I lean back in my chair, a slow curve tugging at the corner of my mouth.
As far as I’m concerned, I just put that woman on notice.
Rina Reynolds can run all she wants, but I’m done pretending or playing games. She knows exactly how I feel. The next move is hers to make.
17
Rina
I stand at the back of the room beside Evelyn and Hugh, the tablet clutched in my fingers.
For days, I’ve been avoiding Oliver. Dodging his calls, leaving his messages unread, convincing myself distance was self-preservation. Safer than the truth I refuse to name.
That lie worked fine until now.
Until he’s in front of me.
He sits at the table with his teammates, broad shoulders filling out his suit, command radiating off him in heavy waves. The drone of reporters blurs around me. Every inch of him feels larger than life, and I hate that my chest still reacts as if he’s the only one in the room.
I look anywhere but at him—at the wires knotted beneath the table, the scuffed tile, the blinking red lights from the cameras. No matter where I aim my gaze, it keeps drifting back to him. Every time I glance up, I find him already watching me.
Unflinching and unapologetic.
The press conference hums with routine questions about team depth, the season outlook, and locker room chemistry. The players give polished, practiced answers. It’s a pattern I know by heart.
Then it’s Oliver’s turn.
He leans toward the mic, forearms flexing against the charcoal gray fabric of his suit. The room seems to lean with him, and that invisible thread between us pulls tight.
“Oliver,” a reporter calls. “Would you like to comment on your personal life? You’ve been keeping a low profile lately.”
The question hits like a ton of bricks.
He’s always been unpredictable. Reckless when cornered, brutally honest when silence would be the safest route to take. My hand curls around the tablet as I brace for his response.
His eyes find mine. “Actually,” he admits, “there is someone.”
My stomach hollows.
“She’s not ready to make it public quite yet,” he continues, leaning even closer to the mic. “Although, I’m all in and have been for a while where this woman is concerned.”
The room explodes.
Flashbulbs pop and white light sparks at the edges of my vision. Reporters surge forward, their voices overlapping in a rush of sound.
“Is she with the organization?”
“Is it Gabby Wellington?”
“Oliver, are you confirming a relationship with Gabby?”
“Is it someone else?”
The noise folds over itself until it’s impossible to tell one question from the next.
Heat floods my face as my fingers dig deeper into the tablet.
Evelyn turns toward me, brows lifting. “Did you know about this?” she whispers. “Who do you suppose he’s talking about?”
