It’s easy to forget that Vesper hides behind humor when she’s scared.
She always has.She weaponizes wit like it’s armor.Uses sarcasm like ritual—same way a goalie taps the posts, kisses the crossbar, whispers to their water bottle like it’s the only friend they have during the game.
Okay, maybe I’m the one who does that—but can you really blame me?It’s how my uncle taught me to play.And now?It’s the only way I know how to fight for a shutout.
I’m concerned that Ves is all sunshine and spitfire, trying to keep the walls from closing in.Her fingers curl around her cup like she’s grounding herself—like the warmth might be enough to hold her together for just a few more hours or days.She hasn’t said much, but she doesn’t need to.I know every micro-expression.I can read her breath like a playbook I’ve memorized.
She’s terrified.
I stare straight ahead, past the highway signs and exits, tracking every lane like I could will us to Baker’s Creek faster.Like I can outrun what’s waiting.
She didn’t call until it was already happening last time—until it was too late to hold her up before she broke.This time I’ll be here.Even if she doesn’t want me to be.
Even if we’re sharing the same air with the man who kissed her at eighteen and never fucking let go.
My phone buzzes.I sigh and glance at the screen.It’s a text from my agent.
Conrad: Media tomorrow 9 a.m.Physicals and onboarding at noon.You’re expected by 8:30.Media Relations will reach out later today.Your contact person is Mindy.
“Fuck.”Cally’s voice comes from the back seat.“Well, at least I was able to come today.”
I don’t even blink.“Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, settling in?Unpacking your new team-issued gym bag?”
“She’s staying with me,” he says suddenly, possessive and casual in the same breath.Like, he didn’t just punch me in the fucking chest.
Vesper cuts in.“You two need to stop.”
I grit my teeth.“Where are you staying, pretty boy?”
“Harvey’s working on it.”
Meaning ...“You don’t have a place.”I shrug, keeping my tone casual even though I want to kick him out of the moving car.“She’s not staying at a hotel.”
“She’s here,” she snaps, “and she can make her own decisions.”She points at us, stabbing her finger through the air like she’s doing triage on a bomb site.“If you want to stay in this car, you have to stop this ...this ...testosterone match.”
I turn slightly, trying to soften my voice.“I just want to make sure you’re taken care of.”
Vesper lets out a sound that’s halfway between frustration and something else.Maybe affection.Maybe exhaustion.She sips her drink, and I can see her hands tighten around the cup.She’s hungry for comfort, but won’t let us near because she knows she’ll have to choose—and the other might just lose their shit.
Also, she’s very independent.She doesn’t ask for help.Never has.But she doesn’t have to.Not with me.
She clears her throat.“Okay.Before you start measuring your?—”
Cally grins.“Say it.”
“Egos,” she deadpans.“I need ground rules.”
I glance in the mirror.Her eyes are too bright—too full.It’s not the shine of joy.It’s the shine that comes just before everything spills.The gleam that warns of tears she refuses to let fall.She’s holding herself together with tension and willpower, and I can feel her unraveling thread by thread.
“Fire those rules,” I say in resignation.
“Rule one,” she says.“Nobody fights in front of my dad.”
“Fine,” Cally says instantly.
“Agreed,” I echo.
My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to.She tilts her head, hearing it.Always hearing too much.
