I’m sitting in the audience at the NFL Draft in Philadelphia, along with Tyler, his dad and sister, Aaron, and Tyler’s trainer and agent. And I’ve never been so nervous in my life. Seriously, I feel like every hair on my head is going to spontaneously fall out of my scalp any second from sheer anxiety. And that’s a lot of hair, folks. Since the first time I met Tyler at that party almost eight months ago, he’s been laser-focused on this one particular day. Envisioning it. Praying about it. He’s been the first player to arrive at the gym every morning and the last one to leave it in the evening. He’s talked for hours on the phone with his dad to deconstruct every little thing he did right or wrong in every week’s game. He’s thrown himself into weight-training, running, yoga, ice baths, cryogenics, sports massages. He’s studied game films, listened to motivational audiobooks, and meditated. He’s foregone partying when all his teammates were getting shitfaced. And, of course, he’s done the most important thing of all. He’s slayed it each and every week on the playing field. If there was something big or small Tyler Caldwell could do to position himself to get selected in the top ten of this year’s draft, he’s done it. And then some. And yet, as we all know too well, nothing in life is guaranteed—especially when it comes to the business of football.

So far, the first four picks in the draft have been a defensive end from Texas A&M, an offensive tackle from Clemson, a quarterback from Alabama, and another offensive tackle from LSU. The Miami Dolphins are currently on the clock, with about two minutes remaining before the commissioner announces their first-round pick—the fifth overall selection in the draft.

God, please let Miami pick Tyler.

The Dolphins aren’t Tyler’s dream team, of course. The Cowboys are. But childhood fantasies mean jack squat to Tyler right now—this is business. Under the league’s collective bargaining agreement, the salaries for the top twenty draft picks are predetermined right down the line. The number one pick is guaranteed a package worth over fifty million bucks, the number two guy gets a deal worth over forty-eight million, and so on. Sitting here right now, we know for certain if Tyler is drafted fifth, he’ll sign a four-year deal worth over forty-one million bucks, fifteen million of it up front in the form of a signing bonus. If Tyler goes sixth instead of fifth, his deal will be worth a whopping four million less. If he goes seventh, he’ll lose another four mil. And so on. Needless to say, Tyler’s hoping the commissioner announces his name next.

Oh, God, the commissioner is headed to the lectern at the front of the large conference center. Out of nowhere, a guy with a large camera with ESPN on its side appears next to Tyler, primed and ready to capture Tyler’s reaction if indeed his name is called next.

Tyler slides his hand into mine and squeezes. I open my mouth to say something encouraging and realize there’s nothing to say. I hold my breath and pray and pray and pray on a running loop inside my head that fickle Fortune will smile on my beloved Tyler today.

“With the fifth pick,” the commissioner says into his microphone. Tyler squeezes my hand even harder. “The Miami Dolphins select…Tyler Caldwell, free safety, UCLA.”

The place erupts in loud cheers.

Tyler leaps to his feet and fist-pumps the air. He looks up, points to the sky, and blows a kiss to heaven—a simple gesture that instantly brings tears to my eyes. He hugs his dad hard, and I’m shocked to see his normally stoic father crying like a baby. His sister joins her father and brother in a three-way hug for a poignant moment, and my heart squeezes at the thought of the loss those three have endured. And then Tyler gets to me.

He picks me up, kisses me on the lips, and whispers into my ear, “Top five is because I’ve got my lucky beaver-charm with me today.” He kisses me a second time, puts me down, and quickly moves on to embrace Aaron. After quick hugs with his trainer and agent, he’s off, marching in his tailored suit toward the humongous stage at the front of the massive room with that cameraman in tow. I clutch my heart as I watch my beloved Tyler bounding gleefully through the crowd, getting patted and bro-hugged by everyone as he goes. Finally, Tyler makes it to the stage and effusively accepts an aqua and orange Miami Dolphins jersey from the commissioner. He holds it up for an army of photographers, his smile at full wattage.

And what am I doing? Crying. Squealing. Clutching my heart. Shaking. Gasping. Smiling bigger than I’ve ever smiled in my life. And, if I’m being honest, through it all, I’m also simultaneously marveling that a girl can feel this purely and unconditionally elated for the man she loves, even though she knows without a doubt the stars that have been hovering over her and her lover’s heads for the past six months just now…indisputably…crossed.