She rolled her eyes, but she smiled a little wider. “Don’t call me that.”
“Still not a fan of pet names?” I asked as she slid into the leather seat.
“I don’t like yours,” she said, lifting her chin.
I didn’t say what I wanted to—You used to.
Instead, I rounded the car and got in beside her, the silence between us comfortable and crushing all at once.
We were pretending now. Smiling for cameras. Playing parts we used to mean.
But the ache in my chest wasn’t fiction.
And every second I sat beside her, knowing she didn’t trust me with the truth anymore, hurt worse than anything Theo fucking did.
Because I could take a punch.
But I couldn’t take losing her again.
The ride was quiet. Not comfortable, not awkward. Just… stilted. Like we were both too aware of every word we didn’t say.
She smoothed her dress against her thighs, eyes fixed on the window, watching the city blur past.
“So,” she said after a long stretch of silence, her tone careful. “Kakashi Hayashi, huh?”
I grunted. “Yeah.”
“Big name. Huge following.”
“Don’t remind me.”
She glanced at me. “You don’t like him?”
“Didn’t say that.” I tightened my jaw. “Just don’t like what he represents.”
“Which is?”
“The circus.” I leaned my head back against the seat. “The press. The drama. The obsession with image over grit.”
She didn’t argue. Just hummed quietly and turned her gaze back to the window. "I heard he doesn't like it either. Just… wants to play."
It wasn’t fair—Hayashi hadn’t even signed yet—but the rumors were already clogging every feed, every post, every whisper. The golden boy of international football, freshly heartbroken, fresh off betrayal, ready to “reinvent himself in the MLS.”
Daphne’s voice was softer when she spoke again. “It could be good for the team.”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “Great PR move.”
She didn’t answer.
We pulled up to the entrance of the hotel, and the air changed.
Flashbulbs popped before the driver even opened the door. The marble-covered facade of the Evermore Hotel gleamed under the city lights, the grand entry lined with deep red carpet and chrome stanchions. Photographers pressed in along the barricades, all trying to catch a glimpse of someone worth their headlines.
Execs in tuxes.
Players in tailored suits.
Donors in designer everything.
