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Jon planted his left foot and swiveled his hips as his right arm came forward, releasing the ball perfectly so it lofted up into a perfect arc, sailing through the air in a tight spiral that would come down right into Will’s hands if he ran the route correctly and didn’t let Theon get to him. Theon was running with the first-year receiver stride-for-stride, simulating as much interference as a ref would let a cornerback get away with.

Jon watched the ball bounce off Will’s fingertips thanks to Theon playing it as a good defender would: by working not just the receiver but also the ball.

Will and Theon’s strides slowed to a gradual stop – the former’s hands smacking his head as he did.

They’d signed Will in the sixth round of the draft but thanks to devastating injuries at the receiver position, the rookie had to step up into the role of starter. This was supposed to be the Pirates’ year but it wouldn’t be if they only had a run game. So Jon, like the team captain should, was putting in the time and work with all their receivers and tight ends and even running backs, desperately hoping to improve their passing game.

(He didn’t mind – football was his one true love – but sometimes he just wanted to sleep in.)

Theon and Will ambled back over, the latter looking angry and embarrassed and apologetic but also a bit defensive. “Sorry,” the 22-year-old mumbled irritably.

Jon knew better than to take it personally. He’d been twenty-two once and cringed to think of how self-centered he was. He hadn’t known it at the time because it wasn’t his positive attributes he obsessed over, but his flaws (real and perceived). Nonetheless, those flaws had been all he could see, all he could care about.

He could still remember the way Sansa and others had cheered for him when he was selected in the second round of the draft. He had forced himself to smile, to thank them for their words and support, to return their hugs, but inside were only two related but seemingly contradictory thoughts: How dare all those teams pass on me?! And, what weaknesses do they see that none of the draft projections accounted for?

He’d been projected to go around the early-middle first round – either number six or ten, depending on the order of the teams picking and what each of them needed, position-wise.

He’d gone at 25 instead – three into the second round.

Robert Baratheon – the team’s owner and president – had called him and spoken so jovially, and Jon made sure to sound gracious, but he’d been biting his lip to not scream, “You could’ve taken me at sixteen! Was it really more important to take an interior o-lineman??”

Jon sometimes wished he could go back in time and smack himself. He’d been such an ingrate, which wasn’t how his mom had raised him. It wasn’t how the Starks had influenced him. The Starks were the prominent family in Winterfell, the name that popped up over and over in city and county history, yet they lived humble lives. Their kids went to public school – hence Jon became friends with Robb Stark even though Robb was one grade higher, and Arya Stark who was four grades lower.

Then there was Sansa. The middle child, so perfect it was sickening for a boy who never had name-brand anything, except when his mom got lucky at the thrift store. Sansa was that girl who somehow channeled the divide between all social tiers and groups. Thanks to her name, she could run in the circles of Winterfell’s elite, but thanks to her warm smile and compassionate nature, she befriended kids who were not born into such wealth. She was painfully beautiful – so much so that every girl wanted to be her and every boy wanted to date her – yet she didn’t look down on other girls (or guys) who weren’t so physically blessed. She befriended Beth Cassel with her loud freckles, Jory Mormont with her slow metabolism, and Jojen Reed with his cystic acne. In fact, she went to junior prom with Jojen Reed, though as far as Jon know they were only ever friends.

And yes, she could be catty and self-absorbed and a bit dramatic – Jon had been friends with Robb through Sansa’s pre-teen years and saw it for himself – but by the time she entered high school she was a mature-for-her age fourteen-year-old.

(Within a few months, Jon became a hopelessly-in-love fifteen-year-old.)

(Because Robb was his brother from another mother, he didn’t make a move until he was eighteen, Sansa seventeen.)

(He wasn’t sure it could be called a ‘move’ if he only made it after Sansa asked, so sweetly, if he was ever going to kiss her.)

(For senior prom, Sansa’s date was Jon. He came home from college for a weekend just to take her to prom, because the idea of making her go solo broke his heart.)

(Also, because the idea of her taking one of her ‘guy friends’ made him homicidal.)

“Don’t apologize,” Jon told Will, “Just keep your eyes on the ball instead of Theon next time.”

While Will nodded passionately Theon smirked proudly, “In his defense, it’s hard not to look at me,” he gestured to his face with both hands.

“Yeah,” Jon said in all seriousness, “You are kinda funny-looking.”

That earned him a shove to the shoulder. Jon rolled his eyes, “Alright, line back up.”

