I tugged at my scarf. Overreacting.
This was fine.
They were always sweaty and loud and too close. Today was no different.
Except itfeltdifferent.
Roan passed me first, towel around his neck, hair still damp, eyes catching mine for half a second longer than usual. Not suspicious. Not exactly. But my heart skipped anyway.
“Interview lineup’s posted in the lounge,” I said as he passed. “Don’t disappear.”
“I never do,” he replied, low and easy.
Rhett came next, shirtless, of course, twirling a stick between his fingers like a baton. “Morning, PR Queen. You look?—”.
“Finish that sentence and I’m sending your college highlight reel to the team’s TikTok.”
He grinned, utterly unabashed. Terrible man. “You wound me.”
“You’re not deep enough to be wounded.” But I did enjoy verbally sparring with him, it kept me sharp.
“Wrong. I’m deeply offended. Which, if you ask Jay, is the same as foreplay.”
Jay, right on cue, stepped out of the shower hallway, hair so black it gleamed blue under the fluorescents when it was slicked back like now, damp, clean, and cool as ever.
“I don’t do foreplay,” he said. “I do exits.”
“Great,” I muttered. “Then you can leave first after your media slot.”
He held my gaze just a moment too long. “Sure. Just say when.”
I blinked. That had sounded… loaded. Or maybe I was reading into it. He often looked at people in that calculating, calm, vaguely threatening way that didn’t make sense until hours later. He always seemed to know so much more than everyone around him. Or maybe he was just really good at pretending.
Me too.
The guys filtered into the lounge one by one. I followed, clipboard in hand, headset snug, pretending my skin wasn’t prickling every time one of them got too close.
Roan sat on the edge of the leather couch, answering questions like a man who’d studied diplomacy in another life. Focused. Steady. Unreadable. But when the reporter leaned in—too close, too friendly—I caught Roan’s eyes flick toward me. Fast. Flicker of something. Then gone.
Jay went next. Efficient. Dry humor. Didn’t crack once. But when I handed him a mic, his fingers brushed mine—deliberately or not—and the contact crackled up my arm like static.
Rhett was last. Always the wildcard. Shirt still open, energy turned up to eleven. He threw his arm around my shoulder between interviews like he always did—but this time it lingered. Warm.Heavy.
“You okay?” he asked, mouth near my ear so no one else could hear.
I stiffened. “What do you mean?”
He paused, smile faltering for half a second. “I mean… you good? You’ve got that wholeIce Queen with a secretvibe dialed up to max.”
I stepped out from under his arm, brushing him off with a laugh. “If I had a secret, you’d be thelastone I’d tell.”
“Ouch,” he said, but there was something like concern under the theatrics.
By the time the interviews were wrapped, I felt like I’d run a damn marathon. And the worst part was nothinghadhappened.
No one said anything weird. No one looked at me like they knew. No sudden scent-spiral. No forced dominance. No accidental bonding marks or heat triggers or primal chase initiated by a coffee spill.
Just the team. Being the team.
