The hallway lights buzzed overhead, flickering like they always did near the weight room. My shoulder ached from the hit I took during the scrimmage, but it was nothing compared to the tension creeping up my spine with every step.
I pushed open the door.
And stopped.
Cameron sat at the far end of the table, tablet in hand, tapping it like he was trying to Morse code his way out of this meeting.
Coach Lawson leaned against the wall, arms folded, his expression unreadable—but not surprised.
Mara, the PR assistant, was perched near the door, clutching her phone like it owed her therapy.
And then there was her.
Daphne.
Legs crossed. Arms folded. Ponytail sharp enough to cut steel. Her expression? Murder in progress.
She didn’t even blink.
“Sommers,” I said.
She arched a brow. “Assailant.”
Jesus.
I stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind me.
Cameron cleared his throat. “Let’s talk about… the incident.”
I sat, dragging the ice back to my jaw even though it wasn’t what hurt. “He was touching her.”
Mara made a noise like she’d just swallowed a screw. “Great, we’re opening with caveman logic.”
“She didn’t want him near her,” I said. “He didn’t back off. I handled it.”
“You shoved him into the fucking bleachers,*” Daphne snapped.
“He deserved it.”
“That’s not the point!”
Coach hadn’t said a word yet, but I could feel his gaze like heat on the back of my neck.
“You don’t get to punch someone every time you feel something,” Daphne said, standing now.
I looked at her. Really looked.
“You’re not nothing,” I said quietly.
She froze.
“He looked at you like you were. Like you were a thing he could touch. I don’t let people treat you like that.”
Cameron pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is… weirdly romantic and also legally risky.”
Mara turned her screen around. “It’s trending. Twitter, Threads, TikTok. ‘#DaddyStorm.’ You’ve got a stan club now.”
I groaned. “You’re kidding.”
