The guy at the bar finally turned away.
I relaxed a fraction, but I didn’t move. Didn’t want to.
If she noticed the way my heart was hammering, she didn’t mention it.
If she felt the shift—how the game was starting to mean something—she didn’t run.
The music slowed into something softer—still with a beat, but slower, steadier, the kind of rhythm that pulled you closer without you realizing it. Daphne’s laugh floated up again, bright and unguarded, and it did something to me. Made me forget where we were. Made me forget why we were here in the first place.
She was still swaying, her hair catching the dim light as she turned. I leaned in without thinking, forehead brushing against hers. She didn’t pull back. Her breath ghosted over my mouth, warm and quick.
For a heartbeat we just stood like that—close enough to feel each other breathing, close enough that the noise of the bar fell away. Then I kissed her.
Not the stage-managed, press-friendly kind of kiss we’d given the cameras. Not the half-smile and practiced angle. This was different. This was slow at first, careful, my hands settling at her waist. She rose on her toes a little, her palms sliding up my chest, and the world blurred. It felt like we were the only two people left in the room.
The kiss deepened, unspooling all the things I hadn’t said since the night we started this game. It lasted longer than it should have. Felt realer than it should have. Her mouth was soft, but the way she clutched at my shirt told me she was just as gone as I was. Every inch of me was aware of her—her scent, her warmth, the tremor of her fingers against me.
When we finally broke apart, she was breathless. So was I. Her eyes were wide, a little shaken, like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to yell at me or pull me back in.
“This wasn’t part of the contract,” she whispered.
I let a small, crooked smile slip across my face. “Good,” I said quietly, voice rough. “I’m getting real tired of the contract.”
She blinked up at me, and for a second the whole bar went silent in my head—the music, the chatter, the clinking glasses. All I could see was her, standing in my arms, lips still flushed from our kiss.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. We weren’t supposed to cross that line. But right there, under the low lights and the hum of strangers’ voices, I couldn’t bring myself to regret it.
Not one bit.
Back at the booth, Daphne slipped into the seat across from me like she hadn’t just kissed me like I was the only man left on Earth. She pulled herself together in a blink—straightened her posture, fixed her hair, grabbed her beer like it was a damn business meeting. I knew that look. It was the same one she wore the first day we met. Walls back up. Distance reinstalled.
She cleared her throat and looked anywhere but at me. “So… I know you have that… Indiana game?”
I nodded, even though I already knew. “Yeah. Another one.”
“I have to cover a press event tomorrow morning. Different team, different city.” She took a sip of her drink, then added, “I’m hoping I can swing flights to be at your game.”
There was a beat.
“You don’t have to,” I said softly. “But I’d like you to.”
Her eyes flicked up at that—briefly. Then back down. Her fingers toyed with the edge of her napkin like it had suddenly become fascinating.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she murmured. "I mean. For the story, right?"
And just like that, I felt it. The shift. The way she pulled back when things got too real. It wasn’t dramatic—no cold shoulder, no sudden change in tone. Just… distance. That quiet recalibration where she reminded herself that this wasn’t supposed to mean anything. That I wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
I hated how much I recognized it. Because the truth was, this didn’t feel like a game anymore. It hadn’t for a while.
It felt real.
Too real.
And I knew what that meant.
She was going to run.
I leaned back in the booth, watching her over the rim of my glass. She was already somewhere else—probably halfway to her hotel, mentally packing a bag, thinking about flights and press schedules and anything that wasn’t us.
