The Boundary Line ( The Lineage Series #3)

Jamie

Six years.

You'd think getting traded to the Seattle Seahawks would've been a high point. But honestly? That's how long it's been since my whole life flipped upside down.

Six years since I left the only version of "normal" I'd ever known. Six years since my baby sister married my best friend. Six years since I stopped being just Jamie—the overprotective brother, the quiet one, the calm in the storm—and started becoming Jamie Sinclair, wide receiver, drafted at twenty seven years old after a long road most people wouldn't survive.

Not exactly the typical NFL story. But then again, nothing about my life ever followed a damn script.

I kicked a box out of the way and stared at the empty apartment I'd just walked into five minutes ago. The movers had dropped everything off while I was at the team facility. Now I was surrounded by cardboard, echoing silence, and the creeping weight of a new chapter pressing in around me.

New city. New team. New chance.

You'd think being drafted into the NFL six years later, even this late in the game would come with fanfare, champagne, some kind of closure. But all it felt like was standing at the edge of a cliff, wondering if the ground was going to meet me or let me fall.

Back then people told me I was too old. Said I should've gone pro right after college, should've struck while the iron was hot. But life didn't line up neatly for me like it did for some of those golden boys.

I took the scenic route—through family, through loss, through finding myself outside the game before I ever earned the right to wear a professional jersey.

And still, even now, it felt surreal. Like I was walking into someone else's story.

The apartment door bust opened behind me.

"I swear nigga if you left all the good rooms for yourself, we're gonna fight on day one," a voice called out, familiar and loud and already too comfortable.

"Relax, bro." I said without turning. "Pick whichever one you want. Just don't touch the room with the broken closet door."

"Why? That one yours?"

"Nope. Just has the best view. I'm claiming that for my meditation corner."

Tre came into view, tall and cocky, chain swinging around his neck and a duffel bag slung over his shoulder like he was stepping into a locker room, not a shared apartment.

Behind him came Dev—quiet, brooding, the kind of guy who never needed to speak to be noticed. Linebacker, built like a tank, but carried himself like someone who'd seen too much too young.

And then there was Malaki, the last to walk in, pulling a suitcase with one hand and carrying a Bluetooth speaker with the other. Already bumping old-school hip-hop like this was a frat house. Quarterback. Former Heisman finalist. The kind of guy who turned every room into a stage.

"You know this is gonna be chaos, right?" I muttered as Malaki set his speaker down like it was furniture.

"I didn't come here for peace, lil' nigga " he grinned. "I came here to win."

Tre flopped down on the couch that hadn't been properly assembled yet. "So, what's the vibe, Jamie? You nervous? Excited? You gonna cry if our new coach yells at you tomorrow?"

I rolled my eyes. "I've had people scarier than the coach we're getting this season, man. I'll be fine."

Truth was, I was nervous. But not about the yelling.

It was the expectations.

People heard it and thought of wealth, class, reputation. They didn't know the grit it took to carry that name without breaking. They didn't know my mom, Elle Sinclair, who could command a room in six-inch heels and destroy you with one look.