It was a show. A carefully constructed illusion of wealth and power and control.
And I hated every second of it.
“Ready?” I asked, forcing a casual tone as I glanced at her.
She didn’t look ready. She looked like she’d been holding her breath since we pulled up.
But she nodded anyway.
“Let’s play pretend,” she whispered.
I stepped out first, the cameras flashing with a frenzy, then turned to offer her my hand.
She took it.
Her fingers were cold.
Her smile was practiced.
And when she stepped beside me, her other hand lightly brushing my arm like she meant it—like we were fine—I realized something brutal.
I didn’t want to pretend anymore.
The second we stepped out of the car, Cam was already there—clipboard in one hand, phone in the other, barking instructions like a wedding planner on deadline.
“Perfect,” he said, scanning us both. “Daphne, love the dress. Kieren, fix your posture—no murder-face. Cameras are live. Act like you’re obsessed with her.”
I didn’t have to act.
Cam ushered us toward the media wall, bright lights flaring like fireworks. Logos lined the backdrop—sponsors, league partners, the Storm’s crest shining dead center. A few of the younger players stood off to the side, tuxedoed and awkward, trying to stay out of the way.
“Stand closer,” Cam instructed, stepping back and angling his phone. “Arm around her, Walker.”
I slipped my hand around her waist, the silk of her dress cool against my skin. She leaned in just slightly—barely there—but it was enough. The flashbulbs responded like we’d kissed on cue.
Cameras clicked.
Someone shouted our names.
I smiled, or at least I tried to. Said the right things when a reporter asked about tonight’s cause. Nodded when they mentioned the team’s recent win. Even managed a brief laugh when they brought up Hayashi and the rumors.
But my eyes?
Always on her.
She smiled like a professional, head tilted just so. Her hand rested on my chest like she belonged there.
And God help me, I wanted her to.
A reporter—one of the snarky ones, always poking the bear—called out with a smirk, “So, Kieren, you bringing your girl to keep her from talking to Theo again?”
The question hit harder than it should’ve. I felt Daphne freeze just slightly, the muscles in her back going tight under my hand.
I looked straight at him. Let the smile drop.
“She doesn’t talk to boys who can’t finish games,” I said.
The silence was immediate, followed by a collective intake of breath from the surrounding press.
