I should look away, but my gaze stays locked on her, tracing every detail I don’t deserve to memorize. Every bit of her control makes me want to ruin it, not out of spite, but because I know what she looks like when she lets go. I’ve never wanted anything more than to see that again.
A reporter clears his throat somewhere in the blur of flashes. “Kyle, welcome to Portland. How does it feel to be back home in Oregon, wearing the Timberwolves logo?”
Simple question. I have answered versions of it my whole life. All I can think about is the way her eyes lift to me at the sound of my name, like she is waiting for me to slip.
“Glad to be here,” I say into the mic, steady enoughto pass for confidence. The words sound normal, practiced. But inside, they mean something else entirely.
Glad to be anywhere she is.
The room hums with polite laughter, cameras clicking. Out of the corner of my eye, Cooper’s jaw ticks once, already sensing the storm behind my easy grin. His warning hangs in the space between us. No distractions. No complications. No her. Too fucking late.
She’s right there, pretending not to look at me, while every cell in my body aches to cross the room. I can’t stop thinking about the elevator, about how a simple ride between floors felt like the universe lining us up on purpose. Fate does not make things easy. It just hands you the one thing you can’t let go of and waits to see what you do.
If that one thing is her, I already know exactly what I would risk just to feel this again.
Chapter Thirteen
Alycia
The room exhales the moment his voice fades. Four harmless words I’ve heard dozens of players say before—polished, polite, empty—but from him, they sound like a promise.
And that’s the problem.
His voice, rough-edged and low, slides down my spine before I can brace against it. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be. I grip my clipboard a little too hard, the metal clip digging into my palm, hoping that tiny bite will remind my body that I’m supposed to be working. Not remembering what his mouth felt like against mine last night or the way I said his name like I didn’t want the moment to end.
Kyle is supposed to be just another rookie I’m assigned to keep away from the media fires. Another face in a lineup of players who need coaching on how not to burn down the franchise with a single sentence. But how am I supposed to think straight when every breath reminds me of him? When every time he looks at me, it feels like the world tilts all over again?
I shouldn’t still feel the ghost of his hands on my waist. I shouldn’t still taste mint and adrenaline or remember the exact moment he pulled me in like he’d waited months for it. I’ve kissed people before, but none of them felt like that. None of them made me forget myself long enough to want something real.
And now he’s here—under bright lights, cameras flashing—and he looks at me like last night wasn’t a mistake at all. It has to be. It needs to be. So, I do what I always do when instinct wars with logic: I bury it. I remind myself of the rules and of everything that’s at stake. I repeat it like a prayer—this can’t happen again—because wanting him feels like stepping off a cliff while hoping there’s a net I know doesn’t exist.
I take a slow breath and keep my focus glued to the stage lights instead of the man beneath them. Kyle answers the next question effortlessly, charm sliding on like a second skin. He makes it look easy, but every time his gaze flicks to mine, my lungs go tight. I force my attention to my notes—bullet points I already know by heart—because if I keep watching him, it’ll show. Then it happens.
“PR’s been motivating, huh?”
The tone isn’t playful. It’s sharp, edged with implication. I know immediately this is going to be a problem. Kyle’s head snaps toward the sound, his grin vanishing so fast it’s like it was never there.
“Come again?” he says, voice steady but tight.
The reporter smirks, clearly pleased with himself. “Just saying it seems like the rookies have been… encouraged to follow the rules this season.”
The laughter that follows feels like a slap. Heat creeps up my neck, crawling into my ears. I can feel every camera turning, every eye sliding toward me as if I’m part of the punchline. Cooper shifts beside the stage, his expression hard enough to chip stone.
“Enough,” I start, trying to keep my voice even, my hand already lifting to fix it before it spirals. “Let’s keep the questions focused on player development, please.”
I glance at the moderator and give the tiniest shake of my head.Move it along. Now.But Kyle is having none of it.
“Is that supposed to be funny?” His tone is deceptively calm, but there’s danger threaded through it.
I can almost feel the PR plan unraveling in real time.God, Kyle, please don't do this.
“Relax, Hendrix, it’s just a compliment.” The reporter flashes me a cocky smirk, leaning back in his chair.
“Doesn’t sound like one.”
The whole room freezes, and everything stops as Kyle stalks toward the reporter. I can see the muscle in his jaw ticking, the barely restrained anger in his shoulders. He looks feral and completely out of control. There is no way this is going to end well for either of us.
“Maybe you should focus on hockey,” Kyle continues, voice cutting like glass. “Since professionalism clearly isn’t your strength.”
