I told myself it didn’t mean anything.
But even as I leaned back on that battered couch and let the footage play, I knew better.
Because I wasn’t watching the match anymore.
I was still looking at her.
I must’ve dozed off at some point, half-watching old film, half-listening to the dog’s steady breathing from the other room.
The screen had dimmed. My food was cold again.
And then—buzz.
I cracked one eye open and reached for my phone, thumb swiping across the screen lazily. Probably some reminder from Cam to post a photo or flash a smile at practice tomorrow. Something PR-approved and painfully beige.
But it wasn’t a text.
It was a team-wide email blast.
Subject:
MEDIA PARTNERSHIP — Season Assignment: Daphne Sommers + West Michigan Storm
I sat up straighter, suddenly awake in the way a body is right before a tackle—tense, bracing.
I opened it.
The message was short. Too short.
Just a few lines outlining that, effective immediately, Daphne Sommers would be embedded with the team for the entirety of the season. Full access. Locker room privileges. Practice days. Travel optional, but encouraged.
The league wanted transparency.
The league wanted engagement.
The league wanted… her.
My thumb hovered over the screen.
I read it again.
And again.
Like maybe if I stared long enough, the words would reorganize themselves into something sane. Something logical. Something that didn’t mean I’d be seeing her every damn day.
Daphne god complex Sommers.
With a press badge and a front-row seat to whatever scraps of dignity I had left.
Unbelievable.
I tossed the phone onto the cushion beside me and leaned forward, elbows on knees, exhaling slow through my nose.
“Fuck this,” I muttered.
But my mouth curved—just barely—into something that looked suspiciously like a smile.
Chapter 3
