Flattery. I knew the game.
But he wasn’t wrong.
If I didn’t step in, someone else would. And they’d paint me as the lovesick girl caught between two athletes, not the woman who’d built her own career long before either of them kissed me in a hallway.
Still, the idea of sitting under hot studio lights while a host gently prodded me about that moment made my stomach twist.
I sighed, already regretting the words before they left my mouth. “Fine. But I’m not gushing over him.”
“Wouldn’t expect you to,” Cam said, satisfied. “Wear something killer.”
I hung up, tossed my phone aside, and leaned back.
It wasn’t about Kieren.
But it always would be.
And no matter how put-together I looked on camera, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the rest of me was still unraveling.
I stared at my closet like it might grow legs and walk me out of this.
What did one wear for a segment where the world would be dissecting not only your career… but your kiss?
Not that I’d planned it.
But the internet didn’t care about plans. The internet cared about freeze frames and slow motion, and the exact moment Kieren Walker’s hand curved around my jaw like I was something precious.
I settled on a navy-blue wrap dress. Structured, clean lines. A neckline just low enough to whisper confidence without begging for attention. Hair down, but polished. Makeup that said “poised professional,” not “caught in the middle of a sports soap opera.”
As I slipped on my heels, I checked my reflection. Not for flaws. For armor.
This wasn’t for me. It was for the Storm. For Cam. For all the girls watching who were told to pick a lane and stay in it.
The rideshare showed up five minutes early. Probably a good thing.
The city blurred past the tinted windows as we drove—glass buildings and digital billboards flashing highlights from last night’s match. They cut away just before the kiss. But it still hung there, like a shadow behind the lights.
At the studio, I was ushered into hair and makeup again—even though I’d already done both myself—and handed a bottle of water I didn’t touch. Everything felt too bright. Too rehearsed. Too exposed.
I exhaled slowly and reminded myself: I could do this. I had done harder things.
This would pass. A quick segment. A few questions. A carefully placed smile.
Then I’d go home, scrub off the lipstick, and pretend my heart wasn’t still chasing someone who might never be mine.
I stepped onto the set—smile in place, notes tucked against my side like a shield. I’d coached myself the entire ride here. Be calm. Be sharp. Be untouchable.
Then I saw him.
And everything in me stilled.
Ryder Blake.
Of course it was Ryder Blake.
He stood behind the sleek glass desk, adjusting his cuff like he hadn’t just dropkicked my nervous system straight into the floor. Same smug expression. Same Hollywood smile that used to charm cameras and parents alike. The sharp navy suit hugged his athletic frame, still tailored to perfection. His hair was just long enough to look messy on purpose, and the faintest trace of stubble lined his jaw. To the world, he probably looked every inch the reformed heartthrob.
To me, he looked like a ghost I’d buried and just caught rising from the grave.
