cainnleacgh

[cainnleacgh]

Joe Burrow - Silver Stars & Tiger Stripes

She’s the star of the “imitated, never equal” Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders, and he’s the beating heart of the Cincinnati Bengals, the one, the only, Joe Burrow. The Cowboys had a bad season last year, so Joe never seen her, in the flesh, in that uniform, so what happens when the Cowboys meet the Bengals, with none other than Burrow as QB. The showdown of Burrow and McFarland, Bengals and Cowboys. Joe has a trick up his sleeve, well rather, on his jersey.

It started with a schedule drop.

A Tuesday afternoon. The bright, unforgiving Texan sun pouring through the mirrored windows of the DCC locker room, giving the appearance of something prison like, as if the sun was holding them captive. Any imagery was disrupted by the white curls falling from Gormley’s head, leaking a warmth different from the sun, one that held stories of laughter and smiles. She stood at her locker, attempting to pull up the white boots worn soft by sweat and excellence, when Liv, one of the rookies, screamed loud enough to make everyone drop their lashes, hot curling irons and makeup brushes for half-done makeup.

“Week 8. Bengals. Home game.”

Time froze for a beat—then all eyes, 36 pairs, slowly swiveled toward Gormley, whose lips parted slightly. Her phone buzzed. Again. And again. Notifications from half the Bengals roster, teammates, group chats filled, and a simple LFG from Ja’Marr.

But it was the FaceTime from Joe that made her finally move.

She stepped out into the hallway, sun haloing around her like a divine omen, what she hoped was a silent prayer from something, somebody that this wouldn’t be a mess. She picked up on the first ring.

“Tell me it’s true,” he said, already grinning. He looked, well, gorgeous as ever. He had obviously just showered, and while she’d mourned the golden curls, the grown out blonde, which decked the tops of his hair, made something in her feral.

She folded one arm under her chest, heart thudding against her palm, ironically to the rhythm of thunderstruck. “Week 8. You and me. AT&T.”

Joe leaned back in a chair, that boyish wonder chasing across his features. His blue eyes looked like hell themselves, she knew he’d love this, get to flaunt his talent, his muscles while she stood on the sideline, not outwardly cheering for him, but Joe only cared about the inside anyway, well being inside her, if that counts. Maybe she could keep the uniform on, he could ruin the innocence in connoted, make every inch of her is, or, he could bend her over, make her wear something with Burrow stitched across the back, make her cheer for the Cowboys see how long she lasts without giving in to his name. He was hard thinking about it, he’d been waiting for this one.

“You’re gonna dance, look unreal in them shorts, kick to the high heavens” he said, “and I’m gonna throw the best game of my goddamn life. I’lll send them Cowboy’s out of the play offs as quickly as possible.” She knew he was loving this, his voice grew husky and deep.

He couldn’t wait to have people look at her, want her, only to realise, she was going home with the Bengals quarterback, and he was gonna help her mourn yet another loss for them. He might even pull his game jersey over her that night at the game, everyone would see what she really belonged to, and that was him.

She arched a brow, teasing. “Not distracted by cleavage and thighs?”

He laughed. “Are you kidding? I’ve been distracted by your cleavage and thighs since the tenth grade.“

⸻

If Gormley thought the teasing would stay light, she was wrong. Very, very, very wrong.

Every rehearsal, every choreography breakdown came with pointed smirks and barely disguised giggles.

“Oh, we better keep her in the back line,” teased Jasmine. “Can’t have Burrow sprinting across the field mid-kickline.” She’d remarked after a tense practice, the giggles were needed.

“No, that would give me the ick.” The girls all hooted in agreement, getting onto the topics of icks. Burrow wasn’t safe from the convo, with his gold-studded jewellery a hot topic.

Kelli just laughed from the sidelines, her voice slicing through the chaos. Clearly, the news had infiltrated the DCC hierarchy. “Make sure you don’t blow him a kiss, or we’re going viral for the wrong reasons. I don’t want to see no tents in Mr Burrows pants.” Even Judy got in on it. “Don’t be the reason he pulls a hamstring, Gorms.”

Meanwhile, Joe was uncharacteristically giddy in Cincinnati. Media noticed. Teammates noticed more. Joe Burrow was ice before a game, heck, he was ice before conditioning. Nothing was going to ruin him and football, well, except his girl, she obliterated any importance football held to him.

“You got some pep in your step, QB,” Ja’Marr teased in the locker room, tossing him a towel. “Got laid or a date?”

“Both,” Joe shot back, tying his cleats with near-manic precision. Left was looped once, right looped twice, it was the way it had to be.

“Just remember,” added Logan Wilson, “no boners on the field.”

The boys all began firing stuff at Joe, clearly, impressed by his game. Towels, jerseys, gum shields, a rogue shoe. He loved showing her off, and he had 8 weeks to do so, and then after he had precisely, forever to.

“I’m not making promises I can’t keep.”

⸻

The DCC locker room was loud—buzzing with nerves, heat, and pure unfiltered adrenaline. Uniforms clinked on hangers, buckles being shined, boots being whitened, hairspray thickened the air, someone had Britney on full volume, trying to drown out the thud of the stadium above them, a march that reminded Gormley too much of her old history class learning about revolutions and the treaties that ended them. She’d met Joe in a history class. The universe was clearly being kind today.

Gormley sat at her mirror, dabbing setting powder over highlighter that shimmered like a morning frost. She’d just finished unpinning her curls when Jasmine sidled up behind her with a wicked grin, she couldn’t wait till this was over and everyone smiled normally, nothing laced within it.

“So,” Jasmine said, twirling a pom-pom like it was a wine glass, “what’s it feel like to know the literal golden boy of the NFL is about to watch you hair-whip to Thunder?”

“Like pressure,” Gormley deadpanned as she combed through her curls. They looked good today, really good.

“Nah. Don’t be modest.” Liv, the youngest on the squad, popped up from behind a row of lockers, her voice half whisper, half screech. “If my boyfriend looked at me the way Joe Burrow looks at you, I’d commit war crimes.”

Gormley laughed. “He’s just proud. We’ve been doing this a long time.” From history classes to senior prom, to collage frat nights and championship wins.

“Yeah, but not with 80,000 people and every person ever watching,” Jasmine cut in. “Girl, you are about to launch this man into another stratosphere. The second your knee hits that turf, he’s combusting.”

“Swear to God, he’s gonna throw five interceptions,” Liv said. “Or six touchdowns. No in-between.”

Judy walked by with a clipboard, eyes twinkling. “If that boy loses control of the ball, we’ll all know why.”

Gormley raised her brow. “You all done?”

Kelli appeared from the hallway with a small smirk. “You better hope he’s not,” she teased, arms crossed. “Eyes up. Shoulders back. Don’t let your hips lie.” Fitting Kelly, as Shakira pumped through the dresser.

