“It’s not,” he gritted out.
I held his gaze for a few protracted beats, saying without words that I needed him to let me handle this.
Taylor’s shoulders dropped in acceptance, though his jaw stayed tight, his expression alert.
“Do you have any comment on the years-long relationship Hasting’s referenced in his announcement?”
“No.”
His attention shifted to Taylor then, taking in his protective stance, his fists curled at his side, before moving back to me.
Choosing the more direct approach, he barked out, “Were you Senator Hastings’s lover?”
“No comment.”
“Does his wife know you were with her husband while they were engaged?”
“No comment.”
“Before Celine came along, didyouhave designs on the White House? Were you hoping to become the First Gentleman?”
“No comment.”
“Are you gay?”
“No comment.”
His gaze swung back to Taylor, and I knew—abso-fucking-lutely knew—that this scumbag was coming for him.
I’d dealt with men like Cochran my entire career. They got off on the flinch, the stumble, the moment a person said or did something that gave them away.
And Taylor’s reactions to this barrage of questions had clued him into the fact that there was another story here.
“Mr. Morrison," he shouted, rushing to keep up with us. "Do the owners of the Marauders know you’re gay?”
Taylor took a step forward, and my hand shot out, landing with a thud on his chest. I could feel him vibrating with rage.
"No. Don't."
If Taylor laid a hand on this asshole, his career was as good as over. The Marauders were surprisingly supportive of their queer players, but one who beat up a journalist, even a garbage one like this guy? That was a bridge too far.
As for me, Cochran would spin my repeated non-answers to fit whatever narrative he’d already decided on.
Still, I could spare Taylor the indignity.
I turned to face him. “I am a private citizen. Who I'm in a relationship with has no bearing on your readers. But go ahead; print whatever you want about me. It doesn’t matter because I am not running for office.”
I stepped around him, Taylor quickly falling into silent step beside me. Fifty or so feet away, I glanced back over my shoulder. Cochran hadn’t moved, but his thumbs were flying over his phone. I watched him for a few more seconds, then faced forward again, slowing my pace.
We reached the parking garage a few minutes later, taking the steps instead of waiting for the elevator to the fourth floor, where Taylor’s SUV was waiting.
He rummaged in his pocket, pulling out his keys and dangling them between us, his hands unsteady. “Can you drive?”
Taylor had dealt with the media before—postgame scrums, the occasional trade rumor, his endorsement deals—but that was different. Nobody had ever pointed a recorder at him and tried to use him as a weapon against someone he loved.
I plucked the keys from his fingers and stepped into his space, walking him back one slow step at a time until hisshoulders met steel. He tilted his chin up, his eyes finding mine. I leaned in, my lips hovering over his, brushing our noses lightly together.
Only once he pushed up onto his toes did I kiss him. It wasn’t passionate or needy, though Ididneed him. This was a kiss meant to comfort. To calm. To ground him.
