Bronx blinked at him. “Something is wrong with you.”
Sawyer shrugged with a grin. “Something went down there a few years back. Ellie and I found a journal from the woman who lived there. Now, she’s acting like a full-on detective trying to figure it out.”
I caught Sawyer’s eye and grinned.
West shifted his weight. “Man, you guys live in a real-life thriller.” He cleared his throat. “I’m going to make sure everything’s running smoothly. It was lovely to meet you, Ellie,” West said, turning to Bronx. “Coming with me?”
“If I have to.”
“You do,” he muttered.
We continued to weave through the crowd, the room full of murmurs and clinking glasses. Glittering NYE centerpieces sparkled on every table—crystal clocks and white orchids. Everyone seemed eager to talk to us: Sawyer’s old friends and teammates, some curious strangers. His hand hovered at my waist, sometimes slipping to my hip, sometimes guiding me with a touch so subtle, it should have barely registered—except I felt every second of it.
A woman in pearls caught my eye and launched into a gush about our undeniable chemistry, her voice dripping with admiration and a hint of envy. Before I could brush it off with a laugh or a joke, Sawyer leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek. My skin tingled, but I kept my smile wide and steady, playing the part even as a slow, unmistakable unraveling began beneath it all like it did every time he was close.
When it was time to sit, we found our table near the front with West and Bronx. Sawyer pulled out my chair and slid in beside me.
We traded small talk—sports, food, travel, even the damn weather. Sawyer’s eyes never quite settled anywhere for long. Except maybe my mouth. I ignored it.
His hand rested on my thigh and stayed there like a silent claim only the two of us could see.
After a few minutes, a woman in an emerald silk dress stepped onto the stage.
“Good evening, everyone,” she began with a warm smile. “Happy New Year’s Eve. Thank you so much for being here tonight to support the Level the Field Foundation. Thanks to your generosity, we’ve brought after-school sports programs to more than forty schools this year, and we’re just getting started.”
Applause rippled through the room.
“We’re here tonight to celebrate coaches, athletes, donors—everyone who believes in building access and opportunity, one field, one game, one kid at a time.”
The lights dimmed, and a video started playing—kids running drills in gyms, lacing up cleats, hugging their coaches over inspiring music. Voices of parents played in the background, sharing what the program meant to their families. A few tables back, I caught the sound of someone quietly sniffing.
The lights rose, and after a few more announcements, plated dinners were set before us. Throughout the meal, Sawyer’s grip on my leg never loosened—not once.
People stopped by to say hi. I smiled and posed for photos, and his hand shifted from my leg to my side or my arm—always touching, never intrusive, just...there and impossible to block out.
The night floated around us as a soft jazz trio playing a slowed-down version ofAuld Lang Synesomewhere off to the side. My glass was never empty—Sawyer’s silent promise in every refill.
Then, the lights dimmed again, and a voice rang out across the ballroom. “Before we move into our auction and headline entertainment,” came the smooth announcement from the stage, “please welcome our event chair, Adam West.”
Sawyer groaned softly. West strolled onstage with a drink in hand, as if he’d been waiting for his entrance cue in a Broadway production.
“Evening, everyone,” he said, grinning. It seemed like the spotlight was his home. “I’ll keep this brief so we can get to the part where we raise lots of money and maybe get a little competitive about it.”
The crowd laughed.
“On this fine New Year’s Eve, we’re auctioning off some once-in-a-lifetime experiences all for a great cause—private chef dinners, signed memorabilia, suite tickets… And for those of you looking for something really exclusive…” He paused, letting the anticipation build. “A dinner date with some of your favorite San Francisco Rebels. That’s right. One-on-one, real conversation, decent food, and if you play your cards right, maybe a post-dinner game of catch and release.”
More laughter, this time laced with a few ooos and ahhs.
Sawyer stiffened. “Uh oh.”
West gave a bow, as if delivering the final punchline of a set he’d been practicing in the mirror. “We’ll start the auction off with Jaden Bronx, me, and our very own Sawyer James, who have all graciously agreed to auction themselves off for a good cause.”
Sawyer turned to me, stunned. “I didn’t agree to shit.”
I smirked. “Apparently, you did.”
“I’m going to murder him.”