There was a beat, then Kelli added dryly, “And for the love of all that is holy, don’t blow him a kiss mid-routine. I will bench you.” They’d been over this tent in the pants allegation, she had already talked about boners with Kelly ever again, nor did she want to.

Laughter erupted. Gormley shook her head, cheeks pink. “You’re all ridiculous.”

“You love it,” Jasmine said, bumping her shoulder.

And she did. Even with the teasing, even with the sweat behind her knees and the butterflies in her ribs—she’d never felt more alive. It was thunder time bitches.

Meanwhile, halfway across the bowels of the stadium, the Bengals locker room pulsed with energy of a different kind—gritty, grounded, game-faced.

Except for Joe Burrow. He couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. He hadn’t even tried.

“Yo,” Ja’Marr said from across the room, raising an eyebrow as Joe tied his cleats with a grin he hadn’t worn since draft night. “What the hell is up with you?”

Joe glanced up, nonchalant. “What?”

“You’re smiling,” Wilson said. “Like a lot. It’s freaking us out.”

Joe sat back, cracking his knuckles. “I’m good, man. Feeling light.”

Karras leaned around his locker, frowning. “Light? Joe, you are never light. You’re the moodiest son of a bitch on game day.” They all offered nods or grunts as agreement. He didn’t care, he was the best for a reason.

Ja’Marr grinned. “It’s her, isn’t it? JoeyB has gone soft on us!” The boys ruffled his hair as they passed, they’d all known everything had been leading to this, it was an unspoken fact.

Joe didn’t answer, just looked down at the band he always wore on his wrist. A small silver charm hung from it now—etched with her initials. GMCF.

“Gorms about to go out there,” he said finally, voice quiet with reverence. “She’s gonna dance. I’ve seen her in practice. But it’s different when it’s real.” He would be able to look, stare, imagine, but he couldn’t touch, well he would. When he won and took her home with him.

Ja’Marr threw a towel at him. “Damn, Joe. You gonna propose mid-field? Because man, if you’re going to, I want subbed the fuck off and deported.” That earned several laughs.

Joe laughed, tucking a small card into his wristband. “Nah. But I am gonna sneak out and watch Thunder.”

“You break curfew for a hair flip and we lose, you’re winning me a mother fucking Super Bowl ring,” Logan muttered.

He could’ve said anything, he didn’t hear, he didn’t care. Joe was already halfway down the tunnel.

“I’m about to play the best game of my life,” he called back. “Might as well watch the reason why first.”

Joe had snuck out from the Bengals locker room—breaking protocol entirely—and was posted near the field entrance in an oversized hoodie and a hat yanked low, thumbing her initials etched on his wrist.

But when Gormley ran onto the field with the squad and struck her first pose beneath the jumbotron lights, Joe was frozen in place, terrified she could run in such boots, but more terrified by how in love he was. His entire world was currently sprinting down the 50 yard line to AC/DC.

His phone shook as he lifted it, hands slightly unsteady. “Goddamn,” he muttered to himself, filming. “That’s my girl.”

The music dropped. Thunderstruck slammed into the stadium. The hair flip on her knees hit like a slow-motion bullet through the crowd—and Joe caught every frame on video. He posted it instantly to his Instagram story, tagging her with: “scrubs up well.”

The fans caught his muttering too. Joe Burrow wasn’t as discrete as he thought. The managers knew he was out here, the players knew, but no one dared to bother him, not when it involved his Gorms. “Gormley, you’re killing me,” he whispered.

Kelli leaned over to Gormley after the number, her eyes glinting. “He was watching. That boy’s gone. And Gormley,” she added, touching her shoulder, “he’s a good one. I can tell.”

She knew he was gonna watch, of course he was. But now, as the players embodied the field, who even were the Bengals? Go Cowboys.

⸻

Joe Burrow was the human embodiment of electric.

From the first whistle, he danced through the Cowboys defense like he himself was gonna start an 8 count with poms. 40-yard spirals, QB scrambles, no-look passes—the man was possessed.

And every time he threw, Gormley caught it from the sidelines, her pom-poms twitching with restrained pride. But after a 38-yard touchdown, she lost composure—just slightly—and gave the smallest, brightest wave with her pompoms in his direction.

And then it happened.

As Joe jogged back to the bench, he lifted his jersey just slightly to reveal a second one underneath. On it, something was handwritten in permanent marker…

Gormley didn’t know what the commotion was about, she could hear the screams, the commentators. Sure, it was a good touch down, but he’d had better. She listened to the man commentating, “Burrow is on fire today, folks. That’s his fourth touchdown pass and it is textbook perfection.” Another one added, “And hold on… Burrow’s lifting his jersey… wait a second—oh my God. Can we zoom in on that?”

Beneath Joe’s Bengals jersey is a white undershirt, in bold, black lettering…

“My girls gonna bend better than your defense.”

The commentator choked, and the stadium hadn’t settled. “He did not. He absolutely did not just— Ladies and gentlemen, Joe Burrow has officially lost his mind over his girlfriend—and I don’t blame him! That’s Gormley, second-year Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader. And he’s right—she can bend. Thought, he seems to have different bending in mind!”

The camera cut instantly to Gormley on the sideline. She’s frozen mid-pom shake, mouth parted slightly, eyes wide with that Oh my God expression. Her cheekbones flame red beneath makeup.

One beat. Two.

Then she covers her mouth with one pom and starts laughing. Shaking her head like he’s dead later. Fuck it, she thought, already regretting her decision, as she grabbed the camera with both her hands, and mouthed, “Yeah, I bend. But only for Burrow.” Giving a final wink as she pushed the camera into the fans, catching the fallen mouths, the horrified mothers, and the beautiful chaos Joe Burrow took everywhere with him.

But even through the noise, the crowd, the chaos—she knows exactly where Joe’s looking. He’s already on the sideline, helmet off, holding a water bottle and the most stupid, smitten grin she’s ever seen.

⸻

The Cowboys lost. Decisively, embarrassingly. But Gormley didn’t care, it would be hard to argue that anyone cared, Eve the Cowboys after what they’d witnessed unfold.

She was pulled aside for a quick post-game media hit, her hair still curled, makeup barely smudged.

“You had quite the reaction to Burrow’s performance tonight,” the reporter asked. “Any thoughts?” She wanted her to reveal, something, anything, but there’d been enough of that tonight.

She smiled, calm and composed but radiant. “I’m always proud of him,” she said. “He’s worked for everything he’s earned.” She smiled, she knew she hadn’t answered the question. “Oh, and as for the shirt—well—he’s got good taste in jerseys.”

In the distance, Joe stood just past the cameras, helmet tucked under his arm, beaming like the moon. As she walked off, he mouthed, “Still distracted?”

She shook her head with a laugh, then whispered:

“Always.”

⸻

Part 1 done, and I thinkkkkkk part 2 calls for a smutty chapter…

[cainnleacgh]

Joe Burrow - Down and dirty

Joe's life, it's pretty unreal right now. Winning on and off the field, until, he finds himself only winning on the field, as his girl, who happens to be a dallas cowboy cheerleader is no longer his. What's she like after the break up? Well, let the cameras roll.

