Truth got under the skin.
Truth was harder to ignore.
And Daphne Sommers?
She was all sharp truths, wrapped in lipstick and fire.
And I hated that part of me didn’t want to block her out… it wanted to let her in.
My phone buzzed as I walked out of the shower, towel slung over one shoulder, hair still damp and clinging to my neck.
I grabbed it from the nightstand and flopped down on the edge of the bed, not expecting much. Maybe an update on our travel schedule. Maybe another rookie asking what protein powder I used like it was a secret potion.
Instead, it was from Cameron.
Daphne’s coming back tomorrow. Play nice. You’re not allowed to glare at her like you did Adam that one time.
I smirked.
No promises.
Buzz.
She’s doing a full-access feature. Cameras in the locker room next week.
I sat up straighter.
Cancel it.
Too late. League already greenlit it. PR dream. Make yourself look… less stabby.
I stared at the screen for a beat, then chucked the phone in my bag. It landed facedown on my practice jersey, mocking me silently.
I ran a hand through my hair, resisting the urge to punch something.
Full access.
Cameras. Mics. Sommers, front and center, with that unreadable stare and arsenal of gotcha questions dressed up as journalism.
It wasn’t just that she’d gotten under my skin—it was the fact that she did it so effortlessly.
I reached for the phone and pulled up the interview again.
I’d watched it more times than I was proud to admit.
Not for the sound bites. Not even for damage control.
But for her.
The way she sat—back straight, eyes locked on mine like she saw something worth challenging.
The way her voice didn’t waver, even when I pushed.
The way her smile didn’t reach her eyes, but her fire burned hotter than anyone else I’d ever sat across from.
I fast-forwarded through the middle, past the sarcasm and the clipped answers, straight to the ending—where she stood, ripped off her mic, tossed her coffee in the trash like it was a grenade, and walked out like she owned the damn building.
I hit pause.
