he'd pulled away from their friendship. She'd realize that while she'd been wondering what had changed between them, he'd been building a secret relationship with someone else.

The team plane began its descent into Cincinnati, and Joe's phone continued buzzing with calls he didn't want to answer. Outside the small aircraft window, the city lights looked the same as always, but Joe knew that by morning, everything would be different.

His carefully maintained privacy was about to be shattered. His relationship with Ellie would become public knowledge through the worst possible circumstances. And Y/N—the person whose opinion mattered most, whose friendship he'd been too cowardly to protect and too scared to pursue—was going to learn about his emotional betrayal through internet speculation and crisis management.

As the plane touched down, Joe realized that in trying to avoid complicated conversations and difficult choices, he'd created a situation far worse than any of the scenarios he'd been trying to prevent.

* * *

November 2024 - Bengals Facility

Joe hadn't slept. After meeting Ellie at the hotel, after holding her while she cried about the break-in, after dealing with police reports and security companies and insurance claims, he'd spent the remaining hours staring at the ceiling and dreading this moment.

Walking into the Bengals facility at 9:30 AM felt like entering a war zone. Staff members looked up as he passed, their expressions carefully neutral but eyes full of questions. Everyone knew. The story had exploded overnight exactly as he'd feared.

But worse than the general scrutiny was the thought of facing Y/N. She would have seen the headlines, pieced together the timeline, understood why he'd pulled away from their friendship without explanation.

Joe's phone buzzed with another message from his agent, his publicist, his family. Everyone wanted to know how to handle this. But the only conversation he was dreading was the one with Y/N.

He knocked on the press prep room door at exactly 10:15, steeling himself for whatever he might see in her expression. When Y/N looked up from her notes, her face was perfectly professional, but Joe caught the brief flicker of something—hurt, maybe, or disappointment—before she smoothed it away.

"Hey," he said, the inadequacy of the greeting obvious even to him.

"Hey," Y/N replied, her tone carefully neutral. "You okay?"

The simple question hit harder than it should have. Y/N was still looking out for him, still prioritizing his wellbeing even after discovering his betrayal of their friendship.

"Been better," Joe admitted, taking the seat across from her. "I'm guessing you've heard."

"It's been a busy morning," Y/N confirmed, and Joe noted how she didn't acknowledge the personal impact, didn't ask the questions she had every right to ask. "The team's concerned about how to handle the media today."

Joe nodded, studying her face for any sign of what she was really thinking. But Y/N had perfected the art of professional distance.

"What do you think I should do?" he asked, genuinely wanting her perspective but also hoping to gauge her emotional state.

Y/N took a deep breath, and Joe watched her deliberately push aside whatever personal feelings she might have.

"I think what happened was an invasion of privacy in more ways than one," she said carefully. "First the break-in itself, then the public speculation. You don't owe anyone anything, Joe. Not explanations, not confirmations, not details about your personal life."

The immediate protective response was pure Y/N—even hurt and blindsided, her first instinct was to shield him from further violation. Joe felt his chest tighten with gratitude and guilt.

"That's what I figured you'd say," he said, meaning it as recognition of how well she understood him.

Y/N continued outlining strategy with the same competence she brought to every crisis, giving him tools to maintain his boundaries while managing public pressure. But Joe found himself studying her face, looking for cracks in the professional facade.

"Thank you," Joe said when she finished. "For understanding. For not..." he hesitated, "not asking questions yourself."

Something flickered across Y/N's expression at that—a flash of pain quickly suppressed. Joe realized too late that his gratitude for her professional distance might sound like relief that she wasn't demanding explanations he didn't want to give.

"That's my job," Y/N said simply. "To help you navigate the public aspects of your career while respecting your private ones."

The response was perfectly professional and completely devastating. Y/N was retreating behind job descriptions, creating distance that felt like punishment even though Joe knew he deserved it.

They spent the next fifteen minutes reviewing strategy, but Joe felt the weight of everything unsaid hanging between them. Y/N was helping him protect his privacy while probably wondering why he'd never trusted her with the truth.

As they finished, Joe found himself desperate to bridge the growing gap between them.

"You know, in all these years, you're the only one who's never tried to frame me according to what others want to see. Who's never pushed for more than I wanted to give."

It was true, but as soon as he said it, Joe realized how it might sound to someone who had just discovered he'd been hiding a relationship from her for months.

"Everyone deserves privacy," Y/N managed, her voice carefully controlled. "Even you."