There were nights were Joe Burrow swore he was dreaming.

LSU was winning, not just games but moments — big ones, historic ones, the kind he used to sketch in Ohio in spiral notebooks under math problems. And he wasn’t watching from the stands, oh god no, Joe Burrow was everywhere. He was making legendary calls on the field. Baton Rouge pulsed with something electric every time his cleats hit the field. His name was shouted alike a prayer.

People wanted to be him.

Some just wanted to touch him.

And still, none of it, none of the wins, the parties, the nights out, ever felt quite as good to him as when she walked through the door after practice, bag slung over one shoulder, lips glossed and hair pinned back from a long Cowboys rehearsal.

The kind of girl whose light didn’t need a stadium, the kind of girl whose beauty wasn't just measured with those icy eyes, or her smile that Joe swore was home, no. Her beauty was how she spoke to people, how she treated people. Her soul was as sweet as honey, and as untameable as the wind. She was his everything.

When she'd made DCC, there was no wider smile than that of Joe Burrow, and the uniform, it was nothing short of a bonus. She was living the life she had told him about when they were 16, and their dreams were as uncertain as the very wind, but she'd bottled that wind, and she knew she had no limits. He loved that about Gormley, she didn't set a standard, she was the standard.

What he didn't love was how pom poms seen more of her than him, he didn't want to frazzle her dreams, but Joe began to think, he was no longer her real dream, simply, he was just there.

And tonight, she was late. Again.

The door slammed harder than she meant to — that was clear by the way her eyes flicked toward him, immediately wary. She smelled like stadium grass, something so familiar to Joe, yet tonight, it only angered him further at what he was losing, at what was slipping through his fingers.

Gormley had prayed on the journey home that Joe would be in bed, a late night gym session, hell, even our drinking so he wouldn't notice, again, how late she was.

“You’re late,” he said flatly.

“I texted.” Gormley said, cringing at the emptiness that filled Joe's words, he wasn't excited to see her. He'd waited up to fight, she knew this. She didn't want to fight.

“You always text. That doesn’t make you on time.” Joe hated how much of a smart ass he was when he was pissed, he would never hurt her, ever. But he couldn't fight his temper, and the fire in him burned, it roared.

Gormley dropped her bag by the door, slow and deliberate, her calculation was something Joe admitted, she knew what she wanted and she knew how to get it, but tonight, tonight it pissed him off. “Why are you picking a fight, Joe?”

His voice rose before his mind caught up. “Because I’m sick of waiting around like some fucking roommate when you swore you’d make time for this! For me!"

He hates shouting, he hates that she'd ever be scared of him, she was his home, refuge, not someone to hide from. But tonight, he shouted, that fire roaring so loudly.

“This?” she snapped, though exhaustion plagued her voice and it tampered any real chance of her sounding as poisonous as him. “Define this, Joe. Us? Or your fucking ego?”

He laughed bitterly. “You walk in late smelling like a damn commercial shoot, and I’m supposed to sit here and act like I don’t know what guys in that locker room are thinking when you dance in that outfit—”

He hadn't answered her question, define this. Joe couldn't define this, he wasn't sure it was anything anymore.

“Careful.” Gormley's eyes darkened, alike the unforgiving ocean before it plummets a boat beneath its surface. “Don’t finish that sentence unless you’re ready to burn for it.”

But he was already too far gone. “You think I’m wrong? I’ve seen the clips. The fucking edits. You’re everyone’s fantasy.”

He hadn't wanted to fight about her clothes for gods sake, why did he mention the outfit. He wanted his Gormley back, he wanted to start their romance again. He didn't care about an outfit, he was Joe Burrow.

“And you’re everyone’s goddamn hero,” she said, voice low. “You want me smaller so you can stay bigger. You don’t love me—you love owning me.”

Gormley didn't mean that, and she knew it wasn't true. She wanted to hurt him, as callous as it sounds. Maybe then, Joe's unwaged war would end, the guns would stop firing.

Joe was so proud to love her, and love her loudly at that. She was the first person he thought of and the last, she was his very heart beat, the very breath drawn into his lungs. Not tonight though, tonight, she wasn't his and he wasn't hers.

The silence that followed was louder than anything either of them had shouted. Who would blink first.

"It's fucking dumb thinking you're doing some unreal work and making a real change when you prance about in a sports bra." He spat. Joe had blinked. Gormley knew she'd won, but, how much did a win matter when she knew she'd was going to lose him.

They'd been fighting for weeks. Joe drank too much, he stayed out too late, she picked cheerleading over him, she doesn't turn down advances enough. They'd fought about every thing there was to fight about. He was distant, she couldn't care less. The house was empty despite two personalities in it. She didn't want to fight anymore, she was so so done.

She turned then. Picked up her bag. No drama. No last plea. Just her voice, sharp and resolute:

“You can do whatever the fuck you want, Joe, because I am so done.”

And she left.

-

No contact.

Fourteen days.

Two hundred and sixty-two unread texts on his phone from everyone but her.

Joe didn’t tell anyone he was flying in. Not his coach. Not his mom. Not even Ja’Marr, who would’ve guessed it anyway. He sat high in the VIP box, hood up, jaw clenched. He didn't care about the Cowboys, he thought they were shit. He was waiting, waiting so eagerly.

And then she came onto the field.

The world stopped.

She was brutal in blue and white, Joe had always loved her in white, silver flickering off every angle of her body like blades as she span onto the field. He felt every stab of the blades, he felt everything. But something was off, something was different.

Her hair, her hair was different. The usual white-blonde he's always known was jet-black. It cascaded down her back like a spell, it enchanted him, enthralled him. He fucking loved it. She looked like venom was coursing through her veins, the black only making those icy blue eyes more fierce.

Joe had known her for years. But this?

This wasn't a version he knew, it was the first version without him. The jet-black was almost blue under the stadium lights, and moon dust appeared to be sliding off of her.

This was her war paint.

She danced like she didn’t care who watched. Like no one had ever touched her. Like Joe had never held her until her breath hitched against his shoulder, whispering promises about someday. He was gonna get a real big ring because Gormely didn't do anything half assed, and he would get down on one knee, and he'd declare himself to her, forever. They'd have babies, maybe four.

It crushed him.

After the routine, she gave one brief wave to the crowd her pom-poms waving effortlessly, god she was so beautiful, she then turned to an NFL Network sideline mic that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Joe wouldn't have noticed anyway, where it came from, his eyes hadn't turned from her.

The interviewer smiled like it was all scripted. “Amazing as always Gormley. A question—fans online are wondering: You and Joe Burrow were once college football’s golden couple. Any comment on your relationship now?”

His heart dropped, they hadn't addressed the break up, hell, he hadn't even told his parents. He already knew his mom would shout at him for not sending a photo of her new hair, but how would he have, he didn't know.

