the Draft

The draft night is electric. Las Vegas lights blaze across every screen in the green room as Commissioner Goodell steps to the podium one last time.

“With the first overall pick in the 2025 NFL Draft, the Las Vegas Raiders select… Tyrone Jackson, wide receiver, University of Southern California.”

The room erupts. Tyrone’s arms shoot up, eyes wide, then he pulls you into a crushing hug right there on camera—your swollen belly pressed between you, his lips finding yours in front of millions. The kiss is long, possessive, triumphant. Social media loses its mind. #TyroneAndAshley trends worldwide. Your follower count jumps another 200k before the broadcast even ends.

The contract comes fast: four years, fully guaranteed, $54 million with escalators that could push it north of $70M if he hits incentives. Signing bonus alone is enough to buy the house you’ve been eyeing in Summerlin—six bedrooms, pool, gated. Tyrone cries when he signs—quiet, private tears in the hotel suite later that night—then fucks you slow and deep on the king bed, whispering “We did it, baby mama. We fucking did it” against your neck as he comes inside you one more time.

For a few blissful hours, you let yourself believe the story had a clean ending. No more trades, no more favors, no more compromising. You got the ring (not official yet, but the massive diamond he slipped on your finger post-draft feels permanent), the security, the future for your girls. And he got the dream.

Your socials keep exploding. Pregnancy announcement post (tasteful black-and-white mirror selfie, hand on bump, caption “Double trouble coming soon #TwinGirls #MrsJacksonSoon”) hits 1.2 million likes. Brands double down—maternity activewear deals, baby registry collabs, even a luxury nursery sponsor. You still look barely pregnant at seven-and-a-half months; the twins sit high and neat, your frame still slim enough that most dresses hug rather than stretch. Commenters call you “goals,” “unreal,” “how is she still so snatched?”

Then the morning after the draft—hungover sun filtering through blackout curtains in the penthouse suite—Tyrone’s dead to the world, sprawled naked across the sheets, soft snores rumbling. You’re in the bathroom touching up your makeup when your phone buzzes on the marble counter.