As he waited for Theon and Will to amble closer to the sideline on his right, movement caught Jon’s peripheral vision on his left.

He turned and his eyes instantly latched onto their GM as he ran laps around the field, as was part of his exercise regimen. Dude also used the weight room on occasion. Almost always while wheeling and dealing through a Bluetooth earpiece. Jon knew that was par for the course for GMs in any pro sport – they were always hurrying to finalize trades before various milestones like the first scrimmage of the season, or the first game of the season, or the trade deadline. They had to trade players to free up cap space or make roster, or to try to recover from the attrition that impacted all teams in contact sports, or to get rid of a player who wasn’t a good influence in the locker room or who the head coach didn’t get along with.

Jon couldn’t imagine a job less enjoyable, yet their GM did it with an efficiency and lack of emotional investment that was as admirable as it was off-putting. Because the guy was about as friendly as a lobster, Jon felt more of the latter, but that was hardly the main reason.

No, the main reason Jon heard himself growl while watching Stannis Baratheon – the president’s younger brother – jogging around the field while having a winded negotiation with someone in his ear, was because the man was dating Jon’s ex.

Not just his ex, but his ‘one who got away’.

Better known as Sansa Stark.

She’d followed him to Storm’s End – the university that gave him the best offer in exchange for him playing football for their squad as quarterback. At the time, he’d very much wanted her to follow him. He’d felt like an insecure prick when she told him she applied to KLU and Vale and Oldtown in addition to Storm’s End. He’d had a panic attack when she got accepted to all four and was even offered a full ride to KLU due to her academic record and well-rounded extracurriculars. Volleyball, cheerleading, prom committee and Conservation Club.

She picked Storm’s End because of him. Because the long-distance thing sucked. Because he needed a Stark by his side. Because he was tired of passing on the girls who threw themselves at him and being heckled by his friends for living like a monk.

Things were good once she got there. Great, even. For three years, they were inseparable.

Then he graduated while Sansa had a year left. Not a big deal – their relationship was solid as a rock. He got drafted, she started thinking about her future.

Then he started in the pros. A phenom, some would call him. That rare rookie who can lead a team to victory consistently.

He was famous. By his third year on the Pirates, he was getting endorsement offers, though turning down many of them because he didn’t want to become over-exposed. And Sansa was with him through it all, there at his Storm’s End penthouse when he came home either from the stadium a 30-minute drive away or some other city a plane ride away. Whether he came home wanting to mope over a loss or celebrate a win. She was his constant, rarely having to travel for work. She was working for a nonprofit because that’s how she was and because when your last name was ‘Stark’, you didn’t need to worry about your salary too much.

Life was good.

Life was really good.

Until it wasn’t.

Perhaps Jon had felt some sort of wanderlust.

Perhaps he was jealous of his teammates who partied with famous singers and actresses at swanky dance clubs. Perhaps he was jealous of the threesomes and foursomes the guys bragged about. Perhaps he had never sowed his wild oats (he hadn’t even known he had any at the time). Perhaps he wanted to have someone to compare Sansa to, to make sure he was getting the best deal since he hadn’t been with another girl since junior year of high school.

(Perhaps the little boy who grew up in a tiny apartment with a mom who worked two jobs had always resented the Starks.)

(Perhaps the young man who’d denied all those hot, drunk girls at frat parties had always resented Sansa Stark.)

She didn’t leave him after the first photo got out. No, it was the second one that did the trick.

Robb had tried so hard to forgive him. More accurately, to make excuses. The stress of Jon’s career. The women flinging themselves at him. The guys egging him on. The booze. The dark clubs. The fame. The spotlight. They’d drifted apart over the years but Jon still considered Robb his best friend – same as Theon did. The bro he could call about anything, talk to about anything.

Until Jon did something really stupid.

Like really stupid.

It was about a year after Sansa had left him – a breakup he hadn’t fought because for some asinine reason he’d wanted it. They were at a charity black-tie event. All the charities that the Pirates organization supported had representatives there.

Sansa was one of those representatives.

Several players were also there along with a few of their front or back-office personnel. Jon had fenagled his way into the event – convincing their veteran tight-end to come down with one of those 24-hour stomach bugs at the last minute and call his buddy, Jon Snow, to sub for him.

Jon had done all that because he’d seen a post on Sana’s charity’s Facebook page about how their own Sansa Stark and Davos Seaworth would attend the Pirates’ annual ceremony held to honor the organizations that made an impact on the local community through philanthropy.