And then it happened.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t stammer. She just lifted one shoulder, smirking faintly. “Joe used to being the most important person in every room. I think watching someone else be wanted… scared him.”

The crowd roared with laughter. Joe’s stomach dropped, he ignored that they were laughing at him, and he couldn't unhear what she'd said, "used" past tense. Past. Tense.

She looked directly into the camera then — like she knew. Like she knew he was watching, she probably did, she knew everything.

“Let’s just say… I’m done shrinking to fit his storyline.”

He just knew he’d lost her.

And the stadium had never felt colder.

⸻

The crowd had long since thinned, gone off to beer and barstools, but Joe didn’t move.

Not for the exit.

Not for the car.

Not even when one of the security guards looked at him with that “aren’t you that guy?” glance. He didn't care if he was anyone here, he did care that he wasn't her anyone. That needed to change.

He leaned against the concrete wall beneath the lower bowl, tucked into the shadows like he belonged in them, cap pulled low. Hands in the front pocket of his sweatshirt, a beat-up one from LSU he hadn’t been able to stop wearing lately. He didn’t even know why. Nostalgia was rotting him from the inside out. His heart felt mechanic, as if it were moving because it had to, not because it had something to beat for. He hadn't felt like that, not since she had left.

He knew her routine.

Knew it down to the minute.

Her team would stay on-field for press and post-game notes. Then the locker room — she took the longest, always the last out, always touching up something, fixing a detail, smoothing her hair to make sure it didn’t look like effort. She hated effort. Hated looking like she tried, he thought maybe her routine might've changed because of her hair, but he was confident in his ability to know her. He was always sure of that.

She would come out the north tunnel around 11:18, give or take.

At 11:17, he heard the door.

He didn’t straighten. Just looked up.

And there she was.

The air changed around her. Not dramatically. Not in some Hollywood slow-mo nonsense. But in the way traffic slows when a siren’s coming — quiet awe with a note of danger.

She had a duffle over one shoulder and her DCC jacket unzipped over a cropped tank. Hair loose around her shoulders, it was longer, and it ended just above her ass. He don't know why she done it, she loved being blonde. said she got to be barbie, but he loved this a lot more. Lip gloss reapplied — of course it was. He knew her. She hated her lips in photos, said they looked dehydrated. They always looked perfect to him.

She looked up as she stepped out.

Her eyes landed on him immediately — a flicker of surprise. And for the briefest second, he saw softness. Kindness, even. That ache behind the armor, she hoped she'd drop her sword, run back to him.

But it didn’t last.

The walls rebuilt in a blink. She turned. Said something to the girl beside her — brunette, ponytail, confident walk. Joe didn’t know her name. He should have. She always said he didn't care about her life here, he did, he swear he did.

The girl laughed and bumped her shoulder. They kept walking.

She didn’t even spare him a breath.

And that hurt more than anything else had.

He stood there long after they disappeared down the tunnel. Just him, the empty stadium corridor.

He pulled out his phone.

Typed, deleted, retyped.

He should probably go home, but his feet were glued to the spot. He swore when he looked up it was her again and again.

Then, finally:

Joe: You didn’t even look at me.

He stared at it. Knew it was pathetic. Sent it anyway. Dignity meant nothing if it was without her.

The dots appeared instantly. Instantly. He smiled slightly, she was waiting for him to text. Hm.

His chest tightened.

Gormley: No I looked at you. I just didn’t stop.

⸻

My babies are fighting nooo but don't worry, well maybe do worry... about part 2. Will they or won't they🙈

[cainnleacgh]

ׂ╰┈➤ Welcome to my blog

Hi there beautiful people, my name is Cainn and I love words, quite a lot. I'm not an American native so please excuse any inaccuracy's (what is an AP class...) if anything is offensive or stereotypical, do let me know.

I've had a few blogs before, but embarrassing I've never been committed enough to one and find myself getting overwhelmed, deleting the app and forgetting the password. If anyone knows what it was before, hi, i see you ;)

This is a safe place for all my Joe Burrow loving friends, but let's remember, i'm just as human as you are, and vise versa and let's all just be a little kinder to each other and ourselves.

Enough about my boring lil self, if anyone wants to chat, send requests you know where to put them :)

Click below my lovelies for my masterlist <3

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ masterlist

✩= fluff ☾= smut ✧=angst

Forever Evolving

Joe Burrow and Gormley McFarland

Joe Burrow, Bengals quarterback and America's golden boy is dating someone even more iconic than him, none other than Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader, Gormley McFarland. A love destined to be envied by all.

⋆˚࿔ high school 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Blue is always the hottest flame ✩

Joe Burrow is the star boy of Athens High School, but, what happens in Junior year when Joe can't win the heart of the girl beside him that he wants so desperately.

⋆˚࿔ LSU 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

୨⎯ coming soon ⎯୧

⋆˚࿔ Bengals 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Did someone say fraternising? ✩

The star QB whose star is a girl who wears them on her shorts but what happens when their relationship is one that technically, breaks the rules.

[cainnleacgh]

Joe Burrow - Blue is always the hottest flame

Joe Burrow is the star boy of Athens High School, but, what happens in Junior year when Joe can't win the heart of the girl beside him that he wants so desperately.

Joe wasn’t paying attention when he walked into class—just tugged the sleeves of his hoodie down, adjusted the strap of his backpack, and scoped the room for a seat that didn’t scream try-hard. That was his first mistake.

The second was not noticing who he ended up next to until she shifted in her chair and glanced at him from the corner of her eye.

Not long. Just a flick. Barely even a look. But it was enough.

Gormely McFarland.

Of course.

She had a pretty face, but she had an even prettier heart and that was what made it impossible to dislike her. Her hair was bleached so pale it looked almost silver in the light, Joe, being a typical teenage boy assumed this was in fact, her God-given hair, and wondered how someone could have hair he thought resembled Legolas. That would be an unreal compliment he thought. And those eyes, so bright and cold they were a paradox in themselves. Eyes are so loud. He'd never seen eyes so icy before. Blue as the ocean, but a fire burnt so bright beneath them.

They were the sort of eyes that made you nervous to even look into, and Joe was well aware, plenty had tried.

Football players. Seniors. Even that one guy who came back from college for winter break and thought she’d be impressed.

None of them lasted more than a week.

Gormley didn't do boyfriends.

She knew they wanted her. That was part of it. She carried herself with the elegance of a swan. Delicate, beautiful, otherworldly. But beneath that beauty, something magic, deadly, dangerous lay in her. She was the most beautiful girl Joe Burrow had ever laid eyes on, and trust, Joe Burrow had laid eyes on quite a few girls.

And now she was sitting next to Joe.

He blinked once, half out of habit, like he had to reset his brain. Then he said, casually, “Didn’t think you were real.”

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t smile. Just turned the page in her spiral-bound notebook and said, “You talk like you’re used to getting away with dumb shit.”