Something in her tone—resignation, maybe, or hurt acknowledgment—made Joe want to explain everything. But before he could find the words, it was time for the press conference.

* * *

The Press Conference

Standing at the podium, looking out at the room full of reporters waiting to dissect his personal life, Joe felt a familiar calm settle over him. This was the part he could control—his response, his boundaries, his narrative.

He caught sight of Y/N in the back of the room, her expression focused and professional as she monitored his performance. Knowing she was there gave him the confidence to speak from the heart rather than from their prepared talking points.

"I know there's been a lot of attention around my name in the past twenty-four hours," Joe began, his voice steady and clear. "Out of respect for the people involved and for myself, I'm going to say this once. I feel like my privacy has been violated in more ways than one, and way more is already out there than I would want out there and that I care to share."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the room.

"I'm here to talk about football. That's what I'll be answering questions about today."

The boundary was clear and non-negotiable. Joe held firm as reporters tried various angles to return to the personal story, calmly redirecting every question back to football. When it was over, he looked toward the back of the room, catching Y/N's eye for just a moment—a silent acknowledgment of their shared understanding.

* * *

Later That Day - Y/N's Office

Joe stood outside Y/N's office for several minutes before knocking, trying to find the right words for a conversation he should have had months ago. When he finally entered, Y/N looked up with that same professional composure, but Joe caught the slight tension in her shoulders.

"Got a minute?" he asked.

"Of course," Y/N replied, though something in her tone suggested this was the last conversation she wanted to have.

Joe closed the door and sat across from her desk, studying her face and finding nothing but polite professional attention. The easy warmth that had characterized their friendship was gone, replaced by careful distance.

"I went off script," he said, testing the waters.

"It was better," Y/N replied honestly. "More authentic. Set a clearer boundary."

Joe felt a brief moment of satisfaction that she approved, followed immediately by sadness that they were discussing his press conference performance rather than the personal earthquake that had brought them to this point.

"I wanted to thank you for how you handled everything this morning," he continued. "Sam mentioned you shut down the suggestions to make some official statement about... everything."

Y/N just shrugged, keeping her expression neutral. "I just did what you would have wanted. Protected your privacy."

"You always do," Joe said quietly. "Even when others don't."

The silence that followed felt loaded with everything they weren't saying. Joe could sense Y/N's hurt beneath her professional composure, could feel her pulling away even as she maintained perfect courtesy.

"The coverage should die down soon," Y/N said, gesturing to her monitor with the kind of efficient subject change that indicated the personal portion of their conversation was over. "We'll maintain regular football content, no acknowledgment of the personal angles. The usual approach."

But Joe wasn't ready to retreat to safe professional ground. Not when he could feel Y/N slipping away.

"Look, Y/N... about Ellie."

"You don't owe me any explanations," Y/N interrupted quickly, and Joe caught the slight acceleration in her breathing that suggested his attempt at honesty was causing her pain. "Your personal life is your business."

"I know, but given everything..." Joe struggled to find words. "We've been friends. Having lunch, talking. It feels weird not to acknowledge it."

Friends. Joe watched Y/N's face as he said the word, noting the slight flinch she couldn't quite hide. It wasn't the right word for what they'd been to each other, but it was the only safe word he had.

"It's really okay, Joe," Y/N said, her voice carefully modulated. "I understand why you'd keep your relationship private. You always have."

Joe studied her face, looking for any opening to explain that his relationship with Ellie wasn't what the media was making it seem, that it had been a mistake born of fear rather than genuine connection.

"It's complicated," he said finally. "More complicated than what people are assuming."

Something flickered in Y/N's expression—curiosity, maybe, or hope—before she deliberately suppressed it.

"Complicated or not, it's yours to share or not share," she said carefully. "On your terms. When and if you want to."

The response was perfectly appropriate and completely devastating. Y/N was giving him space to explain while making it clear she didn't expect his explanations. She was protecting herself while still protecting him.

Joe felt desperate to bridge the gap between them, to return to the easy connection they'd shared before he'd ruined everything.

"I was thinking maybe we could grab lunch soon," he said, the invitation spilling out before he could stop it. "Like we used to. I miss our conversations."

The offer hung between them, and Joe watched Y/N's face carefully, looking for any sign that she might accept.

"Let's see how the schedule looks," Y/N replied, her tone neutral but her message clear. "Things are pretty hectic right now."

It was a gentle rejection, professionally worded but final nonetheless. Y/N was drawing boundaries, protecting herself from the kind of emotional confusion Joe had created.