Sansa was ravishing, as always. She never had to use the cheap tricks that other women employed. He knew there was no Spanx under her dress, no padded bra, no silicone. No fake eyelashes or acrylic fingernails. Just Sansa in a classy black gown, all glossy red hair and pretty pink smile and ivory skin and tinkling laughter that drew people in effortlessly and innocently.

And she had been his. All his. All her beauty and grace and kindness, all her never-ending supportiveness, her humor and silliness, her compassion… it had been his and he’d thrown it away for reasons he still hadn’t understood then. Maybe still didn’t fully understand now, but his therapist had helped him form some theories, at least.

He could tell the moment she noticed his presence. She went from smiling to shellshocked. Her hand went to her upper belly, her face drained of its color, and Jon honestly thought she was going to vomit or faint or both. They hadn’t seen each other in the flesh since things ended.

Jon had been a man possessed as he began carving a path through the crowd to get to her until Stannis Baratheon, their GM, laid a strong hand on his shoulder. Jon stood at 6’2”, so the fact that he turned and looked up instead of down was unusual. Stannis stood around 6’5”. His older brother was even taller – about 6’7” – and his younger brother, the person who oversaw Community Relations for the Pirates, stood about even with Stannis. The Baratheon brothers were titans among men, much like their father. Oddly, their mother was so petite Jon wasn’t sure how the brothers were conceived, let alone delivered, but he’d never thought about it too extensively.

He opened his mouth to speak when Stannis beat him to it, “She is giving a speech tonight. Don’t go over there and upset her.”

Jon frowned, “I’m not going to upset her, just talk to her.”

“Whether your intention is pure or not, talking with you will upset her.”

“Sansa’s tougher than she looks.”

Stannis snorted faintly, “I don’t doubt it, but your behavior last year caused her no shortage of pain and public embarrassment. Or did you forget that your fans speculated loudly and often that she must be a bitch, or a wet fish, to have driven you into the arms of other women.”

Jon clenched his teeth as the shame washed over him, warm and heavy. He hadn’t forgotten the backlash Sansa faced after dumping him for a perfectly valid reason. Internet trolls that he feared were the same women who came onto him every chance they got said the nasty things Stannis just mentioned and more. That Sansa had probably been a slut who cheated on Jon first then got mad when he gave her a taste of her own medicine. That she was a gold-digger only with him for his money (as if Sansa’s parents didn’t have more money than he ever would; as if when he and Sansa first started dating, he wasn’t driving a Ford Escort older than him that was one rusty screw away from being nothing but a pile of metal and glass and upholstery). Others knew of her wealth and claimed she had seen Jon’s talent years earlier and essentially used her family’s clout to pave his career path so she could grow even wealthier off of him, like he was some house she bought at a sheriff’s sale to flip for a profit.

Sansa had seemingly gone underground in response – all her social media accounts deleted. Jon did what he could to shut up her critics but he was a pro football quarterback on a playoffs-bound team – he barely had time to post the occasional ‘thanks’ to their fans.

As much as Jon wanted nothing more than to go to Sansa, to talk to her, apologize, get down on his knees and beg her for a second (third) chance, he understood Stannis’ point. If Jon truly cared, he’d do nothing to jeopardize her big night.

But at realizing how much he still wanted her, still loved her, he had to do something.

So he hit the champagne pretty hard.

So hard that when he left later, after all the festivities had wrapped up and he had signed some autographs either for the charities to auction or for their employees’ personal collections, and happened to notice Sansa giving Stannis Baratheon a goodnight kiss before getting into her car, Jon didn’t think much. Or, like, at all. He hurried up to the car and went to shove Stannis’ chest, but the man side-stepped him. Like, easily.

Jon was so angry he didn’t even know what he was yelling at the other man. He was so angry that he didn’t know what Sansa was yelling at him as she tried to put herself between them. Not at first, anyway. The initial spike of rage and adrenaline was not something that could be maintained for long, and soon enough he realized Sansa was trying to bodily push him away from Stannis, who hadn’t moved a muscle since originally evading Jon’s shove.

“If you lay hands on your GM, out here where anyone can see, you’ll be throwing away everything. You really want that, Jon?”

Jon snorted as he looked down at her, though not by much – Sansa probably stood 5’11” in heels.

And he hated that she was trying to protect his career. He hated how she always put others before herself. Hated it because it couldn’t be real. No one could be that selfless. No one could care about their ex so much.