She had the messiest handwriting he'd ever seen, and his was pretty messy. He didn't know why, but the fact she was so externally perfect contrasted the messiness of her handwriting was... cute to him.

He grinned, unfazed. “I do.”

That got her to glance over again. Not in shock—more like she was analysing him. Yep, those eyes were so dangerous. Her eyes walked a very fine line between beautifully poetic and uncharacteristically insane.

“Joe Burrow,” she said flatly, opening a new page up and holding her pen in a way he could only describe as insanity. She gripped it, like, gripped it as if the pen were going to run away from her. Another thing he found cute.

“You know my name,” he said, leaning back, with his hands above his head. He didn't miss her eyes scanning his arms. So, she does like me. I’m flattered.”

“You write it all over the desks in Chemistry. You talk about yourself in third person at parties. I’d have to be concussed not to know it.” She hadn't looked back at him after she'd drank the image of his flexed arms, which, of course, he'd flexed purposefully. She was scribbling down what had been wrote on the board. Hieroglyphics would've been easier to read.

Joe let out a low, amused breath, tapping his pen once against the edge of the desk. “You always like this, or is it just with me?”

“Just you,” she said, and continued back to her notes. So she was studious. Noted. That, he also found cute.

No hesitation. No smirk. Just brutal honesty delivered like it wasn’t personal, like he could disappear in the morning and she wouldn't lose a wink of sleep.

Joe watched her for another second. She underlined dates like they actually mattered, if Joe remembered what date it was in the present, he thought his day was going swimmingly. There was highlighter on the margins, bold green, precise. Everything about her was like that—controlled. Specific. Not a single wasted move.

“Look,” Joe said after a beat, slouching down in his chair. “I didn’t pick this seat to piss with you. It was either this or next to the guy who doesn't shower.”

“Tragic,” she muttered, flipping another page, damn, Joe thought. He thought she might've even turned her lips in amusement at that small attempt of a joke. Next class he would need to bring an olive branch, perhaps a dove, a white handkerchief to get her to even look at him.

“You always this fun at parties?”

She didn’t answer. He noticed she drummed her fingers on the table, moving them about, like she was marking a dance. He realised, she probably was.

Joe tapped his pen again. “You do go to parties, right? Or are you too busy winning the national spelling bee or whatever it is you do after school?”

This time she set the pen down and turned toward him, slow and deliberate. Her eyes narrowed slightly. His stomach dropped as she looked at him and he got a proper look at her.

She was ethereal, there was no other word to describe her. Galaxies of freckles burst across the bridge of her nose, and they created a constellation even the sky would have trouble recreating.

Her eyelashes were long, dark and curled, and the darkness that befell them contrasted the coolness of her eyes. She had dark brows that, despite being furrowed at his dumb question, had a kindness about them, like it went against her very makeup to be rude.

“Is that your angle? You annoy girls until they get tired enough to flirt back?” She eventually replied, though, Joe was, despite the cliche, lost in her eyes. They resembled the ice that sits in a whiskey glass, and Joe was getting beyond drunk off of her.

“No,” he said, cocking an eyebrow. “Usually they flirt first.”

She stared at him. Not flirty. Not curious, not really anything. More like staring at a problem she was halfway through solving.

“You know what the thing is about you?” she said, voice soft, he knew it wasn't her nature to be so abrasive. This sounded natural, and it sounded like something he wanted to get used to. “You think everyone likes you. Even when they don’t.”

Ouch.

Despite the abruptness at which she declared that not everyone liked him, which is obviously a lie, duh? There was no malice in it. Just fact. Like she was reading a fact from the history text book opened in front of her.

Joe didn’t flinch, didn’t bristle. He just smiled again, this time slower. “You’re not wrong.” She was but, for the sake of securing the girl of his dreams, he decided to agree with her.

As he searched his brain on how to keep the conversation ticking, Mr. Caldwell walked in, more like sulked in. He hated his students as much as they hated him.

He began droning about the founding fathers, and some geezer named Hamilton who made centralised national credit, he thinks? He's still not sure. It was probably irrelevant anyway. Gormley eagerly took notices, and even more eagerly contributed to the class. She seemed to know everything.

And for once—just once—Joe didn’t know what to say.

-

The bell rang like a mercy kill, and never had he been so grateful for time to actually move. Joe hated time, he wanted it to stop, he wanted to stay in high school forever, but just this once, he was glad time moved.

Papers shuffled. Backpacks unzipped. Mr. Caldwell didn’t even try to finish his sentence; just waved them off with a grunt and muttered something about a quiz.

Joe stretched out, spine cracking once. He didn’t move right away. Didn’t reach for his bag. His eyes stayed on her—Gormely, already sliding her pen into a velvet case, closing her notebook with two sharp flicks of her fingers. Efficient, exact. Every motion a decision, calculated.

He leaned toward her just a little, she even smelt good. It was heavy and slightly masculine, but it suited her, and God did he like it. “Hey.”

She stood. “Yeah?”

Not cold. Not warm. Just… blank.

“I was gonna say—” he paused, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like it might help decide something clever. “—you should let me cheat off your notes sometime.”

It wasn't clever, it wasn't romantic, it sounded even more arrogant than she already thought he was. Joe didn't have problems with girls, Joe caused the problems, so why was she so difficult.

Her head tilted slightly, blonde hair flicking over one shoulder. “You couldn’t read my handwriting.”

“I’ll learn.” That wasn't the truth, he couldn't read it, it was absolutely shit.

Gormely blinked once. Then—without waiting—she turned, swinging her bag over one shoulder like it was the end of a conversation, like her bag was a metaphorical full stop. Talk about rejection.

“You’re exhausting,” she muttered, but not loud. Not cruel, but he couldn't help but feel a pang in his chest.

And then she was gone. Rejoining two girls near the door—one fixing her bag over her shoulder, the other still reapplying lip gloss—and they left in a tide of perfume and whispered laughter. She didn’t look back, he really wanted her to have looked back.

Joe sat there for another second. One breath. Two.

Then he muttered, “Damn,” under his breath and finally stood. She was going to be hard work, but Joe loved a challenge.

-

The field always felt different at dusk. Joe loved the field, Athens field, his field. There was a certain familiarity about it, he knew every lump, bump and drop. He'd played his first game here, first win here, first loss here. He found comfort in knowing some things always stayed the same.

The bleachers faded into shadows, the lights just beginning to buzz overhead—soft orange before they snapped to sterile white. Cleats against turf. Whistles. The steady, military rhythm of drills.

Joe ran sprints until his legs ached. Hit passes until his shoulder screamed. But his head wasn’t in it. Not really. Not since third period.

He didn’t know what she was, she was such a mystery. Joe didn't like mystery. Joe liked to settle for things he knew, but she wasn't one of those things. She hadn’t rolled her eyes. She hadn’t laughed. She hadn’t even given him one of those looks girls usually did when he knew he was close to cracking them.

Nothing.

But she hadn’t ignored him either.

She’d seen right through him, peeled him open like a fruit and then walked away before the juice hit her fingers.

