Pre Draft troubles

The draft is exactly one week away, and the house feels like a pressure cooker. Tyrone’s been on edge since the call came in from the Raiders’ front office: they’re taking the first overall pick, they’re bringing in a veteran QB to mentor the room, and they want him—bad. WR1 from day one. A franchise cornerstone. He’s been floating since the news hit, grinning like a kid every time his phone buzzes with another congrats text.

Then the crash happens.

It’s nothing catastrophic—just a fender-bender on the 405. Some distracted driver sideswipes his Lambo at low speed while he’s stopped at a light. No injuries. The car’s drivable, airbags didn’t even deploy. But the paparazzi are everywhere these days, and someone catches the whole thing: Tyrone stepping out looking rattled, exchanging info with the other driver, the crumpled hood gleaming under streetlights. The clips go viral within hours.

Headlines explode:

“Tyrone Jackson’s Draft Stock Takes Hit After Reckless Driving Incident?”

“First Pick Dreams in Jeopardy: Raiders Prospect Involved in Late-Night Crash”

“From Sure Thing to Risky Pick? Jackson’s Off-Field Drama Raises Red Flags”

None of it’s true—he wasn’t speeding, wasn’t texting, wasn’t drunk—but perception is everything in the draft. Teams get skittish. The mocks slide him down: first round becomes late first, then early second, then whispers of third if the medicals or character concerns pile up. Tyrone’s quiet for the first time since you met him. He spends hours staring at his phone, refreshing mocks, jaw tight.

You can’t stand watching it eat at him.

The Raiders send a contingent over two days later—a final pre-draft visit. Head coach, position coach, a couple of scouts, and the GM himself: Harold “Hal” Whitaker, a silver-haired, sharp-eyed lifer in his late 60s who’s been building rosters since before you were born. They sit in the living room for hours—film breakdowns, scheme fits, questions about the crash (“It was nothing, sir—just bad luck”). Tyrone handles it like a pro, calm, articulate, no excuses. You stay out of sight at first, hovering in the kitchen, listening.

When the meeting wraps, the staff files out toward the driveway. Tyrone walks them to the door, shaking hands, all smiles again. You wait until he’s distracted saying goodbye to the position coach, then slip outside after them.

The GM is the last one out—moving slower, keys already in hand, heading toward his black Escalade parked at the curb. You catch up just as he reaches the driver’s door.

“Mr. Whitaker?” Your voice is soft but clear.

He turns, eyebrows lifting slightly when he sees you. He knows exactly who you are—your face has been plastered across every sports blog and tabloid for weeks now. The pregnant fiancée. The WAG glow-up. The blonde who went from nobody to half a million followers overnight.

“Ms. Ashley,” he says, polite but guarded. “Something on your mind?”

You step closer, stopping just inside his personal space. The evening air is warm; you’re wearing a simple white sundress Nicole lent you—thin straps, low neckline, hem flirting with mid-thigh. No bra. The faint swell of your belly is just starting to show under the fabric, impossible to miss.

“I know what the headlines are saying,” you start, voice low. “About the crash. About his ‘character.’ But you spent three hours in there with him. You saw the real Tyrone. Steady. Smart. Hungry. That accident wasn’t him being reckless—it was a fluke. He’s not the guy the tabloids are painting.”

Whitaker studies you for a long beat. “I appreciate the vote of confidence. But we’ve got thirty-one other teams breathing down our necks. Risk is risk.”

You tilt your head, letting a small, knowing smile curve your lips. “I get it. You’re protecting the pick. The franchise. But I also know you’ve been around long enough to spot character when you see it. And I know you’ve got a daughter about my age—maybe a little older. You’d want someone fighting for her the way he fights for me. For us.” You rest one hand lightly on the gentle curve of your stomach. “For his girls.”

His eyes flick down to your belly, then back up. Something softens—just a fraction—in his expression.

“I’m not asking you to promise anything,” you continue, stepping even closer so your voice drops to a near-whisper. “Just… keep him at one. Give him the chance to prove every doubter wrong. He won’t let you down.”

You reach into the tiny crossbody purse slung across your shoulder, pull out a slip of paper with your number written in neat, looping script. You hold it out between two manicured fingers.

“If you ever want to talk more—about his work ethic, his mindset, how he treats the people who matter to him…” You pause, letting your gaze linger on his face a second longer than necessary, voice dipping into something warmer, silkier. “Or anything else… I’m happy to chat. Anytime.”

The offer hangs there—subtle, unmistakable. Not blatant, but clear enough that a man like Hal Whitaker, who’s seen every kind of play in and out of the boardroom, can’t miss it. A favor for a favor. Loyalty repaid in whatever currency he might prefer.

He takes the paper slowly, folding it into his palm without looking away from you.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, voice gravelly. A ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—not leering, but appreciative. “You’re a hell of an advocate, young lady.”

He opens the Escalade door, pauses halfway in.

“We’ll see how the board shakes out. But… I heard what you said.”

The door closes with a solid thunk. The engine starts. Taillights flare red as he pulls away, disappearing down the quiet street. You stand there a moment longer, heart hammering, the night air cooling the flush on your skin. Inside, Tyrone’s waiting—oblivious to the conversation that just happened. You slip back through the door, lock it behind you, and go to him. He pulls you into his lap on the couch without a word, hands sliding under your dress, already seeking the warmth between your thighs. “Everything okay?” he murmurs against your neck. You smile into his shoulder, fingers threading through his dreads.

“Everything’s perfect, baby.” And for the first time in days, you almost believe it.