I held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than I should’ve.
Then I smiled. “I like the wine.”
He laughed, and this time, it wasn’t quiet. It was real.
And warm.
And dangerously easy to want again.
Halfway through the meal—somewhere between Griffin trash-talking Asher’s taste in wine and Beckett daring Adam to eat a chili pepper whole—my phone buzzed in my lap.
I glanced down, keeping my expression neutral.
Don’t forget: you’re embedded for the Chicago away game next week. Media clearance approved. You’re traveling with the team.
Great.
I’d known it was coming—he’d mentioned the assignment days ago—but it still felt… complicated now.
I took a sip of wine, composing myself. Waited for a lull in the conversation. Then, casually, I leaned toward Kieren.
“Looks like I’ll be crashing your away game next week,” I said, voice light. “Chicago.”
His eyes flicked to mine, the faintest twitch of surprise.
Then he leaned back in his chair, one arm draped casually along the back of mine. “That hotel has thin walls.”
I blinked, barely holding back a smirk. “Guess you’ll have to keep your nightmares quiet, then.”
His gaze sharpened—just for a second. Not offended. Just… reading me. Assessing.
Then he nodded, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
We both turned back toward our plates, the banter fading—but the air between us stayed charged, crackling under the surface like static clinging to silk.
Because the truth was, this wasn’t just another assignment anymore.
Not really.
Not when he looked at me like that.
Not when he leaned closer than necessary to whisper smart remarks that made my pulse skip.
Not when his hand brushed my lower back just a little too naturally every time someone walked by.
Fake dating was supposed to be controlled chaos. A fix for both our problems.
But every time he held the door for me or smirked across the table or said something that hit a little too close to vulnerable… it got harder to remember that this wasn’t real.
Harder still to admit that part of me wanted it to be.
Across the table, someone cracked a joke and the team erupted into laughter. Kieren’s eyes found mine again, just for a heartbeat.
And in that moment, I knew one thing for sure.
Chicago was going to be a problem.
The dinner began to wind down the way all team functions seemed to—loudly, with half-finished desserts, inside jokes echoing across the table, and a few players already plotting which downtown bar still had heated patios and overpriced cocktails.
