More. I need more of this. More ofhim.
His hand leaves my jaw and slides with burning slowness to my hip. His fingers dig in, claiming the curve of my hip through the fabric of my dress. The pressure is possessive and protective all at once. It’s a brand, a promise, and I arch into it, a soft gasp escaping my lips. He swallows the sound, his own breath gone ragged against my cheek.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both panting, foreheads pressed together, the world a blur of adrenaline and aftershock. The silence rushes in like surf, filled with the distant echoes of celebration that feel galaxies away. Reality crashes down like cold water.
My gaze darts down the corridor. “Are you insane? Anyone could’ve seen. A camera, a trainer, Vivian—” He’s still too close. His heat fogs my thoughts.
His lips curve into a slow, reckless smile. “Worth it.”
The words hit like a slap.
“Worth it?” I whisper, furious. “Worth me getting fired? Worth being blacklisted across the league? Is that what this is to you—some risk thatyoucan afford butIcan’t?”
The smile dies.
“No.” He steps back in. Serious now. “That kiss wasn’t the risk. Walking away from it is.”
“There is no ‘it,’” I say—but my voice cracks.
“Isn’t there?”His hand rises again, and for a second I flinch—but he just brushes his thumb along my cheek. “Don’t lie. Not about this.”
I can’t reply. The truth burns at the back of my throat.
He seems to read it anyway.
“So we keep it a secret,” he says, voice lower now, like he’s already planning the play. “Until the season’s over.”
A brittle laugh escapes. “A secret? Garrett, we travel together. Your media training is my top priority. Mybrotheris your teammate. You think we can just... hide?”
“I’m not naive. But I’m careful. And you’re smart.” His eyes lock onto mine. “This becomes a different kind of game. One with higher stakes. The goal? We both win. You get your promotion... and I get to keep kissing you.”
His words hang between us, bold and impossible and thrilling.
I don’t answer. Not right away. My mind spins with timelines, risks, optics.
Two months. Maybe three.
“You’re talking about a total blackout,” I say. “No public dates. No photos. Not my friends, not your teammates. We’d have to beghosts.”
He nods. “Ghosts.”
He steps back just enough to let me breathe, but his eyes stay locked on me. The loss of his warmth makes me want to move forward.
“I can handle that,” he says. “Question is—can you?”
Can I?
Can I spend months pretending nothing’s there, sneaking glances and stolen moments, knowing how high the cost would be if anyone finds out?
The smart answer isno.The safe answer isno.But neither of those is the truth.
“What exactly are you proposing?” My voice comes out steadier than my pulse. Business mode, negotiations. This I can handle. “Because if we do this, I need rules. Boundaries. A clear understanding of what happens if—”
“We do this,” he says, cutting through my spiral with quiet certainty. “Until the season ends. Until your promotion is decided.”
The confidence in his voice sends heat spiraling through me. Like this was always inevitable, like he's been planning this conversation.
“I mean it, Garrett. One hint of unprofessionalism, one slip-up that puts my career at risk, one moment where someone sees you looking at me the wrong way in a team meeting, and we're done. No discussion, no second chances.”