It pissed him off.

It fascinated him.

It made it worse.

He noticed her before he heard her.

Across the field. Behind the uprights. Leading the cheer squad through a drill that looked more like military formation than anything to do with pompoms.

Her voice was sharp and clipped, cutting clean through the noise. She counted off moves with precision, no room for mistake, though, he thought, she wouldn't tolerate mistakes. And they followed—every girl on that squad falling into formation like they didn’t dare do anything else, like even their very breath was choreographed.

She moved like a storm but with the softness of a spring flower, and he wanted nothing more than to step into the eye of that storm, to be consumed by it, to drown it. God, he wanted her so bad.

Ponytail tight, trainers spotless, that same exactness in every part of her body—how she walked, pointed, corrected. She was a general at work, her soft smiled quickly stabbed by her sharp tongue as she whistled steps and lifts.

And Joe—half-winded and soaked in sweat—just stood there watching her, he couldn't looks away.

He’d worn the full uniform today, even though it wasn’t a scrimmage. White jersey, navy lettering. Burrow stitched across the back. He didn’t know why. Or maybe he did.

Maybe it was stupid.

Maybe he hoped she’d look.

She didn’t.

Not once.

Even when he caught a 40-yard pass on the sideline, palms stinging from the snap of it—nothing. Even when he jogged back slowly, knowing exactly how his arms looked in this lighting—nothing.

It was like he didn’t exist. Which, for Joe Burrow, was not a familiar feeling, and he really hated mystery.

Practice ended. The sky turned purple, like something a witch would brew, he didn't like that ominous feeling. Sweat dried cold on his neck.

The cheerleaders started clearing cones and mats, voices softer now, limbs tired. But she moved like she could’ve gone another hour. Same pace. Same precision.

He noticed the girls adored her, and she clearly adored them. They laughed, and gosh her laugh was as beautiful as the mouth it came from. He wanted to trap it, somehow scratch it to a record and play it endlessly. He knew she wasn't kind, she just wasn't to him, for some reason.

Joe unbuckled his helmet, shook the curls out of his eyes, and jogged toward her before he could talk himself out of it.

She was crouched, strapping a rolled mat into a storage cart, fingers working fast, that same calculated motion aray in everything she done. She moved like clockwork, like a clock that ticks and ticks, it's what it's made to do, until it breaks.

He slowed as he reached her. “You always run them like that, or were you just showing off for us?” He knew she wouldn't like that, but he wanted her to respond, and if he had to fight with her, so bloody be it.

She didn’t look up. “Trust me, you weren’t on my mind.” He noticed she smiled, like actually smiled, and she didn't stop herself. So he was kinda in?

Joe let the corner of his mouth twitch upward. “You should’ve seen the throw I made. Thought maybe you’d clap or something.”

Finally, she straightened, turning to face him. Her eyes scanned him once—up, down, slowly. The stadium lights caught her cheekbones, her throat, the faint smear of black under one eye where her makeup had lasted through sweat and sun. Those eyes looked at him. They were the colour of water, strong enough to drown him, but a depth that he thought could save him.

“You wore the uniform just to be looked at,” she said. Not a question, she didn't ask questions. She seemed to have all the answers.

He shrugged. “Not just.” He had worse it for her to notice, and she seemed to have. To Joe, a win is a win.

“And yet here you are,” she said, brushing dirt from her knees, “still looking for my attention.”

Silence.

She held his gaze. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Joe swallowed, throat dry. He was so captivated by her, and he doesn't know why. She was dangerously intelligent but god, she was so beautiful, and he knew, he knew, that she was as beautiful on the inside, she just wouldn't let him in. He needed her to let him in.

“Maybe,” he said finally. “You’re hard not to look at.” He decided to give in, let her know he wanted her without all the suggestions. Her eyes seemed to soften, though, that iciness always seemed so unforgiving. The hottest fires always burn blue.

A beat. Two. A breath, another one.

She exhaled—barely audible—and turned back to the cart, pushing it toward the edge of the field.

“You’re not used to girls telling you no,” she said, over her shoulder. She had a roundish jaw, and had a straight nose. It was small, but slightly upturned at the end. How could someone with an upturned nose be so mean, Joe silently cursed himself.

“I’m not used to caring if they do.” He admitted honestly, because he never did.

That got her. She paused. Just a fraction of a second, but Joe saw it. The tiniest hesitation in her step, like something inside her turned, she had stopped ticking.

But she kept walking.Didn’t look back. Didn’t say anything.

And Joe Burrow—who’d had a thousand conversations like this, who’d never once wondered what someone was thinking when they walked away—stood on the edge of that field and watched her disappear.

And he thought, Shit. I’m in trouble.

-

Note the Hamilton reference cuz obviously x

[cainnleacgh]

Joe Burrow - Did someone say fraternising?

The star QB whose star is a girl who wears them on her shorts but what happens when their relationship is one that technically, breaks the rules.

Gormley doesn’t get nervous. Not in her rookie year where her red costume, with beading and gems so beautiful it was almost unreal, on a girl even more unreal stepped in front of the judges and hooked them from that moment. She doesn’t get nervous in interviews, in front of crows. She doesn’t get nervous.

But this?

This was new.

She sat stiff in the DCC director’s office, spine poker-straight, hair suddenly sticking to her back, she suddenly became aware of every follicle in her scalp, her palms flat on the hem of her sports bra, the criss-cross back digging uncomfortably into her already tense, tight shoulders. Kelli sat behind an open laptop, calm but unreadable, while Judy—arms folded, lips pursed—leaned against the wall. That was never a good sign, Judy doesn’t stand. Ever.

For all the fire and flash of pre-game day, the office felt cold. Clinical. Like a courtroom. Or worse—like a stage where the next move could determine her fate, was she to be alike King Lear, whose foolish pride when questioned caused such destruction, or was she to be alike Alexander Hamilton, who built empires under such scrutiny. Wait, both died.

Gormley knew the rules. She had them memorised long before she ever slipped on the iconic white boots. No gum, no being late, no red nails. She was somewhat of a rule follower, she doesn’t jaywalk, she always parks between the white lines, she knew rules were good, but she also knew what was coming.

“Gormley,” Kelli began, her voice soft but laced with a firmness that years of authority gave her. “You know I wouldn’t be calling you in unless it was serious.” Kelli had grown found of Gormley, she was what, in her head, a DCC should be. Hair so blonde it was white, but it was also impossibly healthy for someone who took a bottle of bleach to it more often than she’d like to admit. Blue eyes reflecting the very logo of the Cowboys, as if she were destined, pre-mapped, wired to dance for DCC. She was everything DCC was, body and soul, so why did Kelli look so mad.

“Yes, ma’am,” she replied, meeting her eyes directly. “Always refer to questions as ma’am,” she was a rule follower.