“Still perfect little Sansa, huh?” he asked bitterly, “Someday the façade is going to break, and I hope like hell I’m there to see it.” His eyes flicked behind her to Stannis, “Or maybe it already has. ‘Cause the only reason you’d be with this rigid prick is for his money. I guess all those people who called you a gold—”

The word was cut off by a sharp slap that stung his left cheek like a whip. Sansa had, for the first time ever, slapped him. Like, hard.

“How’s that for breaking the façade?” she asked with venom.

And maybe that was what he’d always wanted from her. To just know that she was human. To just know that she got angry, like everyone else did. Not annoyance over some petty disagreement with one of her siblings or a kid at school, but pure, seeing-red anger.

She had never looked prettier, with tears of rage sparkling in her lashes, her jaw square as a mastiff’s, her stance defiant, almost as if she was daring him to hit her back so she could rightfully whoop his ass.

(He’d never hit her, but he’d let her whoop him to her heart’s content.)

She turned away too soon and Jon reached out, grabbed her by the elbow.

A second later his back was hitting the glass of someone’s side window and Stannis Baratheon was staring down at him, all cool and composed and furious as he said, “Think I won’t put our hundred million guaranteed QB into the hospital? Then please – test me.”

“Yo, I’m about to turn a year older!”

Jon snapped out of it and turned to face Theon, who was holding his hands up in a questioning gesture.

Jon let out a loud exhale and nodded, then let out a shrill whistle to mark the moment the ball would’ve been snapped if they were practicing with a full o-line or even just the center.

Over and over and over he and Theon worked with Will, taking breaks for a minute or two between passes because no one could sprint almost non-stop for as long as they planned on practicing.

And through most of it, Stannis Baratheon ran laps and spoke to who-knows-how-many other GMs and agents and maybe even players until finally coming to a stop with his light gray t-shirt now dark from sweat. Jon surreptitiously watched the older man catch his breath, hands on hips, before making his way inside, presumably to the showers.

It had been over two years since that charity event. Sansa was still dating Stannis only now it was public knowledge. The players who knew of Jon and Sansa’s history gave him shit about it – indirectly insulting Sansa in the process by suggesting that Sansa was only with Stannis for his money. When Jon grumblingly pointed out that her parents were nearly as wealthy as the Baratheons, they’d point out that the Stark fortune would someday get split four ways – Robb, Sansa, Arya, and the surprise baby, Rick, who was born when Arya was thirteen.

The sad thing was, Jon almost believed his friends, because what could Sansa see in Stannis Baratheon? Yes, he was tall and fit and not unattractive, per se, but he had the personality of Ebeneezer Scrooge and the hairline of Patrick Stewart. No one liked Stannis Baratheon. His own brothers didn’t even like him. He was generally well-respected within his domain, but Jon heard through the grapevine that other GMs considered him especially cutthroat, even by their standards.

Jon couldn’t bring himself to believe that Sansa was really a gold-digger, despite what he’d said in a moment of misdirected anger, but nor could he fathom her enjoying anything about the man. Sansa was all… effervescent. Stannis was as effervescent as crude oil. And since they were both very private people, Jon couldn’t even pick up some clues by watching them interact in public or semi-public settings.

At least he could be grateful that nothing came of his failed attempt to assault the Pirates’ GM, nor his cruel words toward one of their partner charity’s representatives in front of the same. Jon and Stannis – on the rare occasions they were in the same room – chose to ignore each other or treat each other with cool civility, if required to interact.

Ten minutes later – more than enough time for a man to take a post-workout shower – Jon called it. His shoulder would be sore if he kept practicing deep balls, and his stomach was starting to grumble about its empty state. Will threw the ball in the bag with the others and jogged to catch up with Jon and Theon. As they walked down the tunnel that led to the locker rooms, they were already peeling off their sweaty shirts – Storm’s End wasn’t one of the hottest cities in the nation, but it was definitely one of the most humid.

Theon was ribbing Will as they stepped into the locker room only to find Stannis very much still there. He stood over one of the benches on which sat an open duffel bag, wearing only boxer shorts while talking to yet another person, this time with his cellphone pressed to his ear. Jon didn’t smell soap or deodorant and figured Stannis must’ve stripped down of all his clothes and his earpiece and been about to divest the last article when his phone rang.

