"Just… just tell me what you want."
“You,” he said, stepping closer. “I want you.”
I froze.
The words were simple, quiet—but they hit me like a slap. I stared at him, arms crossed tightly across my chest like I could somehow hold myself together.
“You want me?” I scoffed, my voice rising with every syllable. “Why? Because I’m good for your image? Because Cam said having a girl on your arm makes you look like less of a brute on the pitch?”
Kieren flinched, just slightly—but I caught it.
“Is that what you really think of me?” he asked, his voice low. Hurt.
I wanted to stop. I wanted to take it back. But the anger had cracked something open inside me, and everything I’d been holding back came pouring out.
“No,” I snapped. “But it’s hard not to wonder when you only want me in public. When the only time you’re clear is when there’s a camera around. You—” My throat tightened. “You kiss me like it means something and then act like it doesn’t. You show up and make promises with your eyes but never say them out loud.”
I took a shaky breath, but it wasn’t enough. My chest ached. My voice cracked, but I kept going.
“Because I’m clearly easy, right? Just kiss me in front of a crowd and I’ll crawl into your bed. I’ll play the part. I’ll be your fake girlfriend, your PR win, your distraction.”
He shook his head. “That’s not what this is?—”
I cut him off. “Then what is it, Kieren? Because I know how you work. The second it gets serious, you're gone. It feels like I’m just a convenience to you. Something nice to look at, something soft to calm you down when the team needs you focused.”
“Daphne, stop—” His voice cracked too. I saw his jaw tighten, his fists clench at his sides.
But I couldn’t stop. Not now. “You don’t want me. Not really. You want the idea of me. The version that smiles at press conferences and makes you look like less of a threat.”
His eyes darkened. He stepped forward again—close enough that I had to tilt my chin up to meet his gaze.
“I want the version of you that snaps at me in hallways,” he said. “The one who challenges me at every turn. The one who looks at me like she wants to run and kiss me at the same time. I want the girl who knows who she is and doesn’t let anyone—including me—dim that.”
I blinked. The fire in me stuttered, faltered.
He was breathing hard now, like he’d been holding those words back for too long.
“I don’t want you because of Cam. I don’t want you because of what you look like on my arm.” His voice dropped. “I want you because when I’m with you, everything else stops. For once, it’s not about soccer or pressure or fixing my image. It’s just you.”
And damn him, but I believed him.
That was the scariest part.
“You’re not a contract, Daphne!” His voice rose, not cruel, but rough around the edges—desperate in a way I hadn’t heard before.
I flinched at the sound of my own name on his tongue, sharper than usual. My instinct was to run. So I turned, stepping toward the doorway, needing distance, needing air, needing anything but this.
But then his hand closed around mine. Not hard, not yanking—just enough to stop me, to anchor me in place. His palm was warm, rough, shaking faintly.
“Daphne,” he said again, quieter now, but still urgent. “I didn’t fall for your image. I fell for you.”
The words hit me harder than his grip.
“I fell for the way you talk. The way you challenge me. The way you see me.” His breath brushed my cheek as he said it. He wasn’t looking at me like a headline. Not like a problem. Not even like a solution. Just like… me.
My throat closed. I wanted to tell him to stop. To say it wasn’t true. To tell him he was only saying it because the cameras had stopped rolling and we were still playing pretend.
But his fingers stayed wrapped around mine, gentle, steady. Not pulling anymore—just holding.
