“Move.”
My voice cut clean.
He hesitated—because I was me. Because the cameras were still rolling.
I stepped past him, into the ring of light where Ryder turned just in time to see me coming.
His smile froze.
“Oh, look,” he said, smug cracking. “Didn’t know they let players do drop-ins?—”
I grabbed his mic off his lapel and tossed it to the floor.
“Say one more word,” I told him, voice low. “About her. About us.”
He stood, but I didn’t flinch. He was taller on TV.
“You think you’re some kind of hero?” He sneered. “I was with her, you know? She didn’t even like soccer until me.”
I blinked.
This was her fiance?
The one who cheated on her.
My gaze narrowed.
“No,” I said, stepping closer, “I’m the proof that she’s worth going to war for.”
Behind us, the producers scrambled to kill the feed. One of them yelled, “We’re still live!”
I should’ve walked away.
I should’ve let the statement come from the team. Should’ve let the PR machine spin their version. Should’ve trusted that justice and public opinion would work it out.
But then Ryder opened his mouth.
On live TV.
“I guess we all know what she’s willing to trade for access,” he said, voice slick as oil.
Then he laughed.
Mocking. Loud. Like the world was in on the joke.
My vision snapped.
I didn’t remember moving. One second I was outside the studio door—next, my fist collided with his face.
A satisfying, sickening crack.
He staggered back, one hand to his mouth.
The studio erupted.
Voices everywhere—shouts, gasps, the unmistakable clamor of panic trying to keep up with chaos. Someone yelled my name. Another shouted for security.
But all I saw was him.