"Sure," Joe said, disappointment heavy in his voice. "Just let me know."

As he stood to leave, Joe realized he'd lost more than just Y/N's friendship. He'd lost her trust, her easy companionship, the person who understood him better than anyone else in his professional life. His attempt to avoid complications by choosing Ellie had created far worse complications.

Walking back through the facility, Joe's phone buzzed with messages from teammates, family, media contacts. Everyone wanted to know about Ellie, about the relationship that had been exposed.

But the only person whose understanding he actually wanted was the one he'd already lost through his own emotional cowardice. And the text he most wanted to send—explaining everything, apologizing for the secrecy, asking for another chance—felt impossible to write.

* * *

Game Day Scene

Joe spotted Y/N on the sidelines during warm-ups, camera in hand, moving with that focused efficiency he'd watched for four years. But something was off about her positioning—she was deliberately staying in areas where their paths wouldn't cross, keeping her lens trained on everyone except him.

She was avoiding him. Not just the awkward small talk or professional distance—she was actively managing her movements to minimize contact.

He jogged over during a break in drills, helmet tucked under his arm.

"Avoiding me?" The words came out more direct than he'd intended.

Y/N turned, and for just a split second he saw something raw cross her face before the professional mask slid back into place. "Of course not. Just focusing on the content plan."

Bullshit. Joe had been reading Y/N's expressions for four years. He knew the difference between her being busy and her being careful.

"You haven't answered my texts. Declined two lunch invitations. That's new."

Her composure never wavered, but he caught the slight tightening around her eyes. "It's been a busy week. Lots of media management after everything that happened."

The diplomatic response rankled more than anger would have. This was what she did with difficult players, with media members she didn't trust. Professional courtesy wrapped around a steel wall.

"Right," he said, not bothering to hide his skepticism. "Y/N, if something's—"

"You're about to play a game." She cut him off, her tone gentle but firm. "That's where your focus should be. Not on lunch plans or texts."

The dismissal stung, but she was right about the timing. His head needed to be in the game, not on whatever this distance was about. Still, he couldn't let it go completely.

"We're talking about this later."

He started to turn away, then heard her voice.

"Joe?"

He looked back, hoping for something—an opening, a crack in that professional armor.

"Good luck out there."

The corner of his mouth lifted despite his frustration. Even when she was pulling away, she couldn't help caring about his performance. It was so fundamentally Y/N that it made his chest tight.

"Thanks. I'll need it against this defense."

As he jogged back to the quarterback group, Joe tried to shake off the conversation and focus on the game plan. But part of his mind stayed fixed on Y/N's careful positioning, the way she'd deflected every attempt at real connection.

During the game, he found himself glancing toward the sideline more than usual, tracking her movement between plays. She was doing her job with the same excellence she always brought—capturing key moments, coordinating with her team, creating content that would bring fans closer to the action.

But there was something different in her body language. More contained. Like she was holding herself apart from the energy of the game in a way she never had before.

When he threw the touchdown pass in the third quarter, his automatic reaction was to look for her reaction. But Y/N was already turning away, camera focused on the celebration around him instead of him directly.

The post-game interview felt hollow without her usual follow-up questions or the brief eye contact that had become their private ritual. She was there, professional as always, but the easy connection they'd built over four years felt severed.

Back in the locker room, Joe's frustration finally boiled over. He pulled out his phone and typed without overthinking it.

We need to talk. For real this time. Not about work.

He watched the three dots appear and disappear several times before her response came.

I'm heading out of town tomorrow. Family visit. Can it wait until next week?

The deflection was so obviously a delay tactic that it would have been insulting if it wasn't so unlike her. Y/N didn't run from difficult conversations. She met them head-on with the same directness she brought to everything else.

Which meant this wasn't about professional boundaries or busy schedules. This was about him.

If it has to. But Y/N, I hate how things are between us right now.

The response took longer this time.

We'll talk when I get back. Good game today.

Joe stared at the message, recognizing the careful balance between acknowledgment and distance. She was giving him credit for his performance while firmly maintaining the boundary she'd established.

As he drove home that night, Joe replayed every interaction they'd had since the break-in. The way she'd handled the crisis meeting with perfect professionalism. The careful preparation for the press conference. Her composed reaction when he'd tried to explain things in her office.

He'd been so focused on managing the situation, on containing the damage to his public image, that he'd missed what was happening right in front of him. Y/N hadn't just been doing her job during those conversations. She'd been protecting herself.

From him.

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