Theon shut up instantly at seeing their GM on a call. Theon generally wasn’t all that considerate of others, but Stannis was the person who decided how much each of the players was worth.

He was also kinda scary.

(That bothered Jon, too; he was not accustomed to being intimidated by other men, not even 300-pound linemen trying to tackle him.)

“You’re never going to get a first for him, even if his knees were five years younger,” Stannis said in an impertinent tone to whoever was on the other end. He gave the barest of glances and nods in the direction of the three newcomers before turning slightly away – even Stannis Baratheon had that much basic decency when in a locker room with other men who were obviously about to hit the showers.

“That stat has peaked,” Stannis said in response to a comment Jon couldn’t hear, “You got his best years for a song and now expect me to pay a fortune for his twilight?”

It sounded like he was talking about a player that the Pirates were trying to sign. It was an everyday matter, but Jon couldn’t help but wonder who they might pick up. Hopefully another receiver – though that Stannis had mentioned knees meant it was more likely a lineman – those big boys routinely knew arthritis before they knew thirty.

“I’ll tell him you said so. Now, a third and a sixth is the best I can do. I’m hitting the showers. Call back in ten if you want to take the deal. Don’t waste my time with a counter,” Stannis brought his phone away, tapped the red icon, then seemed to be responding to a text or email.

Almost immediately, Theon began talking about their upcoming game. He was not the sort who could handle silence. Definitely not awkward silence, as it was as Jon and Will and he toed off their cleats and pulled off their socks and shorts and then each took their time grabbing shampoo and soap and whatever else they’d need. (In short, stalling.)

Male locker rooms were places where dignity held no sway and self-consciousness always lost the battle against convenience. After practices and games, the locker rooms resembled Roman orgies minus the sex. Guys had entire conversations, listened to the coach’s pep talk, called their wives or girlfriends to check in, all while their cocks and balls hung wild and free. Each and every one of Jon’s teammates and coaches had seen his dick enough times to identify it in a police lineup, but Stannis Baratheon had not. Stannis Baratheon, who was twelve years older than Jon and dating Jon’s ex and who was totally not a “guy’s guy”. Jon had no reason for shame, it just felt really weird to strip naked in front of Stannis. A man stripped naked in front of men he was comfortable with, men he trusted, not men who he’d gladly beat the piss out of if only A) it wouldn’t violate his contract, and B) he was certain of his own success.

Yet acting shy could only be the worse option because then Stannis would know that his presence discomfited Jon. Maybe he’d wonder if Jon had micro-penis or something unusual about his anatomy.

He could still hear the haptic feedback on Stannis’ phone, and figured there was no better time than now to drop trou, so he did. All casual-like. Didn’t even hurry to run toward the showers afterward. Just kicked his boxers toward his locker and shut the door with a clank that said he wasn’t afraid of drawing attention his direction.

He heard a loud sigh coming from Stannis and almost smirked as he picked up his toiletries, until Theon asked, “Dude, you got any Lamisil spray? I forgot mine’s empty.”

Jon met Theon’s eyes, “Yeah, you can borrow it when we’re done.”

“Thanks, man,” Theon said while dropping his own boxers. Will was still wearing that much while tapping something on his phone (either the kid hadn’t overcome his self-consciousness, or he was as addicted to the thing as every other 22-year-old was).

“Anyway,” Theon continued where he’d left off, “I heard their free safety is out with a hamstring and—”

Jon knew precisely what made Theon stop talking. It was the same reason Jon almost walked into the bench. Stannis must’ve just finished texting because his phone was tossed again into his duffel and his hands went to pull down his boxers. The underwear dropped to the ground and without fanfare Stannis stepped out of them then turned to head to the showers, grabbing a towel from the clean stack on his way.

Theon and Jon just stood there. So long that eventually Will noticed the lack of sound and said, “Everything ok?”

No, everything was not ok.

Sansa’s boyfriend was hung like a thoroughbred.

And that was not ok.

His own cock was retreating in shame, trying to hide inside his belly in case that big, scary cock came back, raring for a fight.

“Uh… guys?” Will asked.

Theon let out a low breath, “Well, at least we have an answer now…”

Jon turned his head slowly to look at his friend and teammate, “Huh?” He couldn’t make sense of Theon’s words, nor the world at large.

Theon shrugged, his eyes set on the shower room though there was nothing to see from their vantage point, “It’s ain’t his money she’s after.”

Jon whimpered.

