I stared at the screen, then slowly typed back:
I do hate everyone.
The reply came instantly.
Not her, apparently.
I groaned and dropped my forehead against the fridge door before slamming it shut harder than necessary. The magnets rattled. One fell. I let it.
This was spiraling. Fast.
It was supposed to be a week. Maybe two. Just long enough for the headlines to die, the fines to fade, and the league to stop treating me like a walking PR disaster. Smile a little. Pretend to be charming. Walk around holding hands with someone the media liked more than they hated me.
Simple.
But nothing about Daphne was simple.
And worse—nothing about this felt fake anymore.
I should’ve shut it down yesterday. After the tacos. After the walk. After the way her fingers slid into mine without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
It was too easy. All of it.
The banter. The rhythm. The way I didn’t have to explain myself around her.
Now Cameron wanted us at some league-sponsored dinner, sitting side by side while half the board judged my worth based on how many times I made her laugh?
Perfect.
I rubbed a hand over my face and glanced back at the TV. The screen was dark now, but the image was still burned behind my eyes—her laugh, her smile, the way she looked at me like I wasn’t just tolerable, but wanted.
Which was the worst part.
Because I was starting to want her back.
And if I wasn’t careful, I was going to forget the cameras were ever there.
I opened my phone again. Pulled up our last text thread. I hadn’t messaged her since last night. She hadn’t messaged me either.
Still, my thumb hovered over the keyboard.
I hated this.
I hated how badly I wanted to see her again.
And I hated that Cameron was right.
Not her, apparently.
Another buzz.
This is seriously going to help talks with Hayashi.
I blinked at the screen. That name again.
Cam, again.
I don’t understand the logic.