“You’ve been in the organization two years. Veteran status. An elite performer. You know how much we value your presence on this team. You set a standard—on the field and off. But the eyes on us? They never stop watching, and unfortunately, the eyes do not like what they have seen.” My eyes don’t like the off white background behind you, but I’m not causing a fuss, God, off-white is so ugly she thought.

The way she said it wasn’t cruel. In fact, there was something almost maternal in Kelli’s tone. But that didn’t make the words any less of a warning, it almost worried Gormley, who had now forgotten the off-white wall, and now felt her breathing rise, getting hotter as Judy still stood, she doesn’t stand. The sports bra was all she could focus on, the sparkles pressing into her skin like some sort of unrelenting force, ironic, she thought, sparkles are supposed to be pretty, not painful.

“We’ve received… feedback,” Kelli continued, her voice distracting Gormley momentarily from the sparkles currently betraying her shoulders, “about your presence at recent team events. Not our team—his. Public appearances. Social media stories. A birthday party that… I’ll not dignify with words.”

Him?

And who is him?

Joe.

He wasn’t just her boyfriend. He was the Joe Burrow. Bengals star quarterback. NFL golden boy., with his blonde curls and icy blue eyes that quickly became somewhat of a home for Gormley. The birthday party? If the situation wasn’t as serious, Gormley would’ve thanked Kelli for bringing up the birthday party, it was an excuse to think about it, yet again, for the about, 100th time.

It was Friday night. The Bengals just pulled off a huge win. The energy was electric, thunder almost, though, they had all grown sick of Gormley and her thunder jokes. She showed up to the post-game party in a black silk dress that clings like it was painted on, like every stitch in the fabric was a meticulous brushstroke carved with the intention of being timelessly admired, timelessly beautiful. Her hair, a false sense of innocence as the white gleamed excellently against the unmerciful black, there was something angelic about Gormley tonight.

Joe hadn’t taken his eyes — or hands — off her all night.

The place was packed. Neon strobes, VIP section roped off, security keeping fans at bay. Everyone’s sweating from the bass, it was so loud it rumbled, and before Gormley got the chance to make the joke, her mouth had been covered by a drunk Joe who shook his head, “No more thunder, wait actually, maybe thunder, yes! Hell yes to thunder, thunder so turns me on.” He makes an effort to tell the band to play thunderstruck, although, the band nodded, most likely to get him to shut up and juts go away.

Gormley was straddling his lap in the booth, arms wrapped around his neck, laughing into his ear, whispering things only he can hear — but everyone can see the effect. He’s gripping her waist like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded to the very earth, as fingers trailed down her spine, voice low and dangerous. The two were making out between shots, hands everywhere, completely unbothered by the crowd, by the phones, by anything. Though, Joe would come to argue that the only mistake was the tequila.

“You keep grinding on me like that and I swear to God I’ll take you right here.” Joe mumbles, clearly thinking with something that isn’t his brain. His eyes are full of sin, and he can practically see under the black silk, he’s seen it enough to know every curve, every dip, but never enough to not want to consume everything Gormley is. He’s obsessed.

At 2:43 a.m., the two stumble out of the club, hands all over each other. Flashbulbs go off like lightning, someone captures the smudged lipstick over his neck, another flash, someone’s captured her disheveled hair, the white no longer gleaming of innocence but of something begging to be ruined.

She’s giggling in her heels, and Joe’s one arm is wrapped tight around her waist, the other? But Joe has two hands, and the other? Well, the other rests firmly on her ass, not tight enough he’s gripping, but enough that definitely violated about 5 DCC rules, but Gormley was a rule follower, was she not?

No, not with Joe.

Right before he shuts the door, someone yells:

“Joe! What are you doing when you get home?!” He smirks, half-drunk, full of the same confidence he had when he felt the familiarity of the ball in his hands on the 50 yard line, looks over his shoulder, and replies with something that kept every member of the Bengals PR team employed, “Praying for strength.”

The car door slams shut.

Gormley kept her face composed. “I’m aware of what’s been said.” She was more than aware, she remembered everything that had been said and done that night, from the phone gal with her mom asking if Joe was hurt and that’s why he was praying for strength, till Jada texting you, “I wouldn’t even show up Monday.” It was probably the biggest scandal DCC had seen, and DCC didn’t like scandal. No, no, no, they liked rules.

Kelli gave a tight smile. “Then you’re also aware of the policy regarding fraternisation with NFL players.”

Judy stepped in now, arms still crossed, but her tone more matter-of-fact, not a trace of that maternal voice that plagued Kellis. “It’s in the handbook, Gorms. Page thirteen. Cheerleaders aren’t permitted to date NFL players. Period. Regardless of the team.” She was still standing, again, if the situation wasn’t her career on the line, she’d of joked, “you should’ve slammed the book open at that page for dramatic effect” but she stayed silent, she followed the rules. DCC liked rules.

There was a beat of silence. Then Gormley leaned forward, voice calm and measured. “And technically, that policy applies to relationships started during tenure with the DCC.” She had thought of an answer, and gosh, she was so excited to use that exact line. She had practiced it with Joe. Tenure, was the word she used, she liked it, it was sophisticated.

Both women looked at her. Judy sat, finally. Gormley smiled, she had the upper hand now. She had decided that Judy stands to feel more in control, by sitting down, the ball was in her half, pun intended.

She tilted her chin up slightly. “Joe and I have been together since high school. I was with him when he tore his ACL junior year and everyone said he’d never recover. I was there for every game at LSU, even when we were long-distance. I supported him before the draft, through his rookie season. Long before I put on these boots.”

Kelli blinked, and closed her laptop. Again, Gormley smiled. Kelli used the laptop as a barrier when having uncomfortable conversations, it now meant, whatever she had planned to say, to shout, to argue, was now irrelevant. Judy raised an eyebrow.

“I didn’t start dating an NFL player,” Gormley said carefully. “I started dating a small-town quarterback with a limp and a dream. I just never stopped.” She looked at Kelli, and then to Judy as they looked at each other. She hadn’t broken a rule, and DCC liked people who didn’t break any rules.

The room went quiet again. There was power in the way she said it. Not defensiveness—truth. The kind that came wrapped in first love and late-night phone calls and miles logged on highways between Ohio and Louisiana. Gormley and Joe had been a unit long before NFL lights or DCC cameras. Gormley and Joe would be a unit long after the NFL lights went out and the DCC cameras stopped.

“I understand the optics,” she added. “I know what people might assume. But this isn’t a scandal. And frankly, it’s none of their business.” Kelli exhaled, a hand briefly brushing her temple. She looked at Judy, who offered only a shrug. Judy was the sort of person who liked people to know what she thought, so clearly, as of right now, she wasn’t thinking anything. Gormley smiled again.

“You’re right,” Kelli finally said. “Technically, it doesn’t violate the letter of the policy.” Gormley sat up straighter, partially because the top of the chair had worsened the attack the sparkles were currently still engaged in on her shoulder, but also because she had outmouvered an organisation so desperate to follow the rules.