“Come on, Snow,” Theon slapped him on the upper back, “Oh, and try not to drop your soap because I am not getting between you and that thing.”

Jon huffed.

“Poor Sansa. Probably spends a fortune on K-Y.”

Jon growled. Before he could make any more animalistic noises, Theon snorted and sauntered away.

“Umm… what’d I miss?” Will asked obliviously.

Jon forced himself to put one foot in front of the other until he was standing under hot spray – seven showerheads down from Stannis Baratheon and his pet python.

He squeezed his eyes shut as the water pattered his face, sure of only two things in life:

One, he’d never be able to look Stannis Baratheon in the eye again.

Two, he was going to have living nightmares about the places on Sansa that thing had touched.

The second led to him quickly realizing there was a third: that wondering about whether Sansa liked that thing was going to drive him mad, because wondering led to the aforementioned nightmares. While standing under the spray, he was imagining Sansa’s orgasm-face (he would never forget it) as she screamed out, “Oh my god, you’re so BIG!” while Stannis nailed her hard and fast from behind, all while looking at Jon and smirking an evil, knowing, arrogant smirk.

The sound of one of the showers cutting off distracted Jon from that which was terrifying, infuriating, and a bit emasculating.

“Snow!” a voice called out, not aggressive but raised to be heard over the sound of three running showerheads.

He turned his head – how could he not – and found Stannis facing him while toweling himself dry, starting with his head then working the towel over his chest and back and then finally lower, the white terry cloth Jon’s hero as it spared him the sight of that thing dangling there, the tip extending well past the bottom of his balls which themselves were hanging low thanks to the heat of the shower.

“Uh… yeah?” Jon responded belatedly.

Stannis wrapped the towel around his hips, tucking one corner under to hold it in place. There was a slight protrusion dead center at groin height, Jon’s traitorous eyes noticed.

“The answer is yes,” Stannis said, a hint of amusement in his tone.

“Umm… answer to what?”

“Yes, she loves it.”

Jon’s jaw fell… Stannis couldn’t mean… that… could he?

He could, as evidenced by the slight smirk on his lips as he turned and walked back into the locker room.

Theon let out a snort he must’ve been holding back until Stannis was out of earshot, which was about when Will said, “So that’s what I missed…”

Jon turned back into the spray and groaned.

He still sounded like an animal.

A dying one.

…

A little over a month later Jon had no choice but to see Sansa. Robb, who’d eventually forgiven Jon for being unfaithful to his little sister, was flying to Storm’s End to visit Sansa and Jon and Theon. Robb had no idea that Jon and Sansa hadn’t completely moved on. Well, he had no idea that Jon hadn’t moved on. He had no idea that Jon and Sansa generally avoided each other. Somehow, perhaps through Jon and Sansa’s independent attempts to not worry Robb, he’d come to have the impression that they were friends, or at least friendly, on the occasions when they were in the same place at the same time. Perhaps because they had Theon and the Pirates in common, Robb figured they ran in the same circles. And given each of them had other relationships, Robb would have no reason to think that Jon still wished he could time machine the past several years of his life. Robb would only notice that Sansa had been dating someone else for years now, and that Jon hadn’t exactly been living the life of a monk – he’d dated Dany Targaryen and Elia Sand a handful of other gorgeous and sometimes famous women.

As he arrived at the restaurant where Robb had reserved a private room, Jon forced himself to take deep breaths, taking comfort in the fact that he’d only have to face Sansa, and not her… boyfriend. Ugh. More than likely, Stannis wouldn’t be there. Robb had made it sound like it would just be the Winterfell gang, something to the effect of it being ‘just like the good old days’. (Jon hadn’t reminded Robb that Sansa was too young to hang around them back then, nor that Jon and Theon hated each other back then and only tolerated the other’s presence because they had Robb as a common denominator, and Robb was just one of those guys you didn’t want to disappoint.

The three men arrived and made greetings before Sansa, though she was hardly late as she hurried in a few minutes later, immediately throwing her arms around Robb and laughing as her brother picked her up and spun her around as best he could in the confined space. Finally, Robb put her down and looked at her so brightly and lovingly. Sansa must’ve rolled her eyes at his sappiness because he eventually made a self-deprecating face and said, “I know, I know. I just can’t believe my kid sister is all grown up.”

Sansa chuckled, “Been grown up for a while now, Robbie.”

“Not to me, but I suppose I can’t keep pretending you’re Sansy-Pansy while you got this thing on your finger,” he shook her left hand and Jon’s heart stopped. “Seriously, how do you lift your arm?”

