Next Day

The next morning, sunlight slices through the blinds in Tyrone’s bedroom like a knife. You wake up sore in places you didn’t know could hurt—your pussy still puffy and tender, a dull ache in your ass from the coach yesterday, your throat raw from too much cock. Tyrone’s already gone; practice or meetings or whatever future-NFL life demands. He left a note on the nightstand in his messy scrawl:

“Back late. Be ready when I get home. Wear somethin’ short. Love you baby mama.”

You stare at the words for a long minute, stomach twisting. Love you. The casual way he drops it makes it feel more real—and more terrifying—than any of the rough fucks so far.

You pull on yesterday’s clothes (the ones that still smell like sex and cum), slip out of his house, and Uber back to your parents’ place. The driver keeps glancing at you in the rearview like he recognizes you from somewhere. You hunch down and stare out the window until he drops you off.

The house is quiet. Your parents are still in Asia. Megan—your twin—is probably still asleep or out with friends. Nicole’s car is in the driveway, though. You let yourself in with the spare key under the fake rock.

She’s in the kitchen, scrolling her phone over a bowl of yogurt, wearing tiny sleep shorts and a cropped tank. When she looks up and sees you, her expression shifts from bored to amused in half a second.

“Well, damn. Look who’s still walkin’ after a night with Tyrone.” She sets the spoon down. “You look like you got railed into next week. How many times did he nut in you?”

You don’t answer right away. You just drop your purse on the counter and lean against it, suddenly exhausted.

“I’m moving in with him,” you say quietly.

Nicole’s eyebrows shoot up. Then she laughs—short, sharp, not mean but not kind either.

“Jesus, that was fast. Yesterday you were crying about getting bred, today you’re playing house?” She studies you, eyes flicking over your body like she’s appraising merchandise. “You’re really committing to this blonde-bimbo thing, huh?”

“I don’t have a choice,” you mutter. “He’s… he’s claiming me. In front of reporters. On camera. Said I’m his girl. His baby mama.”

She snorts. “Yeah, that tracks. Tyrone doesn’t do half-measures. If he says you’re his, you’re his.” She pushes back from the counter. “Come on. If you’re gonna be an NFL WAG, you can’t be walking around in yesterday’s cum-stained leggings. Let’s get you some real clothes.”

She drags you upstairs to her room. You expect resistance, maybe anger, but she seems almost… excited. Like this is a project now.

She flings open her closet. “You’re smaller than me, but close enough. Try this.” A tiny white sundress gets tossed at you—low-cut, hem barely mid-thigh. Then a black bodycon mini, strappy heels, a couple of crop tops that show underboob if you breathe wrong. Lingerie next: lacy thongs, garter sets, a sheer babydoll she says “he’ll rip off you in ten seconds.”

While you’re changing behind her privacy screen (pointless, she’s seen everything now), she keeps talking.