“But it walks a very fine line,” Judy added, her voice low. “And you know how fine lines can look under a microscope.” Clearly, the women weren’t fully convinced, but they didn’t need to be fully.

Gormley nodded. “Then let them look.” She hoped the fake confidence was enough to convince them.

There was a moment where Kelli just stared at her. Gormley knew that look—one part admiration, one part worry. She’d seen it in her own mother’s eyes a hundred times. The look of someone realising they can’t protect you from the storm because you’ve already decided to walk into it. Good thing she hated the Texan sun.

“You’re one of our best,” Kelli said finally. “Top tier. Clean lines, explosive power, leadership among the vets. That’s why you’re not being cut.” Gormley’s posture didn’t change, but her breath quietly released.

Kelli held her gaze. Then, finally, nodded.

“Alright. Then we’ll move forward. Carefully. No interviews about your personal life. And for God’s sake Gorms, please stop straddling him in public! I know his thighs are very tempting but please, rise above!”

Gormley let herself smile. “No straddling . Got it.” Well, at least in public anyway.

As Gormley stood to leave, smoothing her hair that had been distracting her the whole meeting, Kelli’s voice stopped her again.

“Gormley?”

She turned.

“If things ever… change. If it gets messy with him… come to us. Don’t let pride cost you the dream.” Her throat tightened for a second, but she just nodded.

“I won’t.”

Because this wasn’t just a team. It was the team. And she hadn’t clawed her way through training camp hell, ankle sprains, and offhand remarks about her “football boyfriend” to let it slip through her fingers now.

Outside the office, the hallway echoed with the sounds of the squad—laughter, the rhythm of eight-counts, a bass-heavy remix of something stadium-ready. She inhaled once, deep and focused. Then walked straight back into rehearsal, back straight, boots shining, heart steady.

Let them talk. She had work to do.

The door clicks open. She drops her keys somewhere on the table by the door, which, despite being picked to be warmly welcoming, it’s essentially just clutter. She kicks her shoes off, feeling blisters from when they ran the kick line in the boots and she had totally forgot and had no socks, and her pride prevented her asking for spares. She really wished she had. Ouch.

The smell of garlic fills her nose and she hasn’t realised how hungry she was, Joe wasn’t necessarily a good cook, but his lack of talent was supplemented by effort.

And there he is.

Joe. In the kitchen. Shirtless. Grey sweatpants riding scandalously low on his hips. Barefoot. Focused. Gormley can see his reflection in the pots glistening the ceiling above him, and she silently thanks Joe’s mom of gifting them pots when they moved in together. They had joked they’d never use them, but he looked so handsome in the reflection.

He’s stirring something on the stove, back muscles shifting under golden light. His back slightly tan from their holiday to the Maldives, although, slightly is the key word here, he was mainly red.

She takes a second. Just to look. That stupid TikTok thing her brother sent her, “We’ll have a look, of course we’ll have a look” ringing through her head. She wasn’t even looking, she was staring. She had traced his back numerous times, when he drank too much and was over the toilet, when she told him that they should go as Meg and Hercules for Halloween because his back was that of a Greek God, the infamous open back suit. She loved his back.

Then, Gormley cross the kitchen softly, slipping her arms around his shoulders from behind and resting her cheek against his bare back. The coldness of is back was a luxury against her cheeks, still red from the numerous jump splits. No amount of concealer could hide those rosey cheeks.

“Hey.”

He pauses. Smiles. Hand still on the wooden spoon. “Hey,” he says, warm, voice low and casual.She holds him a second longer, then he turns around in her arms, wrapping her up into his chest, it’s second nature. A kiss on her temple. H

“Long day?” He says, noticing she hadn’t changed out of her veteran training clothes, she always did, claiming the shorts showed more of her cheeks than a bikini did. She was still in them, something must’ve happened. He knew her too well. His Gormley likes routine, and this, this wasn’t routine.

“Mmm,” she nods, clearly not much effort for much else. “I got dragged into the office.”

That gets his attention.

“Oh yeah?” he says, cocking a brow. “What’d you do this time?” Pulling back from the hug, as he plops her effortlessly on the counter of the island and moves in between her legs, a familiar calloused hand trailing from her knee to her hip bone continuously.

“Apparently there’s a growing concern about… fraternisation.” She says, as he dishes up the pasta he made and hands her a bowl which she accepts gratefully. His eyes go wide, and he smirks with pure mischief. It was no secret, Joe Burrow had confidence that could rival no one, he was secure in himself and secure in everything he could do. Nothing got him going like the thought of him being spoke about by her, he loved his name from her mouth, no matter the situation.

“Fraternisation?” He asked. Of course he knew, everyone knew. When the first season of America’s Sweetheart’s had come out the entire of TikTok questioned why Gormley, the stunning, talented, bubbly rookie hadn’t been pulled on this yet. Rules were rules.

“Mhm.” She said, mouth too full for a longer answer. He walks around the counter slowly, leaning in closer. She finishes chewing and notices Joe has already finished and is eagerly eyeing hers, which she hands over as he betroths a wink.

“Or, more specifically, between certain Bengals quarterbacks and a certain Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader, if you have any knowledge on that matter.” He lets out a low whistle.

“Damn. Sounds serious.” As he puts the bowls into the sink.

“Apparently we’ve ‘blurred lines.’”

“Well. In our defense…” he murmurs, fingers brushing her knee, “…those lines were already pretty blurred when you kept sneaking into my hotel room after games.” Joe, forever the most blunt person she’s ever met. That was a violation of DCC rules, but, she argued it was technically not breaking rules because she never done it when the Bengals played the Cowboys. Gormley was a rule follower.

“You invited me.” She said plainly.

“And you wore that hoodie with no pants.” He said even more plainly.

“They said if it happens again, there could be ‘disciplinary action.’” That was the punishment for breaking the rules, suspension, then eventually cut. That’s what happened at meetings, getting cut.

He lowers his voice.“So what I’m hearing is… we need to get better at not getting caught.” She kicks his shin from the counter and pushes his head away as he tries to steal a kiss.

“You’re not taking this seriously.” She huffs slightly, she loves Joe but she also loves DCC. Those girls are her sisters, her future bridesmaids. She doesn’t want one or the other, she wants both, she knows she wants both.

“Oh, I am,” he says, biting into a piece of garlic bread, chewing slowly. “I’m just not sure if they mean discipline like ‘a warning’… or like—” He leans in again, lips right at her ear, “—‘yes, sir’ kind of discipline.”

She kicks him again and he laughs sitting back, perfectly smug. “You’re going to get me fired, and I happen to like the uniform.” He leans in for a kiss, which she reciprocates gladly, the warmth of his tongue a comfort she didn’t know she needed. It was soft and slow, and contrasted both their schedules, packed and ruthless. He pulled away, and rested his forehead against Gormley.

“Just sayin’. If we’re breaking rules, we might as well make it interesting.”

I am beyond obsessed with both DCC and Joe soooo why have one when you can have both.