He's my endgame! (Tayvis)

The question isn't asked yet

It started with small things.

Taylor noticed it in the way conversations paused a half-second too long when his name came up. In the way her publicist's voice stayed deliberately neutral when mentioning football schedules. In the way headlines flirted with certainty without ever committing to it.

Nothing had happened.

And yet, everything felt like it was preparing to.

She was sitting cross-legged on the couch one evening, laptop balanced on her knees, pretending to work through a set list she already knew by heart. Her phone rested beside her, face down, like a dare she wasn't ready to accept.

Travis's name was still warm in her thoughts.

He hadn't asked anything of her. Not once. No questions about timing. No careful probing about what she'd do when the rumours got louder. If anything, he'd done the opposite, kept showing up in the same steady way, as if the outside world was irrelevant unless she decided otherwise.

That was what made it harder.

Her phone buzzed.

You busy?

She smiled before she could stop herself.

Sort of. You?

Just finished practice. Thought I'd check in.

No agenda. No pressure.

They talked about nothing for a while. About his knees. About her insomnia. About a ridiculous commercial he couldn't escape on television. The normalcy of it all felt almost rebellious.

Eventually, she asked, "Does it ever feel strange? Knowing people are watching for something that hasn't happened yet?"

He didn't answer right away.

"Yeah," he said finally. "But I don't play the game differently just because the crowd's loud."

She leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.

"I keep thinking about control," she admitted. "How much of it I've had to fight for."

"And how much you're willing to give up," he added, not as a challenge, just an understanding.

That was the thing about Travis. He didn't flinch away from the weight of a thought. He let it exist.

"I don't want it to feel like a performance," she said quietly. "Not this."

"It won't," he said. "Not if it's your choice."

The words settled into her slowly.

Her choice.

Not a statement.
Not a strategy.
Not a response to speculation.

Just a decision.

A few days later, she found herself watching a game alone, volume low, the screen glowing softly in the dark. She told herself it was coincidence. Curiosity. Nothing more.

But her attention followed him without effort, the way he moved, the ease of him, the quiet confidence she recognized now for what it was: consistency.

When he scored, she didn't cheer. She just smiled, small and private, like she was in on something no one else could see.

Her phone lit up a few minutes later.

You watching?

She hesitated.

Then: Maybe.

His reply came almost immediately.

No pressure. Just wondered.

She set the phone down, heart beating a little faster than before.

The question still wasn't asked — not by him, not by the world.

But she could feel it forming.

Not will you come?
Not will you make it public?

But something quieter. More dangerous.

What happens if you don't hide?

Taylor leaned back into the cushions, letting the thought linger without answering it yet.

Some choices, she knew, didn't announce themselves.

They waited.