Things I didn't have on this year's bingo card: accidentally marrying a stranger on a Las Vegas reality show.

But after ninety minutes talking to a voice through a wall, I was gone. No face. No name. Just a raspy British accent and the impossible feeling of being truly seen. As a nurse, I know what a cardiac event feels like. This was worse. So, I did what any "good church girl" with a buried wild streak would do: I said, “I do.”

We agreed to an annulment the next morning, but we lost track of each other before the ink was dry. I left Vegas without even knowing his last name.

Three months later, my mystery husband finally has a name, a face, and a global fan base. Luca Chidubem. Future captain of the Atlanta Strikers and—as it turns out—my ex's best friend. Now, he’s sidelined with a career-threatening injury and in desperate need of a live-in nurse.

Against every instinct I have, that nurse is me.

Forced proximity was never part of our agreement. Neither was a second chance. But I'm learning fast that Luca doesn't play by the rules. Even on the sidelines, he’s devastating, effortlessly dismantling my walls and learning my rhythm. Between the weight of our families and the expectations pulling us apart, I’m starting to wonder if "star-crossed" means doomed, or if some wins just have to be earned.

Repeatedly.