Sansa sighed, “First world problems,” then gave Theon a hug and Jon a warm smile. It set him at ease somewhat, but he couldn’t really relax until two scotches later, and even then he found the blinding sparkle of her ring to be a bit much.

Despite all his regrets regarding Sansa, he’d mostly moved on. Sure, if she broke up with Stannis-Can’t-Fit-In-His-Pantses – as Theon had taken to calling the man – and wanted to rekindle her relationship with Jon, he’d say yes in a heartbeat. She would always have that power over him, at least while he was single. Some of his exes he wouldn’t socialize with again if they were the last two people on the planet, but Sansa would always have her own dedicated parking spot in his heart and the right to tow anyone else who dared to loiter there. But he no longer felt overwhelmingly sad when thinking about her or what they might’ve had if he hadn’t sabotaged the best damned thing in his life (and he was including football). He was just fine without her and knew someday he’d finally meet someone who had more right to that parking spot than Sansa. He’d marry that woman, have kids with that woman, and Sansa would be nothing more than a family friend.

So he managed to enjoy himself as the foursome told stories to make each other laugh, or blush, or laugh and blush. They talked about Winterfell and Robb’s job, about Storm’s End and Sansa’s job, about the Pirates’ playoff chances, about things going on in the world. They talked and drank until Theon was helping Robb into his car – Robb was staying with Theon for at least part of the trip, since apparently Sansa now lived with Stannis in the suburbs, an inconveniently long drive from the areas where the city’s nightlife lived.

“You good to drive?” Jon asked, only to break the silence, as he and Sansa stood alone in the parking lot after watching Theon drive off (and Robb drunk-wave out the window).

“Yeah,” she wrinkled her nose, “I actually wasn’t drinking at all…”

Jon frowned, “I saw the—”

“I asked the waiter to bring me virgin mojitos even though I would order the regular thing.”

“Oh. Why?”

Sansa tucked her hands into the back pockets of her jeans.

(She’d always looked great in jeans.)

“I didn’t want to steal all the attention off Robb for his first night in town…”

Jon swallowed.

He knew…

“And I only found out this morning, but… Well, I’m pregnant.”

Jon nodded slowly, “That’s… uh… congratulations.”

She smiled sadly at him, “Are you good, Jon?”

He nodded, “Yeah, I’m happy for you and—”

“No, I mean… are you good? Like, in general.”

He sighed, “I am. I really am. I… I still hate myself for… for all of it… between us… But, yeah, I’m good.”

Her smile became a bit more genuine, “Good. I want you to be happy, Jon. I truly do.”

“I know,” he smiled back, and even sort of meant it. Sansa truly did want everyone to be happy, but especially those she cared about. (Despite doing everything in his power to get crossed off that list, he was still on it.) “And I want the same for you,” he added. You’re happy, right? About…” he gestured at her flat belly, “And… with, uh, Stannis?”

Her smile widened even more as she nodded, “I am. I’ve always wanted kids, and so has he, and I get it, Jon. I really do know that we seem like night and day but,” she shrugged, “it works. I’m in love with him and he’s in love with me and… and I’m myself with him. You weren’t entirely wrong that night, when you called me perfect little Sansa.”

“I didn’t—”

She held up a hand, “No, you were right. Sort of. I was way too worried about what the world thought of me. I hid the part of me that was vain along with the part that was insecure. I hid the part that wanted to be selfish. I hid the part that wanted to be mean. I hid all my dirty little secrets.”

Jon chuckled lightly, “You don’t have any dirty little secrets.”

Her smile gentled somewhat, shifting from pure joy to something almost predatory. “No?” she asked.

He shook his head slowly, “You didn’t when I knew you…”

She lifted her brows thoughtfully, “No, perhaps not. Nothing major anyway, but…” she took a step closer, rested her hand on his sternum in a way that made his heart flutter…

Not with lust, but fear.

His survival instinct told him to run.

The part of his brain that knew what a fuck up he was told him to stay there and take it, for her.

“The first time I fucked him, I got off from pretending that you were watching. That you had to see it, like I had to see the photos of you with those girls…”

Well, fuck.

“…those girls who were younger than me, sexier than me, more fun than me. I felt like shit for months, wondering in what ways they were better than me—”

“They weren’t. Sansa, I swear—”

“And I wanted you to feel like shit,” she shrugged, “knowing he could fuck way better than you.”

