And the worst part?
The tone. Not outraged. Not even critical. Just gleeful. He was enjoying this.
I grabbed the remote and turned the volume down before I put my fist through the screen. But it was too late. I’d heard it all.
Another buzz, Cam.
Do NOT engage on-air. PR is already working on it.
I threw my phone on the couch. Turned back to the screen.
Callers were chiming in now. People speculating. Trash radio opinions turning into trending hashtags.
Daphne’s name was being dragged across every chyron, her face framed next to mine like we were co-conspirators in some scandal—when all we did was feel something real for five damn minutes.
I could handle the fallout. I’d been built for it.
But not this.
Not her being painted like some manipulative groupie. Not by him.
My vision tunneled. My heartbeat pulsed in my ears.
I wanted to walk into that studio and shut Ryder up permanently. Consequences be damned.
Instead, I stood there, shaking, biting down the need to burn the whole league down.
Because I knew what Daphne was probably thinking right now.
That maybe Ryder was right.
And that thought? That was the one that finally broke me.
I did the thing adults are supposed to do.
I called Cam first.
He picked up on the second ring. “Don’t go anywhere near a camera,” he said before I even spoke. “We’re drafting a statement with PR. Invasion of privacy. We’ll spin it as an overreach. Press blackout.”
I nodded even though he couldn’t see me. The words felt like they were coming from far away.
Next, I called Matt, my agent. He was cooler, calmer, and twice as clinical. “Stay off socials. Let legal handle it. This is a privacy violation. They’ve crossed a line. We’ll get damages.”
Then Reid. Same measured tone. “You’re not to go to that studio, Walker. I’ll bench you if I have to. We’re protecting the team.”
All of them had the same message: stay put, stay quiet, wait.
Cameron even texted, triple-bolded like I was a child:
We’ll handle it. Statement coming soon. DO NOT go to the studio.
Their voices blurred together until they were just noise. I sat at the edge of the bed, staring at the phone, feeling like I was under water.
Because while they talked about PR and optics and legal pathways, Ryder Blake was sitting in a million living rooms with a microphone, gleefully turning Daphne into a punchline.
And I had promised her—one night, when everything had cracked open between us—that if anyone tried to ruin her, I’d do something. Not say something. Do something.
Now a man with a camera was actively trying to ruin her. And the “grown-up” advice was to let it blow over.
