“What photos?”
“Sports blog posted a shot of me leaving your studio a few weeks ago. Nothing incriminating, but she’s got opinions about it.”
Ice floods my veins. “People saw you at my studio?”
“One person with a camera phone. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. If people start connecting dots…”
“Ava.” He reaches across the table again, this time catching my hand before I can pull away. “Look at me.”
I do, reluctantly.
“We’re being careful. This place is forty minutes from the stadium. No one knows we’re here.” His thumb traces circles on my palm. “And even if they did? I don’t care.”
“You should care. Your contract—”
“Will be fine. I promise.”
“You can’t promise things outside your control.”
“Then I’ll promise this.” He squeezes my hand. “Whatever happens, we handle it together. No running, no panic. Together.”
The word sits between us, significant and terrifying.
“We barely know each other,” I whisper.
“Then let’s fix that.”
We start meeting at odd hours in strange places.
Tuesday morning, before practice, Reece shows up at a coffee shop three blocks from my apartment. He’s wearing a baseball cap pulled low and sunglasses even though the sun is barely up.
“Subtle,” I say, sliding into the booth across from him.
“I’m incognito.”
“You look suspicious.”
“Same thing.” He pushes a coffee toward me. “Oat milk latte, one sugar, extra foam. Right?”
I stare at the cup. “How did you—”
“You mentioned it last week at dinner.”
“I said it once.”
“I was paying attention.”
Something warm and dangerous blooms in my chest. I take a sip to hide whatever expression is trying to take over my face. It’s perfect.
“Show-off,” I mutter.
“You love it.”
Thursday night, he texts me at eleven.
Reece:You awake?