Jon was rendered speechless. It was so unlike Sansa to put salt in an open wound that he wondered if he’d misheard.

The sly smile on her lips told him he’d heard just fine…

“Gods,” she rolled her eyes, “that day he ran into you and Theon in the locker room?” she sighed longingly, “I just could not get enough of him that night, after he told me what he said to you…”

Jon could feel his lips trying to form words, but none came forth.

“I’m pretty sure our baby was conceived that night,” she rubbed a hand down her lower belly and smiled indulgently.

Jon gritted his teeth and shook his head, anger slowly finally replacing shock, “What’s your point?”

“My point is that I was a lot happier once I embraced that side of myself.”

“The slutty side?” he jabbed.

She was unwounded, “The dark side. The petty side. The side of me that wanted to burn all your clothes after you’d cheated on me but didn’t, because that wouldn’t have been very ladylike.”

“Whatever,” he turned to head toward his car but Sansa stopped him with a tug on his bicep.

Like a glutton for punishment, he turned.

“Jon,” she said gently, “I thought, for a long time, that your infidelity was your dark side, but I know you too well to think that anymore. I see what kind of son, friend, and teammate you are. I think you are loyal almost to a fault. I think if you wanted to be true to someone forever, you could be. Easily.”

“Then, again, what is your point?” he spat out.

Her hand on his bicep squeezed, “You didn’t cheat on me to sabotage anything, Jon. Not to hurt me, nor yourself. Not to get my façade to crack, either. No; you did what you did because you always wanted to know what it would feel like to get your hand slapped for sticking it in the cookie jar.”

This time, when his lips parted, it was in a different sort of shock. Shock at finally having it so perfectly expressed, in terms he understood, with a bluntness that made it seem futile to deny.

Sansa had once been the cookie in the jar – the unattainable little sister of his best friend, who surely would pick any other boy in Winterfell before scraping the bottom of the barrel for Jon Snow.

She’d stayed his cookie for a while – during their year of long distance dating when his insecurities made him wonder when she’d tire of having a boyfriend she couldn’t kiss or even hold hands with on a regular basis.

While she was in college it was much the same – campus was filled with good looking guys who were eternally horny and drunk, and Sansa was more beautiful than any girl had the right to be.

Only at some point after his career started did the shine wear off. She was so loyal to him it was almost boring. Always there when he got home. Always there when he needed someone to talk to, to kiss, to love, to hold. She was the traditional chocolate chip cookie that still tasted good but didn’t excite him, didn’t make his mouth water and his stomach gurgle with hunger that wasn’t there before he caught a whiff of her chocolatey goodness. And, almost overnight, he started noticing all the cookies he’d yet to sample. Oatmeal raisin. Snickerdoodle. White chocolate macadamia nut. Peanut butter.

But it was even more than a desire for variety – as Sansa so astutely noted. It was not enough to try those cookies, but to get caught trying those cookies. To be punished for his misbehavior. To take a hard swat to his bare bottom – literally or metaphorically or both, ideally.

(To take that hard swat and realize it hadn’t been worth it; that chocolate chip was the world’s favorite cookie for a reason.)

And maybe he was being punished. Maybe he’d been being punished since before he saw Stannis kissing Sansa in that parking lot.

(Maybe he’d been doing it to himself.)

“Find someone who loves all sides of you, Jon,” Sansa continued, her voice so serene it did not pull him from his realizations too jarringly. “Find someone who will help you discover those sides, to explore those sides. And when you find her – or him, I don’t judge – you’d better hold on tight.”

It was sound advice, yet the woman who’d do that with him, for him, was standing right in front of him, her hand on his arm, so close he could smell the mint from the virgin mimosas she’d been drinking all night because another man’s child was growing in her belly, where Jon’s belonged.

She dropped his arm and moved to take a step back, but his hand shot up, grabbed hers and pressed it against his heart with no care for his pride. “Maybe I’ve already found her,” he admitted openly, “Maybe I’d like another chance at holding on tight.”

She hummed, “I’m sure you would, but I belong to someone else now, and if you put your hand in his cookie jar, you’ll get a lot more than a slap.”

Why didn’t it sound like a warning, but a challenge?

(Or maybe a promise.)

He only knew one thing, as her hand slipped from his, as she gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek, as she walked to her car, as she got in and drove away.

His head dropped back, and he sighed at the stars, “God, I love that woman.”